He Knew He Was Right

been the Gibson marriage treaty, and the short-lived opposition to the other marriage treaty which had seemed to her to be so very preferable; but everything had gone at last as though she had been Fortune’s favourite⁠—and now had come this beautiful arrangement about Cropper and Burgess, which would save her from being carried away to live among strangers in London! When she first became known to us on her coming to Exeter, in compliance with her aunt’s suggestion, she was timid, silent, and altogether without self-reliance. Even they who knew her best had never guessed that she possessed a keen sense of humour, a nice appreciation of character, and a quiet reticent wit of her own, under that staid and frightened demeanour. Since her engagement with Brooke Burgess it seemed to those who watched her that her character had become changed, as does that of a flower when it opens itself in its growth. The sweet gifts of nature within became visible, the petals sprang to view, and the leaves spread themselves, and the sweet scent was felt upon the air. Had she remained at Nuncombe, it is probable that none would ever have known her but her sister. It was necessary to this flower that it should be warmed by the sun of life, and strengthened by the breezes of opposition, and filled by the showers of companionship, before it could become aware of its own loveliness. Dorothy was one who, had she remained ever unseen in the retirement of her mother’s village cottage, would have lived and died ignorant of even her own capabilities for enjoyment. She had not dreamed that she could win a man’s love⁠—had hardly dreamed till she had lived at Exeter that she had love of her own to give back in return. She had not known that she could be firm in her own opinion, that she could laugh herself and cause others to laugh, that she could be a lady and know that other women were not so, that she had good looks of her own and could be very happy when told of them by lips that she loved. The flower that blows the quickest is never the sweetest. The fruit that ripens tardily has ever the finest flavour. It is often the same with men and women. The lad who talks at twenty as men should talk at thirty, has seldom much to say worth the hearing when he is forty; and the girl who at eighteen can shine in society with composure, has generally given over shining before she is a full-grown woman. With Dorothy the scent and beauty of the flower, and the flavour of the fruit, had come late; but the fruit will keep, and the flower will not fall to pieces with the heat of an evening.

“How marvellously your bride has changed since she has been here,” said Mrs. MacHugh to Miss Stanbury. “We thought she couldn’t say boo to a goose at first; but she holds her own now among the best of ’em.”

“Of course she does;⁠—why shouldn’t she? I never knew a Stanbury yet that was a fool.”

“They are a wonderful family, of course,” said Mrs. MacHugh; “but I think that of all of them she is the most wonderful. Old Barty said something to her at my house yesterday that wasn’t intended to be kind.”

“When did he ever intend to be kind?”

“But he got no change out of her. ‘The Burgesses have been in Exeter a long time,’ she said, ‘and I don’t see why we should not get on at any rate as well as those before us.’ Barty grunted and growled and slunk away. He thought she would shake in her shoes when he spoke to her.”

“He has never been able to make a Stanbury shake in her shoes yet,” said the old lady.

Early in September, Dorothy went to Nuncombe Putney to spend a week with her mother and sister at the cottage. She had insisted on this, though Priscilla had hinted, somewhat unnecessarily, that Dorothy, with her past comforts and her future prospects, would find the accommodation at the cottage very limited. “I suppose you and I, Pris, can sleep in the same bed, as we always did,” she said, with a tear in each eye. Then Priscilla had felt ashamed of herself, and had bade her come.

“The truth is, Dolly,” said the elder sister, “that we feel so unlike marrying and giving in marriage at Nuncombe, that I’m afraid you’ll lose your brightness and become dowdy, and grim, and misanthropic, as we are. When mamma and I sit down to what we call dinner, I always feel that there is a grace hovering in the air different to that which she says.”

“And what is it, Pris?”

“Pray, God, don’t quite starve us, and let everybody else have indigestion. We don’t say it out loud, but there it is; and the spirit of it might damp the orange blossoms.”

She went of course, and the orange blossoms were not damped. She had long walks with her sister round by Niddon and Ridleigh, and even as far distant as Cockchaffington, where much was said about that wicked Colonel as they stood looking at the porch of the church. “I shall be so happy,” said Dorothy, “when you and mother come to us. It will be such a joy to me that you should be my guests.”

“But we shall not come.”

“Why not, Priscilla?”

“I know it will be so. Mamma will not care for going, if I do not go.”

“And why should you not come?”

“For a hundred reasons, all of which you know, Dolly. I am stiff, impracticable, ill-conditioned, and very bad at going about visiting. I am always thinking that other people ought to have indigestion, and perhaps I might come to have some such feeling about you and Brooke.”

“I should not be at all afraid of that.”

“I know that my place in the world is here, at Nuncombe Putney. I have a