“Certainly, miss;—only you’ll do it tonight.”
“Yes;—at once. As soon after I get there as possible.”
LXXIII
Dorothy Returns to Exeter
Miss Stanbury perfectly understood that Martha was to come back by the train reaching Exeter at 7 p.m., and that she might be expected in the Close about a quarter-of-an-hour after that time. She had been nervous and anxious all day—so much so that Mr. Martin had told her that she must be very careful. “That’s all very well,” the old woman had said, “but you haven’t got any medicine for my complaint, Mr. Martin.” The apothecary had assured her that the worst of her complaint was in the east wind, and had gone away begging her to be very careful. “It is not God’s breezes that are hard to anyone,” the old lady had said to herself—“but our own hearts.” After her lonely dinner she had fidgeted about the room, and had rung twice for the girl, not knowing what order to give when the servant came to her. She was very anxious about her tea, but would not have it brought to her till after Martha should have arrived. She was half-minded to order that a second cup and saucer should be placed there, but she had not the courage to face the disappointment which would fall upon her, should the cup and saucer stand there for no purpose. And yet, should she come, how nice it would be to show her girl that her old aunt had been ready for her. Thrice she went to the window after the cathedral clock had struck seven, to see whether her ambassador was returning. From her window there was only one very short space of pathway on which she could have seen her—and, as it happened, there came the ring at the door, and no ambassador had as yet been viewed. Miss Stanbury was immediately off her seat, and out upon the landing. “Here we are again, Miss Dorothy,” said Martha. Then Miss Stanbury could not restrain herself—but descended the stairs, moving as she had never moved since she had first been ill. “My bairn,” she said; “my dearest bairn! I thought that perhaps it might be so. Jane, another teacup and saucer upstairs.” What a pity that she had not ordered it before! “And get a hot cake, Jane. You will be ever so hungry, my darling, after your journey.”
“Are you glad to see me, Aunt Stanbury?” said Dorothy.
“Glad, my pretty one!” Then she put up her hands, and smoothed down the girl’s cheeks, and kissed her, and patted Martha on the back, and scolded her at the same time for not bringing Miss Dorothy from the station in a cab. “And what is the meaning of that little bag?” she said. “You shall go back for the rest yourself, Martha, because it is your own fault.” Martha knew that all this was pleasant enough;—but then her mistress’s moods would sometimes be changed so suddenly! How would it be when Miss Stanbury knew that Brooke Burgess had been left behind at Nuncombe Putney?
“You see I didn’t stay to eat any of the lamb,” said Dorothy, smiling.
“You shall have a calf instead, my dear,” said Miss Stanbury, “because you are a returned prodigal.”
All this was very pleasant, and Miss Stanbury was so happy dispensing her tea, and the hot cake, and the clotted cream, and was so intent upon her little methods of caressing and petting her niece, that Dorothy had no heart to tell her story while the plates and cups were still upon the table. She had not, perhaps, cared much for the hot cake, having such a weight upon her mind, but she had seemed to care, understanding well that she might so best conduce to her aunt’s comfort. Miss Stanbury was a woman who could not bear that the good things which she had provided for a guest should not be enjoyed. She could taste with a friend’s palate, and drink with a friend’s throat. But when debarred these vicarious pleasures by what seemed to her to be the caprice of her guests, she would be offended. It had been one of the original sins of Camilla and Arabella French that they would declare at her tea-table that they had dined late and could not eat teacake. Dorothy knew all this—and did her duty;—but with a heavy heart. There was the story to be told, and she had promised Martha that it should be told tonight. She was quite aware, too, independently of her promise, that it was necessary that it should be told tonight. It was very sad—very grievous that the dear old lady’s happiness should be disturbed so soon; but it must be done. When the tea-things were being taken away her aunt was still purring round her, and saying gentle, loving words. Dorothy bore it as well as she could—bore it well, smiling and kissing her aunt’s hand, and uttering now and then some word of affection. But the thing had to be done; and as soon as the room was quiet for a moment, she jumped up from her chair and began. “Aunt Stanbury, I must tell you something at once. Who, do you think, is at Nuncombe Putney?”
“Not Brooke Burgess?”
“Yes, he is. He is there now, and is to be here with you tomorrow.”
The whole colour and character of Miss Stanbury’s face was changed in a moment. She had been still purring up to the moment in which this communication had been made to her. Her gratification had come to her from the idea that her pet had come back to her from love of her—as in very truth had been the case; but now it seemed that Dorothy had returned to ask for a great favour for herself. And she reflected
