“In what way, dearest?”
“About a thousand things. She can’t arrange anything till our plans are made. Of course there are little troubles about money when people ain’t rich.” Then it occurred to her that this might seem to be a plea for postponing rather than for hurrying the marriage, and she mended her argument. “The truth is, Thomas, she wants to know when the day is to be fixed, and I’ve promised to ask. She said she’d ask you herself, but I wouldn’t let her do that.”
“We must think about it, of course,” said Thomas.
“But, my dear, there has been plenty of time for thinking. What do you say to January?” This was on the last day of November.
“January!” exclaimed Thomas, in a tone that betrayed no triumph. “I couldn’t get my services arranged for in January.”
“I thought a clergyman could always manage that for his marriage,” said Camilla.
“Not in January. Besides, I was thinking you would like to be away in warmer weather.”
They were still in November, and he was thinking of postponing it till the summer! Camilla immediately perceived how necessary it was that she should be plain with him. “We shall not have warm weather, as you call it, for a very long time, Thomas;—and I don’t think that it would be wise to wait for the weather at all. Indeed, I’ve begun to get my things for doing it in the winter. Mamma said that she was sure January would be the very latest. And it isn’t as though we had to get furniture or anything of that kind. Of course a lady shouldn’t be pressing.” She smiled sweetly and leaned on his arm as she said this. “But I hate all girlish nonsense and that kind of thing. It is such a bore to be kept waiting. I’m sure there’s nothing to prevent it coming off in February.”
The 31st of March was fixed before they reached Heavitree, and Camilla went into her mother’s house a happy woman. But Mr. Gibson, as he went home, thought that he had been hardly used. Here was a girl who hadn’t a shilling of money—not a shilling till her mother died—and who already talked about his house, and his furniture, and his income, as if it were all her own! Circumstanced as she was, what right had she to press for an early day? He was quite sure that Arabella would have been more discreet and less exacting. He was very angry with his dear Cammy as he went across the Close to his house.
LI
Showing What Happened During Miss Stanbury’s Illness
It was on Christmas-day that Sir Peter Mancrudy, the highest authority on such matters in the west of England, was sent for to see Miss Stanbury; and Sir Peter had acknowledged that things were very serious. He took Dorothy on one side, and told her that Mr. Martin, the ordinary practitioner, had treated the case, no doubt, quite wisely throughout; that there was not a word to be said against Mr. Martin, whose experience was great, and whose discretion was undeniable; but, nevertheless—at least it seemed to Dorothy that this was the only meaning to be attributed to Sir Peter’s words—Mr. Martin had in this case taken one line of treatment, when he ought to have taken another. The plan of action was undoubtedly changed, and Mr. Martin became very fidgety, and ordered nothing without Sir Peter’s sanction. Miss Stanbury was suffering from bronchitis, and a complication of diseases about her throat and chest. Barty Burgess declared to more than one acquaintance in the little parlour behind the bank, that she would go on drinking four or five glasses of new port wine every day, in direct opposition to Martin’s request. Camilla French heard the report, and repeated it to her lover, and perhaps another person or two, with an expression of her assured conviction that it must be false—at any rate, as regarded the fifth glass. Mrs. MacHugh, who saw Martha daily, was much frightened. The peril of such a friend disturbed equally the repose and the pleasures of her life. Mrs. Clifford was often at Miss Stanbury’s bedside—and would have sat there reading for hours together, had she not been made to understand by Martha that Miss Stanbury preferred that Miss Dorothy should read to her. The sick woman received the Sacrament weekly—not from Mr. Gibson, but from the hands of another minor canon; and, though she never would admit her own danger, or allow others to talk to her of it, it was known to them all that she admitted it to herself because she had, with much personal annoyance, caused a codicil to be added to her will. “As you didn’t marry that man,” she said to Dorothy, “I must change it again.” It was in vain that Dorothy begged her not to trouble herself with such thoughts. “That’s trash,” said Miss Stanbury, angrily. “A person who has it is bound to trouble himself about it. You don’t suppose I’m afraid of dying;—do you?” she added. Dorothy answered her with some commonplace—declaring how strongly they all expected to see her as well as ever. “I’m not a bit afraid to die,” said the old woman, wheezing, struggling with such voice as she possessed; “I’m not afraid of it, and I don’t think I shall die this time; but I’m not going to have mistakes when I’m gone.” This was on the eve of the new year, and on the same night she asked Dorothy to write to Brooke Burgess, and request him to come to Exeter. This was Dorothy’s letter:—
Exeter, 31st December, 186‒.
My Dear Mr. Burgess,
Perhaps I ought to have written before, to say that Aunt Stanbury is not as well as we could wish her; but, as I know that you cannot very well leave your office,
