He Knew He Was Right

this matter, and was sure that Priscilla’s advice, whatever it might be, would be given without any regard to her aunt’s views. And then Dorothy was altogether ignorant of her aunt’s views. Her aunt had been very anxious that she should marry Mr. Gibson, but had clearly never admitted into her mind the idea that she might possibly marry Brooke Burgess; and it seemed to her that she herself would be dishonest, both to her aunt and to her lover, if she were to bind this man to herself without her aunt’s knowledge. He was to be her aunt’s heir, and she was maintained by her aunt’s liberality! Thinking of all this, she at last resolved that she would take the bull by the horns, and tell her aunt. She felt that the task would be one almost beyond her strength. Thrice she went into her aunt’s room, intending to make a clean breast. Thrice her courage failed her, and she left the room with her tale untold, excusing herself on various pretexts. Her aunt had seemed to be not quite so well, or had declared herself to be tired, or had been a little cross;⁠—or else Martha had come in at the nick of time. But there was Brooke Burgess’s letter unanswered⁠—a letter that was read night and morning, and which was never for an instant out of her mind. He had demanded a reply, and he had a right at least to that. The letter had been with her for four entire days before she had ventured to speak to her aunt on the subject.

On the first of March Miss Stanbury came out of her bedroom for the first time. Dorothy, on the previous day, had decided on postponing her communication for this occasion; but, when she found herself sitting in the little sitting-room upstairs close at her aunt’s elbow, and perceived the signs of weakness which the new move had made conspicuous, and heard the invalid declare that the little journey had been almost too much for her, her heart misgave her. She ought to have told her tale while her aunt was still in bed. But presently there came a question, which put her into such a flutter that she was for the time devoid of all resolution. “Has Brooke written?” said Miss Stanbury.

“Yes⁠—aunt; he has written.”

“And what did he say?” Dorothy was struck quite dumb. “Is there anything wrong?” And now, as Miss Stanbury asked the question, she seemed herself to have forgotten that she had two minutes before declared herself to be almost too feeble to speak. “I’m sure there is something wrong. What is it? I will know.”

“There is nothing wrong, Aunt Stanbury.”

“Where is the letter? Let me see it.”

“I mean there is nothing wrong about him.”

“What is it, then?”

“He is quite well, Aunt Stanbury.”

“Show me the letter. I will see the letter. I know that there is something the matter. Do you mean to say you won’t show me Brooke’s letter?”

There was a moment’s pause before Dorothy answered. “I will show you his letter;⁠—though I am sure he didn’t mean that I should show it to anyone.”

“He hasn’t written evil of me?”

“No; no; no. He would sooner cut his hand off than say a word bad of you. He never says or writes anything bad of anybody. But⁠—. Oh, aunt; I’ll tell you everything. I should have told you before, only that you were ill.”

Then Miss Stanbury was frightened. “What is it?” she said hoarsely, clasping the arms of the great chair, each with a thin, shrivelled hand.

“Aunt Stanbury, Brooke⁠—Brooke⁠—wants me to be his⁠—wife!”

“What!”

“You cannot be more surprised than I have been, Aunt Stanbury; and there has been no fault of mine.”

“I don’t believe it,” said the old woman.

“Now you may read the letter,” said Dorothy, standing up. She was quite prepared to be obedient, but she felt that her aunt’s manner of receiving the information was almost an insult.

“He must be a fool,” said Miss Stanbury.

This was hard to bear, and the colour went and came rapidly across Dorothy’s cheeks as she gave herself a few moments to prepare an answer. She already perceived that her aunt would be altogether adverse to the marriage, and that therefore the marriage could never take place. She had never for a moment allowed herself to think otherwise, but, nevertheless, the blow was heavy on her. We all know how constantly hope and expectation will rise high within our own bosoms in opposition to our own judgment⁠—how we become sanguine in regard to events which we almost know can never come to pass. So it had been with Dorothy. Her heart had been almost in a flutter of happiness since she had had Brooke’s letter in her possession, and yet she never ceased to declare to herself her own conviction that that letter could lead to no good result. In regard to her own wishes on the subject she had never asked herself a single question. As it had been quite beyond her power to bring herself to endure the idea of marrying Mr. Gibson, so it had been quite impossible to her not to long to be Brooke’s wife from the moment in which a suggestion to that effect had fallen from his lips. This was a state of things so certain, so much a matter of course, that, though she had not spoken a word to him in which she owned her love, she had never for a moment doubted that he knew the truth⁠—and that everybody else concerned would know it too. But she did not suppose that her wishes would go for anything with her aunt. Brooke Burgess was to become a rich man as her aunt’s heir, and her aunt would of course have her own ideas about Brooke’s advancement in life. She was quite prepared to submit without quarrelling when her aunt should tell her that the idea must not be entertained. But the order might be given, the