He Knew He Was Right

a bitterness of heart which almost conquered her. She too had heard of love, and had been taught to feel that the success or failure of a woman’s life depended upon that⁠—whether she did, or whether she did not, by such gifts as God might have given to her, attract to herself some man strong enough, and good enough, and loving enough to make straight for her her paths, to bear for her her burdens, to be the father of her children, the staff on which she might lean, and the wall against which she might grow, feeling the sunshine, and sheltered from the wind. She had ever estimated her own value so lowly as to have told herself often that such success could never come in her way. From her earliest years she had regarded herself as outside the pale within which such joys are to be found. She had so strictly taught herself to look forward to a blank existence, that she had learned to do so without active misery. But not the less did she know where happiness lay; and when the good thing came almost within her reach, when it seemed that God had given her gifts which might have sufficed, when a man had sought her hand whose nature was such that she could have leaned on him with a true worship, could have grown against him as against a wall with perfect confidence, could have lain with her head upon his bosom, and have felt that of all spots that in the world was the most fitting for her⁠—when this was all but grasped, and must yet be abandoned, there came upon her spirit an agony so bitter that she had not before known how great might be the depth of human disappointment. But the letter was at last written, and when finished was as follows:⁠—

The Close, Exeter, March 1, 186‒.

Dear Brooke,

There had been many doubts about this; but at last they were conquered, and the name was written.

I have shown your letter to my aunt, as I am sure you will think was best. I should have answered it before, only that I thought that she was not quite well enough to talk about it. She says, as I was sure she would, that what you propose is quite out of the question. I am aware that I am bound to obey her; and as I think that you also ought to do so, I shall think no more of what you have said to me and have written. It is quite impossible now, even if it might have been possible under other circumstances. I shall always remember your great kindness to me. Perhaps I ought to say that I am very grateful for the compliment you have paid me. I shall think of you always;⁠—till I die.

Believe me to be,
Your very sincere friend,

Dorothy Stanbury.

The next day Miss Stanbury again came out of her room, and on the third day she was manifestly becoming stronger. Dorothy had as yet not spoken of her letter, but was prepared to do so as soon as she thought that a fitting opportunity had come. She had a word or two to say for herself; but she must not again subject herself to being told that she was taking her will of her aunt because her aunt was too ill to defend herself. But on the third day Miss Stanbury herself asked the question. “Have you written anything to Brooke?” she asked.

“I have answered his letter, Aunt Stanbury.”

“And what have you said to him?”

“I have told him that you disapproved of it, and that nothing more must be said about it.”

“Yes;⁠—of course you made me out to be an ogre.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that, aunt. I am sure that I told him the truth.”

“May I see the letter?”

“It has gone.”

“But you have kept a copy,” said Miss Stanbury.

“Yes; I have got a copy,” replied Dorothy; “but I would rather not show it. I told him just what I tell you.”

“Dorothy, it is not at all becoming that you should have a correspondence with any young man of such a nature that you should be ashamed to show it to your aunt.”

“I am not ashamed of anything,” said Dorothy sturdily.

“I don’t know what young women in these days have come to,” continued Miss Stanbury. “There is no respect, no subjection, no obedience, and too often⁠—no modesty.”

“Does that mean me, Aunt Stanbury?” asked Dorothy.

“To tell you the truth, Dorothy, I don’t think you ought to have been receiving love-letters from Brooke Burgess when I was lying ill in bed. I didn’t expect it of you. I tell you fairly that I didn’t expect it of you.”

Then Dorothy spoke out her mind. “As you think that, Aunt Stanbury, I had better go away. And if you please I will⁠—when you are well enough to spare me.”

“Pray don’t think of me at all,” said her aunt.

“And as for love-letters⁠—Mr. Burgess has written to me once. I don’t think that there can be anything immodest in opening a letter when it comes by the post. And as soon as I had it I determined to show it to you. As for what happened before, when Mr. Burgess spoke to me, which was long, long after all that about Mr. Gibson was over, I told him that it couldn’t be so; and I thought there would be no more about it. You were so ill that I could not tell you. Now you know it all.”

“I have not seen your letter to him.”

“I shall never show it to anybody. But you have said things, Aunt Stanbury, that are very cruel.”

“Of course! Everything I say is wrong.”

“You have told me that I was telling untruths, and you have called me⁠—immodest. That is a terrible word.”

“You shouldn’t deserve it then.”

“I never have deserved it, and I won’t bear it. No; I won’t. If Hugh heard