“Dear aunt, do not say that.”
“I do say it. He need not trouble himself to come now. When I said that I should be glad to see you, I did not intend that you should meet Mr. Burgess under my roof. I did not wish to have you both together.”
“How could I help coming, when you wrote to me like that?”
“It is very well—but he need not come. He knows the way from Nuncombe to London without stopping at Exeter.”
“Aunt Stanbury, you must let me tell it you all.”
“There is no more to tell, I should think.”
“But there is more. You knew what he thought about me, and what he wished.”
“He is his own master, my dear;—and you are your own mistress.”
“If you speak to me like that you will kill me, Aunt Stanbury. I did not think of coming; only when Martha brought your dear letter I could not help it. But he was coming. He meant to come tomorrow, and he will. Of course he must defend himself, if you are angry with him.”
“He need not defend himself at all.”
“I told them, and I told him, that I would only stay one night—if you did not wish that we should be here together. You must see him, Aunt Stanbury. You would not refuse to see him.”
“If you please, my dear, you must allow me to judge whom I will see.”
After that the discussion ceased between them for awhile, and Miss Stanbury left the room that she might hold a consultation with Martha. Dorothy went up to her chamber, and saw that everything had been prepared for her with most scrupulous care. Nothing could be whiter, neater, cleaner, nicer than was everything that surrounded her. She had perceived while living under her aunt’s roof, how, gradually, small, delicate feminine comforts had been increased for her. Martha had been told that Miss Dorothy ought to have this, and that Miss Dorothy ought to have that; till at last she, who had hitherto known nothing of the small luxuries that come from an easy income, had felt ashamed of the prettinesses that had been added to her. Now she could see at once that infinite care had been used to make her room bright and smiling—only in the hope that she would return. As soon as she saw it all, she sat down on her bed and burst out into tears. Was it not hard upon her that she should be forced into such ingratitude! Every comfort prepared for her was a coal of hot fire upon her head. And yet what had she done that she ought not to have done? Was it unreasonable that she should have loved this man, when they two were brought together? And had she even dared to think of him otherwise than as an acquaintance till he had compelled her to confess her love? And after that had she not tried to separate herself from him, so that they two—her aunt and her lover—might be divided by no quarrel? Had not Priscilla told her that she was right in all that she was doing? Nevertheless, in spite of all this, she could not refrain from accusing herself of ingratitude towards her aunt. And she began to think it would have been better for her now to have remained at home, and have allowed Brooke to come alone to Exeter than to have obeyed the impulse which had arisen from the receipt of her aunt’s letter. When she went down again she found herself alone in the room, and she was beginning to think that it was intended that she should go to bed without again seeing her aunt; but at last Miss Stanbury came to her, with a sad countenance, but without that look of wrath which Dorothy knew so well. “My dear,” she said, “it will be better that Mr. Burgess should go up to London tomorrow. I will see him, of course, if he chooses to come, and Martha shall meet him at the station and explain it. If you do not mind, I would prefer that you should not meet him here.”
“I meant only to stay one night, aunt.”
“That is nonsense. If I am to part with either of you, I will part with him. You are dearer to me than he is. Dorothy, you do not know how dear to me you are.”
Dorothy immediately fell on her knees at her aunt’s feet, and hid her face in her aunt’s lap. Miss Stanbury twined round her fingers the soft hair which she loved so well—because it was a grace given by God and not bought out of a shop—and caressed the girl’s head, and muttered something that was intended for a prayer. “If he will let me, aunt, I will give him up,” said Dorothy, looking up into her aunt’s face. “If he will say that I may, though I shall love him always, he may go.”
“He is his own master,” said Miss Stanbury. “Of course he is his own master.”
“Will you let me return tomorrow—just for a few days—and then you can talk to him as you please. I did not mean to come to stay. I wished him goodbye because I knew that I should not meet him here.”
“You always talk of going away, Dorothy, as soon as ever you are in the house. You are always threatening me.”
“I will come again, the moment you tell me. If he goes in the
