“Dear, dear, dear!”
“I couldn’t help it, Martha;—but it’s no good talking about it, for of course I shan’t try to help it now. Only this—that I would do anything in the world for my aunt—except that.”
“But she don’t like it, Miss Dorothy. That is the truth, you know.”
“It can’t be helped now, Martha; and of course she’ll be told at once. Shall I go and tell her? I’d go today if you think she would like it.”
“And Mr. Brooke?”
“He is to go tomorrow.”
“And will you leave him here?”
“Why not? Nobody will hurt him. I don’t mind a bit about having him with me now. But I can tell you this. When he went away from us once it made me very unhappy. Would Aunt Stanbury be glad to see me, Martha?”
Martha’s reserve was at last broken down, and she expressed herself in strong language. There was nothing on earth her mistress wanted so much as to have her favourite niece back again. Martha acknowledged that there were great difficulties about Brooke Burgess, and she did not see her way clearly through them. Dorothy declared her purpose of telling her aunt boldly—at once. Martha shook her head, admiring the honesty and courage, but doubting the result. She understood better than did anyone else the peculiarity of mind which made her mistress specially anxious that none of the Stanbury family should enjoy any portion of the Burgess money, beyond that which she herself had saved out of the income. There had been moments in which Martha had hoped that this prejudice might be overcome in favour of Hugh; but it had become stronger as the old woman grew to be older and more feeble—and it was believed now to be settled as Fate. “She’d sooner give it all to old Barty over the way,” Martha had once said, “than let it go to her own kith and kin. And if she do hate any human creature, she do hate Barty Burgess.” She assented, however, to Dorothy’s proposal; and, though Mrs. Stanbury and Priscilla were astounded by the precipitancy of the measure they did not attempt to oppose it.
“And what am I to do?” said Brooke, when he was told.
“You’ll come tomorrow, of course,” said Dorothy.
“But it may be that the two of us together will be too many for the dear old lunatic.”
“You shan’t call her a lunatic, Brooke. She isn’t so much a lunatic as you are, to run counter to her, and disobey her, and all that kind of thing.”
“And how about yourself?”
“How can I help it, Brooke? It is you that say it must be so.”
“Of course it must. Who is to be stayed from doing what is reasonable because an old woman has a bee on her bonnet. I don’t believe in people’s wills.”
“She can do what she likes about it, Brooke.”
“Of course she can, and of course she will. What I mean is that it never pays to do this or that because somebody may alter his will, or may make a will, or may not make a will. You become a slave for life, and then your dead tyrant leaves you a mourning-ring, and grins at you out of his grave. All the same she’ll kick up a row, I fancy, and you’ll have to bear the worst of it.”
“I’ll tell her the truth; and if she be very angry, I’ll just come home again. But I think I’ll come home tomorrow anyway, so that I’ll pass you on the road. That will be best. She won’t want us both together. Only then, Brooke, I shan’t see you again.”
“Not till June.”
“And is it to be really in June?”
“You say you don’t like May.”
“You are such a goose, Brooke. It will be May almost tomorrow. I shall be such a poor wife for you, Brooke. As for getting my things ready, I shall not bring hardly any things at all. Have you thought what it is to take a body so very poor?”
“I own I haven’t thought as much about it, Dolly—as I ought to have done, perhaps.”
“It is too late now, Brooke.”
“I suppose it is.”
“Quite too late. A week ago I could have borne it. I had almost got myself to think that it would be better that I should bear it. But you have come, and banished all the virtue out of my head. I am ashamed of myself, because I am so unworthy; but I would put up with that shame rather than lose you now. Brooke, Brooke, I will so try to be good to you!”
In the afternoon Martha and Dorothy started together for Exeter, Brooke and Priscilla accompanying them as far as Mrs. Crocket’s, where the Lessboro’ fly was awaiting them. Dorothy said little or nothing during the walk, nor, indeed, was she very communicative during the journey into Exeter. She was going to her aunt, instigated simply by the affection of her full heart; but she was going with a tale in her mouth which she knew would be very unwelcome. She could not save herself from feeling that, in having accepted Brooke, and in having not only accepted him but even fixed the day for her marriage, she had been ungrateful to her aunt. Had it not been for her aunt’s kindness and hospitality, she would never have seen Brooke Burgess. And as she had been under her aunt’s care at Exeter, she doubted whether she had not been guilty of some great fault in falling in love with this man, in opposition as it were to express orders. Should her aunt still declare that she would in no way countenance the marriage, that she would still oppose it and use her influence with Brooke to break it off, then would Dorothy return on the morrow to her mother’s cottage at Nuncombe Putney, so that her lover might be free to act with her aunt as he might think fit. And should he yield, she would endeavour—she
