On the first night of Brooke’s arrival this question had been discussed between him and Dorothy. Dorothy had declared herself unable to give advice. If any message were given to her she would deliver it to her aunt, but she thought that anything said to her aunt on the subject had better come from Brooke himself. “You evidently are the person most important to her,” Dorothy said, “and she would listen to you when she would not let anyone else say a word.” Brooke promised that he would think of it; and then Dorothy tripped up to relieve Martha, dreaming nothing at all of that other doubt to which the important personage downstairs was now subject. Dorothy was, in truth, very fond of the new friend she had made; but it had never occurred to her that he might be a possible suitor to her. Her old conception of herself—that she was beneath the notice of any man—had only been partly disturbed by the absolute fact of Mr. Gibson’s courtship. She had now heard of his engagement with Camilla French, and saw in that complete proof that the foolish man had been induced to offer his hand to her by the promise of her aunt’s money. If there had been a moment of exaltation—a period in which she had allowed herself to think that she was, as other women, capable of making herself dear to a man—it had been but a moment. And now she rejoiced greatly that she had not acceded to the wishes of one to whom it was so manifest that she had not made herself in the least dear.
On the second day of his visit, Brooke was summoned to Miss Stanbury’s room at noon. She was forbidden to talk, and during a great portion of the day could hardly speak without an effort; but there would be half hours now and again in which she would become stronger than usual, at which time nothing that Martha and Dorothy could say would induce her to hold her tongue. When Brooke came to her on this occasion he found her sitting up in bed with a great shawl round her; and he at once perceived she was much more like her own self than on the former day. She told him that she had been an old fool for sending for him, that she had nothing special to say to him, that she had made no alteration in her will in regard to him—“except that I have done something for Dolly that will have to come out of your pocket, Brooke.” Brooke declared that too much could not be done for a person so good, and dear, and excellent as Dorothy Stanbury, let it come out of whose pocket it might. “She is nothing to you, you know,” said Miss Stanbury.
“She is a great deal to me,” said Brooke.
“What is she?” asked Miss Stanbury.
“Oh;—a friend; a great friend.”
“Well; yes. I hope it may be so. But she won’t have anything that I haven’t saved,” said Miss Stanbury. “There are two houses at St. Thomas’s; but I bought them myself, Brooke;—out of the income.” Brooke could only declare that as the whole property was hers, to do what she liked with it as completely as though she had inherited it from her own father, no one could have any right to ask questions as to when or how this or that portion of the property had accrued. “But I don’t think I’m going to die yet, Brooke,” she said. “If it is God’s will, I am ready. Not that I’m fit, Brooke. God forbid that I should ever think that. But I doubt whether I shall ever be fitter. I can go without repining if He thinks best to take me.” Then he stood up by her bedside, with his hand upon hers, and after some hesitation asked her whether she would wish to see her nephew Hugh. “No,” said she, sharply. Brooke went on to say how pleased Hugh would have been to come to her. “I don’t think much of deathbed reconciliations,” said the old woman, grimly. “I loved him dearly, but he didn’t love me, and I don’t know what good we should do each other.” Brooke declared that Hugh did love her; but he could not press the matter, and it was dropped.
On that evening at eight Dorothy came down to her tea. She had dined at the same table with Brooke that afternoon, but a servant had been in the room all the time and nothing had been said between them. As soon as Brooke had got his tea he began to tell the story of his failure about Hugh. He was sorry, he said, that he had spoken on the subject, as it had moved Miss Stanbury to an acrimony which he had not expected.
“She always declares that he never loved her,” said Dorothy. “She has told me so twenty times.”
“There are people who fancy that nobody cares for them,” said Brooke.
“Indeed
