“Why natural?”
“Just as it is natural that there should be dogs and cats that are petted and loved and made much of, and others that have to crawl through life as they can, cuffed and kicked and starved.”
“That depends on the accident of possession,” said Brooke.
“So does the other. How many people there are that don’t seem to belong to anybody—and if they do, they’re no good to anybody. They’re not cuffed exactly, or starved; but—”
“You mean that they don’t get their share of affection?”
“They get perhaps as much as they deserve,” said Dorothy.
“Because they’re cross-grained, or ill-tempered, or disagreeable?”
“Not exactly that.”
“What then?” asked Brooke.
“Because they’re just nobodies. They are not anything particular to anybody, and so they go on living till they die. You know what I mean, Mr. Burgess. A man who is a nobody can perhaps make himself somebody—or, at any rate, he can try; but a woman has no means of trying. She is a nobody, and a nobody she must remain. She has her clothes and her food, but she isn’t wanted anywhere. People put up with her, and that is about the best of her luck. If she were to die somebody perhaps would be sorry for her, but nobody would be worse off. She doesn’t earn anything or do any good. She is just there and that’s all.”
Brooke had never heard her speak after this fashion before, had never known her to utter so many consecutive words, or to put forward any opinion of her own with so much vigour. And Dorothy herself, when she had concluded her speech, was frightened by her own energy and grew red in the face, and showed very plainly that she was half ashamed of herself. Brooke thought that he had never seen her look so pretty before, and was pleased by her enthusiasm. He understood perfectly that she was thinking of her own position, though she had entertained no idea that he would so read her meaning; and he felt that it was incumbent on him to undeceive her, and make her know that she was not one of those women who are “just there and that’s all.” “One does see such a woman as that now and again,” he said.
“There are hundreds of them,” said Dorothy. “And of course it can’t be helped.”
“Such as Arabella French,” said he, laughing.
“Well—yes; if she is one. It is very easy to see the difference. Some people are of use and are always doing things. There are others, generally women, who have nothing to do, but who can’t be got rid of. It is a melancholy sort of feeling.”
“You at least are not one of them.”
“I didn’t mean to complain about myself,” she said. “I have got a great deal to make me happy.”
“I don’t suppose you regard yourself as an Arabella French,” said he.
“How angry Miss French would be if she heard you. She considers herself to be one of the reigning beauties of Exeter.”
“She has had a very long reign, and dominion of that sort to be successful ought to be short.”
“That is spiteful, Mr. Burgess.”
“I don’t feel spiteful against her, poor woman. I own I do not love Camilla. Not that I begrudge Camilla her present prosperity.”
“Nor I either, Mr. Burgess.”
“She and Mr. Gibson will do very well together, I dare say.”
“I hope they will,” said Dorothy, “and I do not see any reason against it. They have known each other a long time.”
“A very long time,” said Brooke. Then he paused for a minute, thinking how he might best tell her that which he had now resolved should be told on this occasion. Dorothy finished her tea and got up as though she were about to go to her duty upstairs. She had been as yet hardly an hour in the room, and the period of her relief was not fairly over. But there had come something of a personal flavour in their conversation which prompted her, unconsciously, to leave him. She had, without any special indication of herself, included herself among that company of old maids who are born and live and die without that vital interest in the affairs of life which nothing but family duties, the care of children, or at least of a husband, will give to a woman. If she had not meant this she had felt it. He had understood her meaning, or at least her feeling, and had taken upon himself to assure her that she was not one of the company whose privations she had endeavoured to describe. Her instinct rather than her reason put her at once upon her guard, and she prepared to leave the room. “You are not going yet,” he said.
“I think I might as well. Martha has so much to do, and she comes to me again at five in the morning.”
“Don’t go quite yet,” he said, pulling out his watch. “I know all about the hours, and it wants twenty minutes to the proper time.”
“There is no proper time, Mr. Burgess.”
“Then you can remain a few minutes longer. The fact is, I’ve got something I want to say to you.”
He was now standing between her and the door, so that she could not get away from him; but at this moment she was absolutely ignorant of his purpose, expecting nothing of love from him more than she would from Sir Peter Mancrudy. Her face had become flushed when she made her long speech, but there was no blush on it as she answered him now. “Of course, I can wait,” she said, “if you have anything to say to me.”
“Well;—I have. I should have said it before, only that that other man was here.” He was blushing now—up to the roots of his hair, and felt that he was in a difficulty. There are men, to whom such moments of their lives are pleasurable, but Brooke Burgess was not one of them. He
