“Do you think that he ever was really engaged to her?” Dorothy said to her aunt. Dorothy was now living in a seventh heaven of happiness, writing love-letters to Brooke Burgess every other day, and devoting to this occupation a number of hours of which she ought to have been ashamed; making her purchases for her wedding—with nothing, however, of the magnificence of a Camilla—but discussing everything with her aunt, who urged her on to extravagances which seemed beyond the scope of her own economical ideas; settling, or trying to settle, little difficulties which perplexed her somewhat, and wondering at her own career. She could not of course be married without the presence of her mother and sister, and her aunt—with something of a grim courtesy—had intimated that they should be made welcome to the house in the Close for the special occasion. But nothing had been said about Hugh. The wedding was to be in the Cathedral, and Dorothy had a little scheme in her head for meeting her brother among the aisles. He would no doubt come down with Brooke, and nothing perhaps need be said about it to Aunt Stanbury. But still it was a trouble. Her aunt had been so good that Dorothy felt that no step should be taken which would vex the old woman. It was evident enough that when permission had been given for the visit of Mrs. Stanbury and Priscilla, Hugh’s name had been purposely kept back. There had been no accidental omission. Dorothy, therefore, did not dare to mention it—and yet it was essential for her happiness that he should be there. At the present moment Miss Stanbury’s intense interest in the Stanbury wedding was somewhat mitigated by the excitement occasioned by Mr. Gibson’s refusal to be married. Dorothy was so shocked that she could not bring herself to believe the statement that had reached them through Martha.
“Of course he was engaged to her. We all knew that,” said Miss Stanbury.
“I think there must have been some mistake,” said Dorothy. “I don’t see how he could do it.”
“There is no knowing what people can do, my dear, when they’re hard driven. I suppose we shall have a lawsuit now, and he’ll have to pay ever so much money. Well, well, well! see what a deal of trouble you might have saved!”
“But he’d have done the same to me, aunt;—only, you know, I never could have taken him. Isn’t it better as it is, aunt? Tell me.”
“I suppose young women always think it best when they can get their own ways. An old woman like me has only got to do what she is bid.”
“But this was best, aunt;—was it not?”
“My dear, you’ve had your way, and let that be enough. Poor Camilla French is not allowed to have hers at all. Dear, dear, dear! I didn’t think the man would ever have been such a fool to begin with;—or that he would ever have had the heart to get out of it afterwards.” It astonished Dorothy to find that her aunt was not loud in reprobation of Mr. Gibson’s very dreadful conduct.
In the meantime Mrs. French had written to her brother at Gloucester. The maidservant, in making Miss Camilla’s bed, and in “putting the room to rights,” as she called it—which description probably was intended to cover the circumstances of an accurate search—had discovered, hidden among some linen—a carving knife! such a knife as is used for the cutting up of fowls; and, after two days’ interval, had imparted the discovery to Mrs. French. Instant visit was made to the pantry, and it was found that a very aged but unbroken and sharply-pointed weapon was missing. Mrs. French at once accused Camilla, and Camilla, after some hesitation, admitted that it might be there. Molly, she said, was a nasty, sly, wicked thing, to go looking in her drawers, and she would never leave anything unlocked again. The knife, she declared, had been taken upstairs, because she had wanted something very sharp to cut—the bones of her stays. The knife was given up, but Mrs. French thought it best to write to her brother, Mr. Crump. She was in great doubt about sundry matters. Had the carving knife really pointed to a domestic tragedy;—and if so, what steps ought a poor widow to take with such a daughter? And what ought to be done about Mr. Gibson? It ran through Mrs. French’s mind that unless something were done at once, Mr. Gibson would escape scot free. It was her wish that he should yet become her son-in-law. Poor Bella was entitled to her chance. But if Bella was to be disappointed—from fear of carving knives, or for other reasons—then there came the question whether Mr. Gibson should not be
