“He may be foolish in this,” Dorothy said; “but I don’t think you should call him a fool.”
“I shall call him what I please. I suppose this was going on at the time when you refused Mr. Gibson.”
“Nothing was going on. Nothing has gone on at all,” said Dorothy, with as much indignation as she was able to assume.
“How can you tell me that? That is an untruth.”
“It is not—an untruth,” said Dorothy, almost sobbing, but driven at the same time to much anger.
“Do you mean to say that this is the first you ever heard of it?” And she held out the letter, shaking it in her thin hand.
“I have never said so, Aunt Stanbury.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I said that nothing—was—going on, when Mr. Gibson—was—. If you choose to suspect me, Aunt Stanbury, I’ll go away. I won’t stay here if you suspect me. When Brooke spoke to me, I told him you wouldn’t like it.”
“Of course I don’t like it.” But she gave no reason why she did not like it.
“And there was nothing more till this letter came. I couldn’t help his writing to me. It wasn’t my fault.”
“Psha!”
“If you are angry, I am very sorry. But you haven’t a right to be angry.”
“Go on, Dorothy; go on. I’m so weak that I can hardly stir myself; it’s the first moment that I’ve been out of my bed for weeks;—and of course you can say what you please. I know what it will be. I shall have to take to my bed again, and then—in a very little time—you can both—make fools of yourselves—just as you like.”
This was an argument against which Dorothy of course found it to be quite impossible to make continued combat. She could only shuffle her letter back into her pocket, and be, if possible, more assiduous than ever in her attentions to the invalid. She knew that she had been treated most unjustly, and there would be a question to be answered as soon as her aunt should be well as to the possibility of her remaining in the Close subject to such injustice; but let her aunt say what she might, or do what she might, Dorothy could not leave her for the present. Miss Stanbury sat for a considerable time quite motionless, with her eyes closed, and did not stir or make signs of life till Dorothy touched her arm, asking her whether she would not take some broth which had been prepared for her. “Where’s Martha? Why does not Martha come?” said Miss Stanbury. This was a hard blow, and from that moment Dorothy believed that it would be expedient that she should return to Nuncombe Putney. The broth, however, was taken, while Dorothy sat by in silence. Only one word further was said that evening by Miss Stanbury about Brooke and his love affair. “There must be nothing more about this, Dorothy; remember that; nothing at all. I won’t have it.” Dorothy made no reply. Brooke’s letter was in her pocket, and it should be answered that night. On the following day she would let her aunt know what she had said to Brooke. Her aunt should not see the letter, but should be made acquainted with its purport in reference to Brooke’s proposal of marriage.
“I won’t have it!” That had been her aunt’s command. What right had her aunt to give any command upon the matter? Then crossed Dorothy’s mind, as she thought of this, a glimmering of an idea that no one can be entitled to issue commands who cannot enforce obedience. If Brooke and she chose to become man and wife by mutual consent, how could her aunt prohibit the marriage? Then there followed another idea, that commands are enforced by the threatening and, if necessary, by the enforcement of penalties. Her aunt had within her hand no penalty of which Dorothy was afraid on her own behalf; but she had the power of inflicting a terrible punishment on Brooke Burgess. Now Dorothy conceived that she herself would be the meanest creature alive if she were actuated by fears as to money in her acceptance or rejection of a man whom she loved as she did Brooke Burgess. Brooke had an income of his own which seemed to her to be ample for all purposes. But that which would have been sordid in her, did not seem to her to have any stain of sordidness for him. He was a man, and was bound to be rich if he could. And, moreover, what had she to offer in herself—such a poor thing as was she—to make compensation to him for the loss of fortune? Her aunt could inflict this penalty, and therefore the power was hers, and the power must be obeyed. She would write to Brooke in a manner that should convey to him her firm decision. But not the less on that account would she let her aunt know that she thought herself to have been ill-used. It was an insult to her, a most ill-natured insult—that telling her that Brooke had been a fool for loving her. And then that accusation against her of having been false, of having given one reason for refusing Mr. Gibson, while there was another reason in her heart—of having been cunning and then untrue, was not to be endured. What would her aunt think of her if she were to bear such allegations without indignant protest? She would write her letter, and speak her mind to her aunt as soon as her aunt should be well enough to hear it.
As she had resolved, she wrote her letter that night before she went to bed. She wrote it with floods of tears, and
