“Well, you know,” continued Camilla, “I think that when a person makes an attempt, and comes by the worst of it, that person should put up with the defeat, and not say all manner of ill-natured things. Everybody knows that a certain gentleman is very intimate in this house.”
“Don’t, dear,” said Arabella, in a whisper.
“Yes, I shall,” said Camilla. “I don’t know why people should hold their tongues, when other people talk so loudly. I don’t care a bit what anybody says about the gentleman and us. We have known him for ever so many years, and mamma is very fond of him.”
“Indeed I am, Camilla,” said Mrs. French.
“And for the matter of that, so am I—very,” said Camilla, laughing bravely. “I don’t care who knows it.”
“Don’t be so silly, child,” said Arabella. Camilla was certainly doing her best, and Arabella was grateful.
“We don’t care what people may say,” continued Camilla again. “Of course we heard, as everybody else heard too, that a certain gentleman was to be married to a certain lady. It was nothing to us whether he was married or not.”
“Nothing at all,” said Arabella.
“We never spoke ill of the young lady. We did not interfere. If the gentleman liked the young lady, he was quite at liberty to marry her, as far as we were concerned. We had been in the habit of seeing him here, almost as a brother, and perhaps we might feel that a connection with that particular young lady would take him from us; but we never hinted so much even as that—to him or to anyone else. Why should we? It was nothing to us. Now it turns out that the gentleman never meant anything of the kind, whereupon he is pretty nearly kicked out of the house, and all manner of ill-natured things are said about us everywhere.” By this time Camilla had become quite excited, and was speaking with much animation.
“How can you be so foolish, Camilla?” said Arabella.
“Perhaps I am foolish,” said Camilla, “to care what anybody says.”
“What can it all be to Mr. Burgess?” said Mrs. French.
“Only this, that as we all like Mr. Burgess, and as he is almost one of the family in the Close, I think he ought to know why we are not quite so cordial as we used to be. Now that the matter is over I have no doubt things will get right again. And as for the young lady, I’m sure we feel for her. We think it was the aunt who was indiscreet.”
“And then she has such a tongue,” said Arabella.
Our friend Brooke, of course, knew the whole truth;—knew the nature of Mr. Gibson’s failure, and knew also how Dorothy had acted in the affair. He was inclined, moreover, to believe that the ladies who were now talking to him were as well instructed on the subject as was he himself. He had heard, too, of the ambition of the two young ladies now before him, and believed that that ambition was not yet dead. But he did not think it incumbent on him to fight a battle even on behalf of Dorothy. He might have declared that Dorothy, at least, had not been disappointed, but he thought it better to be silent about Dorothy. “Yes,” he said, “Miss Stanbury has a tongue; but I think it speaks as much good as it does evil, and perhaps that is a great deal to say for any lady’s tongue.”
“We never speak evil of anybody,” said Camilla; “never. It is a rule with us.” Then Brooke took his leave, and the three ladies were cordial and almost affectionate in their farewell greetings.
Brooke was to start on the following morning before anybody would be up except Martha, and Miss Stanbury was very melancholy during the evening. “We shall miss him very much; shall we not?” she said, appealing to Dorothy. “I am sure you will miss him very much,” said Dorothy. “We are so stupid here alone,” said Miss Stanbury. When they had drank their tea, she sat nearly silent for half an hour, and then summoned him up into her own room. “So you are going, Brooke?” she said.
“Yes; I must go now. They would dismiss me if I stayed an hour longer.”
“It was good of you to come to the old woman; and you must let me hear of you from time to time.”
“Of course I’ll write.”
“And, Brooke—”
“What is it, Aunt Stanbury?”
“Do you want any money, Brooke?”
“No;—none, thank you. I’ve plenty for a bachelor.”
“When you think of marrying, Brooke, mind you tell me.”
“I’ll be sure to tell you;—but I can’t promise yet when that will be.” She said nothing more to him, though she paused once more as though she were going to speak. She kissed him and bade him goodbye, saying that she would not go downstairs again that evening. He was to tell Dorothy to go to bed. And so they parted.
But Dorothy did not go to bed for an hour after that. When Brooke came down into the parlour with his message she intended to go at once, and put up her work, and lit her candle, and put out her hand to him, and said goodbye to him. But, for all that, she remained there for an hour with him. At first she said very little, but by degrees her tongue was loosened, and she found herself talking with a freedom which she could hardly herself understand. She told him how thoroughly she believed her aunt to be a good woman—how sure she was that her aunt was at any rate honest. “As for me,” said Dorothy, “I know that I have displeased her about Mr. Gibson;—and I would go away, only that I think she
