“What man?” asked Dorothy, in perfect innocence.
“Mr. Gibson, to be sure. I don’t know that there is anybody else.”
“Oh, Mr. Gibson. He never comes here now, and I don’t suppose he will again. Aunt Stanbury is so very angry with him.”
“I don’t care whether he comes or not. What I mean is this. When I was here before, I was told that you were going—to marry him.”
“But I wasn’t.”
“How was I to know that, when you didn’t tell me? I certainly did know it after I came back from Dartmoor.” He paused a moment, as though she might have a word to say. She had no word to say, and did not in the least know what was coming. She was so far from anticipating the truth, that she was composed and easy in her mind. “But all that is of no use at all,” he continued. “When I was here before Miss Stanbury wanted you to marry Mr. Gibson; and, of course, I had nothing to say about it. Now I want you—to marry me.”
“Mr. Burgess!”
“Dorothy, my darling, I love you better than all the world. I do, indeed.” As soon as he had commenced his protestations he became profuse enough with them, and made a strong attempt to support them by the action of his hands. But she retreated from him step by step, till she had regained her chair by the tea-table, and there she seated herself—safely, as she thought; but he was close to her, over her shoulder, still continuing his protestations, offering up his vows, and imploring her to reply to him. She, as yet, had not answered him by a word, save by that one half-terrified exclamation of his name. “Tell me, at any rate, that you believe me, when I assure you that I love you,” he said. The room was going round with Dorothy, and the world was going round, and there had come upon her so strong a feeling of the disruption of things in general, that she was at the moment anything but happy. Had it been possible for her to find that the last ten minutes had been a dream, she would at this moment have wished that it might become one. A trouble had come upon her, out of which she did not see her way. To dive among the waters in warm weather is very pleasant; there is nothing pleasanter. But when the young swimmer first feels the thorough immersion of his plunge, there comes upon him a strong desire to be quickly out again. He will remember afterwards how joyous it was; but now, at this moment, the dry land is everything to him. So it was with Dorothy. She had thought of Brooke Burgess as one of those bright ones of the world, with whom everything is happy and pleasant, whom everybody loves, who may have whatever they please, whose lines have been laid in pleasant places. She thought of him as a man who might some day make some woman very happy as his wife. To be the wife of such a man was, in Dorothy’s estimation, one of those blessed chances which come to some women, but which she never regarded as being within her own reach. Though she had thought much about him, she had never thought of him as a possible possession for herself; and now that he was offering himself to her, she was not at once made happy by his love. Her ideas of herself and of her life were all dislocated for the moment, and she required to be alone, that she might set herself in order, and try herself all over, and find whether her bones were broken. “Say that you believe me,” he repeated.
“I don’t know what to say,” she whispered.
“I’ll tell you what to say. Say at once that you will be my wife.”
“I can’t say that, Mr. Burgess.”
“Why not? Do you mean that you cannot love me?”
“I think, if you please, I’ll go up to Aunt Stanbury. It is time for me; indeed it is; and she will be wondering, and Martha will be put out. Indeed I must go up.”
“And will you not answer me?”
“I don’t know what to say. You must give me a little time to consider. I don’t quite think you’re serious.”
“Heaven and earth!” began Brooke.
“And I’m sure it would never do. At any rate, I must go now. I must, indeed.”
And so she escaped, and went up to her aunt’s room, which she reached at ten minutes after her usual time, and before Martha had begun to be put out. She was very civil to Martha, as though Martha had been injured; and she put her hand on her aunt’s arm, with a soft, caressing, apologetic touch, feeling conscious that she had given cause for offence. “What has he been saying to you?” said her aunt, as soon as Martha had closed the door. This was a question which Dorothy, certainly, could not answer. Miss Stanbury meant nothing by it—nothing beyond a sick woman’s desire that something of the conversation of those who were not sick should be retailed to her; but to Dorothy the question meant so much! How should her aunt have known that he had said anything? She sat herself down and waited, giving no answer to the question. “I hope he gets his meals comfortably,” said Miss Stanbury.
“I am sure he does,” said Dorothy, infinitely relieved. Then, knowing how important it was that her aunt should sleep, she took up the volume of Jeremy Taylor, and, with so great a burden on her mind, she went on painfully and distinctly with the second sermon on the Marriage Ring. She strove valiantly to keep her mind to the godliness of the discourse, so that it might be of some possible service to herself; and to keep her voice
