“No, aunt; I didn’t write them. I shouldn’t know how.”
“And I hope you’ll never learn. They say women are to vote, and become doctors, and if so, there’s no knowing what devil’s tricks they mayn’t do. But it isn’t your fault about that filthy newspaper. How he can let himself down to write stuff that is to be printed on straw is what I can’t understand.”
“I don’t see how it can make a difference as he writes it.”
“It would make a great deal of difference to me. And I’m told that what they call ink comes off on your fingers like lampblack. I never touched one, thank God; but they tell me so. All the same; it isn’t your fault.”
“I’ve nothing to do with it, Aunt Stanbury.”
“Of course you’ve not. And as he is your brother it wouldn’t be natural that you should like to throw him off. And, my dear, I like you for taking his part. Only you needn’t have been so fierce with an old woman.”
“Indeed—indeed I didn’t mean to be—fierce, Aunt Stanbury.”
“I never was taken up so short in my life. But we won’t mind that. There; he shall come and see you. I suppose he won’t insist on leaving any of his nastiness about.”
“But is he to come here, Aunt Stanbury?”
“He may if he pleases.”
“Oh, Aunt Stanbury!”
“When he was here last he generally had a pipe in his mouth, and I dare say he never puts it down at all now. Those things grow upon young people so fast. But if he could leave it on the doorstep just while he’s here I should be obliged to him.”
“But, dear aunt, couldn’t I see him in the street?”
“Out in the street! No, my dear. All the world is not to know that he’s your brother; and he is dressed in such a rapscallion manner that the people would think you were talking to a housebreaker.” Dorothy’s face became again red as she heard this, and the angry words were very nearly spoken. “The last time I saw him,” continued Miss Stanbury, “he had on a short, rough jacket, with enormous buttons, and one of those flipperty-flopperty things on his head, that the butcher-boys wear. And, oh, the smell of tobacco! As he had been up in London I suppose he thought Exeter was no better than a village, and he might do just as he pleased. But he knew that if I’m particular about anything, it is about a gentleman’s hat in the streets. And he wanted me—me!—to walk with him across to Mrs. MacHugh’s! We should have been hooted about the Close like a pair of mad dogs;—and so I told him.”
“All the young men seem to dress like that now, Aunt Stanbury.”
“No, they don’t. Mr. Gibson doesn’t dress like that.”
“But he’s a clergyman, Aunt Stanbury.”
“Perhaps I’m an old fool. I dare say I am, and of course that’s what you mean. At any rate I’m too old to change, and I don’t mean to try. I like to see a difference between a gentleman and a housebreaker. For the matter of that I’m told that there is a difference, and that the housebreakers all look like gentlemen now. It may be proper to make us all stand on our heads, with our legs sticking up in the air; but I for one don’t like being topsy-turvey, and I won’t try it. When is he to reach Exeter?”
“He is coming on Tuesday next, by the last train.”
“Then you can’t see him that night. That’s out of the question. No doubt he’ll sleep at the Nag’s Head, as that’s the lowest radical public-house in the city. Martha shall try to find him. She knows more about his doings than I do. If he chooses to come here the following morning before he goes down to Nuncombe Putney, well and good. I shall wait up till Martha comes back from the train on Tuesday night, and hear.” Dorothy was of course full of gratitude and thanks; but yet she felt almost disappointed by the result of her aunt’s clemency on the matter. She had desired to take her brother’s part, and it had seemed to her as though she had done so in a very lukewarm manner. She had listened to an immense number of accusations against him, and had been unable to reply to them because she had been conquered by the promise of a visit. And now it was out of the question that she should speak of going. Her aunt had given way to her, and of course had conquered her.
Late on the Tuesday evening, after ten o’clock, Hugh Stanbury was walking round the Close with his aunt’s old servant. He had not put up at that dreadfully radical establishment of which Miss Stanbury was so much afraid, but had taken a bedroom at the Railway Inn. From there he had walked up to the Close with Martha, and now was having a few last words with her before he would allow her to return to the house.
“I suppose she’d as soon see the devil as see me,” said Hugh.
“If you speak in that way, Mr. Hugh, I won’t listen to you.”
“And yet I did everything I could to please her; and I don’t think any boy ever loved an old woman better than I did her.”
“That was while she used to send you cakes, and ham, and jam to school, Mr. Hugh.”
“Of course it was, and while she sent me flannel waistcoats to Oxford. But when I didn’t care any longer for cakes or flannel then she got tired of me. It is much better as it is, if she’ll only be good to Dorothy.”
“She never was bad to anybody, Mr. Hugh. But I don’t think an old lady like her ever takes to a young woman as she does to a young man, if only he’ll let her have a little
