“Only the vagaries of an old woman, my pet—of an old woman who cannot sleep in her bed.”
“But what is it, aunt?”
“Kiss me, dearest.” Then with something of slumber still about her, Dorothy raised herself in her bed, and placed her arm on her aunt’s shoulder and embraced her. “And now for my news,” said Miss Stanbury.
“What news, aunt? It isn’t morning yet; is it?”
“No;—it is not morning. You shall sleep again presently. I have thought of it, and you shall be Brooke’s wife, and I will have it here, and we will all be friends.”
“What!”
“You will like that;—will you not?”
“And you will not quarrel with him? What am I to say? What am I to do?” She was, in truth, awake now, and, not knowing what she did, she jumped out of bed, and stood holding her aunt by the arm.
“It is not a dream,” said Miss Stanbury.
“Are you sure that it is not a dream? And may he come here tomorrow?”
“Of course he will come tomorrow.”
“And may I see him, Aunt Stanbury?”
“Not if you go home, my dear.”
“But I won’t go home. And will you tell him? Oh dear, oh dear! Aunt Stanbury, I do not think that I believe it yet.”
“You will catch cold, my dear, if you stay there trying to believe it. You have nothing on. Get into bed and believe it there. You will have time to think of it before the morning.” Then Miss Stanbury went back to her own chamber, and Dorothy was left alone to realise her bliss.
She thought of all her life for the last twelve months—of the first invitation to Exeter, and the doubts of the family as to its acceptance, of her arrival and of her own doubts as to the possibility of her remaining, of Mr. Gibson’s courtship and her aunt’s disappointment, of Brooke’s coming, of her love and of his—and then of her departure back to Nuncombe. After that had come the triumph of Brooke’s visit, and then the terrible sadness of her aunt’s displeasure. But now everything was good and glorious. She did not care for money herself. She thought that she never could care much for being rich. But had she made Brooke poor by marrying him, that must always have been to her matter of regret, if not of remorse. But now it was all to be smooth and sweet. Now a paradise was to be opened to her, with no apples which she might not eat;—no apples which might not, but still must, be eaten. She thought that it would be impossible that she should sleep again that night; but she did sleep, and dreamed that Brooke was holding her in Niddon Park, tighter than ever.
When the morning came she trembled as she walked down into the parlour. Might it not still be possible that it was all a dream? Or what if her aunt should again have changed her purpose? But the first moment of her aunt’s presence told her that there was nothing to fear. “How did you sleep, Dorothy?” said the old lady.
“Dear aunt, I do not know. Was it all sleep?”
“What shall we say to Brooke when he comes?”
“You shall tell him.”
“No, dearest, you must tell him. And you must say to him that if he is not good to my girl, and does not love her always, and cling to her, and keep her from harm, and be in truth her loving husband, I will hold him to be the most ungrateful of human beings.” And before Brooke came, she spoke again. “I wonder whether he thinks you as pretty as I do, Dolly?”
“He never said that he thought me pretty at all.”
“Did he not? Then he shall say so, or he shall not have you. It was your looks won me first, Dolly—like an old fool as I am. It is so pleasant to have a little nature after such a deal of artifice.” In which latter remarks it was quite understood that Miss Stanbury was alluding to her enemies at Heavitree.
LXXIV
The Lioness Aroused
Brooke Burgess had been to Exeter and had gone—for he only remained there one night—and everything was apparently settled. It was not exactly told through Exeter that Miss Stanbury’s heir was to be allowed to marry Miss Stanbury’s niece; but Martha knew it, and Giles Hickbody guessed it, and Dorothy was allowed to tell her mother and sister, and Brooke himself, in his own careless way, had mentioned the matter to his uncle Barty. As Miss Stanbury had also told the secret in confidence to Mrs. MacHugh, it cannot be said that it was altogether well kept. Four days after Brooke’s departure the news reached the Frenches at Heavitree. It was whispered to Camilla by one of the shopmen with whom she was still arranging her marriage trousseau, and was repeated by her to her mother and sister with some additions which were not intended to be good-natured. “He gets her and the money together as a bargain—of course,” said Camilla. “I only hope the money won’t be found too dear.”
“Perhaps he won’t get it after all,” said Arabella.
“That would be cruel,” replied Camilla. “I don’t think that even Miss Stanbury is so false as that.”
Things were going very badly at Heavitree. There was war there, almost everlastingly, though such little playful conversations as the above showed that there might be an occasional lull in the battle. Mr. Gibson was not doing his duty. That was clear enough. Even Mrs. French, when she was appealed to with almost frantic energy by her younger daughter, could not but acknowledge that he was very remiss as a lover. And Camilla, in her fury, was very imprudent. That very frantic energy which induced her to appeal to her mother was, in itself, proof of her imprudence. She knew that she was foolish, but she could not control her passion. Twice had she detected Arabella in receiving notes from
