CHAPTER 31 Mr. Brooke Burgess The hour at which Mr. Brooke Burgess was to arrive had come round, and Miss Stanbury was in a Twitter, partly of expectation, and partly it must be confessed, of fear. Why there should be any fear she did not herself know, as she had much to give and nothing to expect? But she was afraid, and was conscious of it, and was out of temper because she was ashamed of herself. Although it would be necessary that she should again dress for dinner at six, she had put on a clean cap at four, and appeared at that early hour, in one of her gowns which was not customarily in use for home purposes at that early hour. She felt that she was an old fool for her pains, and was consequently crossed to poor Dorothy, and there were other reasons for some display of harshness to her niece. Mr. Gibson had been at the house that very morning, and Dorothy had given herself airs. At least so Miss Stanbury thought. And during the last three or four days, whenever Mr. Gibson's name had been mentioned, Dorothy had become silent, glum, and almost obstructive. Miss Stanbury had been at the trouble of explaining that she was especially anxious to have that little matter of the engagement settled at once. She knew that she was going to behave with great generosity, that she was going to sacrifice, not her money only, of which she did not think much, but a considerable portion of her authority, of which she did think a great deal, and that she was about to behave in a manner which demanded much gratitude, but it seemed to her that Dorothy was not in the least grateful. Hugh had proved himself to be a mass of ingratitude as she was in the habit of saying. None of the burgesses had ever shown to her any gratitude for promises made to them, or indeed for any substantial favours conferred upon them. And now, Dorothy, to whom a very seventh heaven of happiness had been opened—a seventh heaven, as it must be computed in comparison with her low expectations—now Dorothy was already showing how thankless she could become. Mr. Gibson had not yet declared his passion, but he had freely admitted to Miss Stanbury that he was prepared to do so. Priscilla had been quite right in her suggestion that there was a clear understanding between the clergyman and her aunt. I don't think he has come after all, said Miss Stanbury, looking at her watch. Had the train arrived at the moment that it was due, had the expectant visitor jumped out of the railway carriage into a fly, and had the driver galloped up to the clothes, it might have been possible that the wheel should have been at the door as Miss Stanbury spoke. It's hardly time yet, aunt. Nonsense! It is time. The train comes in at four. I dare say he won't come at all. He is sure to come, aunt. I've no doubt you know all about it better than anyone else you usually do. Ten five minutes were passed in silence. Heaven and earth, what shall I do with these people that are coming? And I told them especially that it was to meet this young man. It's the way I am always treated by everybody that I have about me. The train might be ten minutes late, aunt Stanbury. Yes, and monkeys might chew tobacco.  The omnibus up from the train. Now, of course, he won't come. Perhaps he's walking, aunt Stanbury. Walking, with his luggage on his shoulders. Is that your idea of the way in which a London gentleman goes about? And there are two flies, coming up from the train, of course. Miss Stanbury was obliged to fix the side of her chair very close to the window, in order that she might see that part of the close in which the vehicles of which she had spoken were able to pass. Perhaps they are not coming from the train, aunt Stanbury. Perhaps a fiddle-stick. You have lived here so much longer than I have done that, of course. You must know all about it. Even though there was an interval of another ten minutes, and even Dorothy was beginning to think that Mr. Burgess was not coming. I've given him up now, said Miss Stanbury. I think I'll send and put them all off. Just at that moment there came a knock at the door. But there was no cab. Dorothy's conjecture had been right. The London gentleman had walked, and his portmanteau had been carried behind him by a boy. How did he get here? exclaimed Miss Stanbury, as she heard the strange voice speaking to Martha downstairs. But Dorothy knew better than to answer the question. Miss Stanbury, I am very glad to see you, said Mr. Brooke Burgess, as he entered the room. Miss Stanbury curtsied, and then took him by both hands. You wouldn't have known me, I daresay. He continued. A black beard and a bald head do make a difference. You are not bald at all, said Miss Stanbury. I am beginning to be thin enough at the top. I am so glad to come to you, and so much obliged to you for having me. How well I remember the old room. This is my niece, Miss Dorothy Stanbury, from Nuncomputney. Dorothy was about to make some formal acknowledgement of the introduction when Brooke Burgess came up to her and shook her hand heartily. She lives with me, continued the aunt. And what has become of Hugh? said Brooke. We never talk of him, said Miss Stanbury gravely. I hope there's nothing wrong. I hear of him very often in London. My aunt and he don't agree. That's all, said Dorothy. He has given up his profession as a barrister in which he might have lived like a gentleman, said Miss Stanbury, and has taken to writing for a penny newspaper. Everybody does that now, Miss Stanbury. I hope you don't, Mr. Burgess. I. Nobody would print anything that I wrote. I don't write for anything, certainly. I'm very glad to hear it, said Miss Stanbury. Brooke Burgess, or Mr. Brooke, as he came to be called very shortly by the servants in the house, was a good-looking man, with black whiskers and black hair, which, as he said, was beginning to be thin on the top of his head, and pleasant small bright eyes. Dorothy thought that next to her brother, Hugh, he was the most good-natured-looking man she had ever seen. He was rather below the middle height, and somewhat inclined to be stout. But he would boast that he could still walk his twelve miles and three hours, and would add that as long as he could do that, he would never recognize the necessity of putting himself on short commons.  Dorothy immediately began to compare him with her brother, Hugh, who was to her of all men the most godlike. It never occurred to her to make any comparison between Mr. Gibson and Mr. Burgess. Her brother, Hugh, was the most godlike of men, but there was something godlike also about the newcomer. Mr. Gibson, to Dorothy's eyes, was by no means divine. I used to call you Aunt Stanbury, said Brooke Burgess to the old lady. Am I to go on doing it now? You may call me what you like, said Miss Stanbury, only, dear me, I never did see anybody so much altered. Before she went up to dress herself for dinner, Miss Stanbury was quite restored to her good humor, as Dorothy could perceive. The dinner passed off well enough. Mr. Gibson, at the head of the table, did indeed look very much out of his element, as though he conceived that his position revealed to the outer world those ideas of his in regard to Dorothy, which ought to have been secret for a while longer. There are few men who do not feel ashamed of being paraded before the world as acknowledged suitors, whereas ladies accept the position with something almost of triumph. The lady perhaps regards herself as the successful angler, whereas the gentleman is conscious of some similitude to the unsuccessful fish. Mr. Gibson, though he was not yet gasping in the basket, had some presentiment of this feeling which made his present seat of honor unpleasant to him. Brooke Burgess, at the other end of the table, was as gay as a lark. Mrs. McHugh sat on one side of him and Miss Stanbury on the other, and he laughed at the two old ladies, reminding them of his former doings in Exeter. How he had hunted Mrs. McHugh's cat, and had stolen Aunt Stanbury's best apricot jam, till everybody began to perceive that he was quite a success. Even Sir Peter Mancruity laughed at his jokes, and Mrs. Powell, from the other side of Sir Peter, stretched her head forward so that she might become one of the gay party. There isn't a word of it true, said Miss Stanbury. It's all pure invention and a great scandal.  Didn't you, though? said Brooke Burgess. I remember it as well as if it was yesterday, and old Dr. Ball the Preventory with the carbuncles on his nose saw it, too. Mr. Ball had no carbuncles on his nose, said Mrs. McHugh. You'll say next that I have carbuncles on my nose. He had three. I remember each of them quite well, and so does Sir Peter. Then everybody laughed, and Martha, who was in the room, knew that Brooke Burgess was a complete success. In the meantime Mr. Gibson was talking to Dorothy, but Dorothy was endeavouring to listen to the conversation at the other end of the table. I found it very dirty on the roads today outside the city, said Mr. Gibson. Very dirty, said Dorothy, looking round at Mr. Burgess as she spoke. But the pavement in the high street was dry enough. Quite dry, said Dorothy. Then there came a peel of laughter from Mrs. McHugh and Sir Peter, and Dorothy wondered whether anybody before had ever made those two steady old people laugh after that fashion. I should so like to get a drive with you up to the top of Halden Hill, said Mr. Gibson, when the weather gets fine, that is. Mrs. Powell was talking about it. It would be very nice, said Dorothy. You have never seen the view from Halden Hill yet, asked Mr. Gibson. But to this question Dorothy could make no answer. Miss Stanbury had lifted one of the tablespoons as though she was going to strike Mr. Brooke Burgess with the bowl of it, and this during a dinner party. From that moment Dorothy turned herself round and became one of the listeners to the fun at the other end of the table. Poor Mr. Gibson soon found himself nowhere. I never saw a man so much altered in my life, said Mrs. McHugh, up in the drawing room. I don't remember that he used to be clever. He was a bright boy, said Miss Stanbury. But the Burgesses all used to be such serious, straight-laced people, said Mrs. McHugh. Excellent people, she added, remembering the source of her friend's wealth. But none of them like that. I call him a very handsome man, said Mrs. Powell. I suppose he's not married yet. Oh, dear no, said Miss Stanbury. There's time enough for him yet. He'll find plenty here to set their caps at him, said Mrs. McHugh. He's a little old for my girls, said Mrs. Powell, laughing. Mrs. Powell was the happy mother of four daughters, of whom the eldest was only twelve. There are others who are more forward, said Mrs. McHugh. What a chance it would be for dear Arabella French. Heaven forbid, said Miss Stanbury. And then poor Mr. Gibson wouldn't be any longer like the donkey between two bundles of hay, said Mrs. Powell. Dorothy was quite determined that she would never marry a man who was like a donkey between two bundles of hay. When the gentleman came up into the drawing room, Dorothy was seated behind the urn and tea-things at a large table, in such a position as to be approached only at one side. There was one chair at her left hand, but at her right hand there was no room for a seat, only room for some civil gentleman to take away full cups and bring them back empty. Dorothy was not sufficiently ready-witted to see the danger of this position till Mr. Gibson had seated himself in the chair. Then it did seem cruel to her that she should be thus besieged for the rest of the evening as she had been also at dinner. While the tea was being consumed, Mr. Gibson assisted at the service, asking ladies whether they would have cake or bread and butter, but when all that was over Dorothy was still in her prison and Mr. Gibson was still the jailer at the gate. She soon perceived that everybody else was chatting and laughing, and that Brooke Burgess was the center of a little circle which had formed itself quite at a distance from her seat. Once, twice, thrice she meditated and escaped, but she had not the courage to make the attempt. She did not know how to manage it. She was conscious that her aunt's eye was upon her and that her aunt would expect her to listen to Mr. Gibson. At last she gave up all hope of moving and was anxious simply that Mr. Gibson should confine himself to the dirt of the paths and the noble prospect from Halden Hill. I think we shall have more rain before we are done with it, he said. Twice before during the evening he had been very eloquent about the rain. I dare say we shall, said Dorothy. And then there came the sound of loud laughter from Sir Peter, and Dorothy could see that he was poking Brooke Burgess in the ribs. There had never been anything so gay before since she had been an exitor, and now she was hemmed up in that corner away from it all by Mr. Gibson. This Mr. Burgess seems to be different from the other Burgesses, said Mr. Gibson. I think he must be very clever, said Dorothy. Well, yes, in a sort of a way. What people call a Mary Andrew.  I quite agree with you that laughter is a very good thing, in its place. I am not at all one of those who would make the world altogether grave. There are serious things, and there must be serious moments. Of course, said Dorothy. And I think that serious conversation upon the whole has more allurements than conversation, which when you come to examine it is found to mean nothing, don't you? I suppose everybody should mean something when he talks. Just so, that is exactly my idea, said Mr. Gibson, on all such subjects as that I should be so sorry if you and I did not agree. I really should." Then he paused, and Dorothy was so confounded by what she conceived to be the dangers of the coming moment that she was unable even to think what she ought to say. She heard Mrs. McHugh's clear, sharp Mary voice, and she heard her aunt's tone of pretended anger, and she heard Sir Peter's continued laughter, and Brooke Burgess as he continued the telling of some story, but her own trouble was too great to allow of her attending to what was going on at the other end of the room. There is nothing as to which I am so anxious as that you and I should agree about serious things, said Mr. Gibson. I suppose we do agree about going to church, said Dorothy. She knew that she could have made no speech more stupid, more senseless, more inefficacious, but what was she to say in answer to such an assurance? I hope so, said Mr. Gibson, and I think so. Your aunt is a most excellent woman, and her opinion has very great weight with me on all subjects, even as to matters of church discipline and doctrine, in which, as a clergyman, I am, of course, presumed to be more at home, but your aunt is a woman among a thousand. Of course I think she is very good. And she is so right about this young man and her property? Don't you think so? Quite right, Mr. Gibson.  Discontent to me, Mr. Gibson! I am quite sure your feelings are what they ought to be, and for myself, if I ever were, that is to say, supposing I could be in any way interested. But perhaps it is premature to make any suggestion on that head at present. I don't at all understand what you mean, Mr. Gibson. I thought that perhaps I might take this opportunity of expressing, but after all, the levity of the moment is hardly in accordance with the sentiments which I should wish to express. I think that I ought to go to my aunt now, Mr. Gibson, as perhaps she might want something. Then she did push back her chair, and stand upon her legs, and Mr. Gibson, after pausing for a moment, allowed her to escape. Soon after that the visitors went, and Brooke Burgess was left in the drawing-room with Miss Stanbury and Dorothy. How well I recollect all the people, said Brooke. Sir Peter and old Mrs. McHugh, and Mrs. Powell, who then used to be called the beautiful Miss Noel, and I remember every bit of furniture in the room. Nothing changed except the old woman, Brooke, said Miss Stanbury. Upon my word, you are the least changed of all, except that you don't seem to be so terrible as you were then. Was I very terrible, Brooke? My mother had told me, I fancy, that I was never to make a noise, and be sure not to break any of the china. You were always very good-natured, and when you gave me a silver watch I could hardly believe the extent of my own bliss. You wouldn't care about a watch from an old woman now, Brooke. You try me. But what rakes you are here? It's past eleven o'clock, and I must go and have a smoke. Have a what? said Miss Stanbury, with a startled air. A smoke. You needn't be frightened. I don't mean in the house. No, I hope you don't mean that. But I may take a turn round the close with a pipe, may I? I suppose all young men do smoke now, said Miss Stanbury sorrowfully. Every one of them, and they tell me that the young women mean to take to it before long. If I saw a young woman smoking I should blush for my sex, and though she were the nearest and dearest that I had I would never speak to her, never. Dorothy, I don't think Mr. Gibson smokes. I'm sure I don't know, Aunt. I hope he doesn't. I do hope that he does not. I cannot understand what pleasure it is that men take in making chimneys of themselves and going about smelling so that no one can bear to come near them. Brooke merely laughed at this, and went his way, and smoked his pipe out in the close, while Martha sat up to let him in when he had finished it. Then Dorothy escaped at once to her room, fearful of being questioned by her aunt about Mr. Gibson. She had, she thought now, quite made up her mind. There was nothing in Mr. Gibson that she liked. She was by no means so sure as she had been when she was talking to her sister that she would prefer a clergyman to anyone else. She had formed no strong ideas on the subject of love-making, but she did think that any man who really cared for her would find some other way of expressing his love than that which Mr. Gibson had adopted. And then Mr. Gibson had spoken to her about her aunt's money in a way that was distasteful to her. She thought that she was quite sure that if he should ask her she would not accept him. She was nearly undressed, nearly safe for the night, when there came a knock at the door, and her aunt entered the room. "'He has come in,' said Miss. Stanbury. I suppose he has had his pipe then. I wish he didn't smoke. I do wish he didn't smoke, but I suppose an old woman like me is only making herself a fool to care about such things. If they all do it I can't prevent them. He seems to be a very nice young man, in other things. Does he not, Dolly?' "'Very nice indeed, Aunt. Stanbury. And he has done very well in his office, and as for his saying that he must smoke, I like that a great deal better than doing it on the sly.' "'I don't think Mr. Burgess would do anything on the sly, Aunt. No, no, I don't think he would. Dear me, he's not at all like what I fancied. Everybody seemed to like him very much. Didn't they? I never saw Sir Peter so much taken, and there was quite a flirtation between him and Mrs. McHugh. And now, my dear, tell me about Mr. Gibson.' "'There is nothing to tell Aunt Stanbury.' "'Isn't there? From what I saw going on I thought that there would be something to tell. He was talking to you the whole evening.' "'As it happened he was sitting next to me, of course. Indeed he was sitting next to you, so much so that I thought everything would be settled.  Tell me what, what is it you have to tell me?' "'I don't think I shall ever care for Mr. Gibson, not in that way.' "'Why not, Dorothy? I'm sure he doesn't care for me. And I don't think he means it.' "'I tell you he does mean it. Mean it? Why I tell you it has all been settled between us. Since I first spoke to you, I have explained to him exactly what I intend to do. He knows that he can give up his house and come and live here. I am sure he must have said something about it to you tonight.' "'Not a word, Aunt Stanbury.' "'Then he will. "'Dear Aunt, I do so wish you would prevent it. I don't like him. I don't indeed.' "'Not like him?' "'No. I don't care for him a bit, and I never shall. I can't help it, Aunt Stanbury. I thought I would try, but I find it would be impossible. You can't want me to marry a man if I don't love him. I never heard of such a thing in my life, not love him. And why shouldn't you love him? He's a gentleman. Everybody respects him.  And then why didn't you tell me before?' "'I didn't know, Aunt Stanbury. I thought that perhaps—perhaps what?' "'I could not say all at once that I didn't care for him when I had never so much as thought about it for a moment before.' "'You haven't told him this?' "'No, I have not told him. I couldn't begin by telling him, you know.' "'Then I must pray that you will think about it again. Have you imagined what a great thing for you it would be, to be established for life, so that you should never have any more trouble again about a home or about money or anything? Don't answer me now, Dorothy, but think of it. It seemed to me that I was doing such an excellent thing for both of you.' So saying Miss Stanbury left the room, and Dorothy was unable to obey her at any rate in one matter. She did think of it. She laid awake thinking of it almost all the night. But the more she thought of it, the less able was she to realise to herself any future comfort or happiness in the idea of becoming Mrs. Gibson. End of CHAPTER XXXI. CHAPTER 32. The Full Moon at St. Diddalf's. The receipt of Mrs. Trevelyan's letter on that Monday morning was a great surprise both to Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse. There was no time for any consideration, no opportunity for delaying their arrival till they should have again referred the matter to Mr. Trevelyan. Their two nieces were to be with them on that evening, and even the telegraph wires, if employed with such purpose, would not be quick enough to stop their coming. The party as they knew would have left Nuncomputny before the arrival of the letter at the parsonage of St. Diddalf's. There would have been nothing in this to have caused vexation, had it not been decided between Trevelyan and Mr. Outhouse, that Mrs. Trevelyan was not to find a home at the parsonage. Mr. Outhouse was greatly afraid of being so entangled in the matter as to be driven to take the part of the wife against the husband, and Mrs. Outhouse, though she was full of indignation against Trevelyan, was at the same time not free from anger in regard to her own niece. She more than once repeated that most unjust of all proverbs, which declares that there is never smoke without fire, and asserted broadly that she did not like to be with people who could not live at home, husbands with wives and wives with husbands, in a decent, respectable manner. Nevertheless, the preparations went on busily, and when the party arrived at seven o'clock in the evening, two rooms had been prepared close to each other, one for the two sisters, and the other for the child and nurse, although poor Mr. Outhouse himself was turned out of his own little chamber in order that the accommodation might be given. They were all very hot, very tired, and very dusty when the cab reached the parsonage. There had been the preliminary drive from Nuncomputny to Lesborough, then the railway journey from thence to the Waterloo Bridge station had been long, and it had seemed to them that the distance from the station to St. Diddalf's had been endless. When the cab man was told whither he was to go, he looked doubtingly at his poor old horse, and then at the luggage which he was required to pack on the top of his cab, and laid himself out for his work with a full understanding that it would not be accomplished without considerable difficulty. The cab man made it twelve miles from Waterloo Bridge to St. Diddalf's, and suggested that extra passengers and parcels would make the fare up to ten and six. Had he named double as much, Mrs. Trevelyan would have assented. So great was the fatigue, and so wretched the occasion, that there was sobbing and crying in the cab, and when at last the parsonage was reached, even the nurse was hardly able to turn her hand to anything. The poor wanderers were made welcome on that evening without a word of discussion as to the cause of their coming. I hope you are not angry with us, Uncle Olafant, Emily Trevelyan had said, with tears in her eyes, Angry with you, my dear, for coming to our house. How could I be angry with you? Then the travellers were hurried upstairs by Mrs. Outhouse, and the master of the parsonage was left alone for a while. He certainly was not angry, but he was ill at ease, and unhappy. His guests would probably remain with him for six or seven months. He had resolutely refused all payment from Mr. Trevelyan, but nevertheless he was a poor man. It is impossible to conceive that a clergyman in such a parish at St. Diddolf's, without a private income, should not be a poor man. It was but a hand-to-mouth existence which he lived, paying his way as his money came to him, and sharing the proceeds of his parish with the poor. He was always more or less in debt. That was quite understood among the tradesmen. And the butcher who trusted him, though he was a bad churchman, did not look upon the parson's account as he did on other debts. He would often hint to Mr. Outhouse that a little money ought to be paid, and then a little money would be paid, but it was never expected that the parsonage bill should be settled. In such a household the arrival of four guests, who were expected to remain for an almost indefinite number of months, could not be regarded without dismay. On that first evening Emily and Nora did come down to tea, but they went up again to their rooms almost immediately afterwards, and Mr. Outhouse found that many hours of solitary meditation were allowed to him on the occasion. I suppose your brother has been told all about it, he said to his wife, as soon as they were together on that evening. Yes, he has been told. She did not write to her mother till after she had got to Nuncomputny. She did not like to speak about her troubles, while there was a hope that things might be made smooth. You can't blame her for that, my dear. But there was a month lost, or nearly, letters go only once a month, and now they can't hear from Armaduke or Bessie—Lady Rowley's name was Bessie—till the beginning of September. That will be in a fortnight. But what can my brother say to them? He will suppose that they are still down in Devonshire. You don't think he will come at once? How can he, my dear? He can't come without leave, and the expense would be ruinous. They would stop his pay, and there would be all manner of evils.  The parson of St. Diddalf's side and groaned, would it not have been almost better that he should have put his pride in his pocket, and have consented to take Mr. Trevelyan's money? On the second morning Hugh Stanbury called it the parsonage, and was closeted for a while with the parson. Nora had heard his voice in the passage, and everyone in the house knew who it was that was talking to Mr. Outhouse, in the little back parlor that was called a study.  Would he ask to see them? To see her? And why was he there so long? No doubt he has brought a message from Mr. Trevelyan, said her sister. I dare say he will send word that I ought not to have come to my uncle's house. Then at last both Mr. Outhouse and Hugh Stanbury came into the room in which they were all sitting. The greetings were cold and unsatisfactory, and Nora barely allowed Hugh to touch the tip of her fingers. She was very angry with him, and yet she knew that her anger was altogether unreasonable. That he had caused her to refuse a marriage that had so much to attract her was not his sin—not that—but that having thus overpowered her by his influence he should then have stopped. And yet Nora had told herself twenty times that it was quite impossible that she should become Hugh Stanbury's wife, and that were Hugh Stanbury to ask her, it would become her to be indignant with him for daring to make a proposition so outrageous. And now she was sick at heart because he did not speak to her. He had of course come to St. Diddles with a message from Trevelyan, and his secret was soon told to them all. Trevelyan himself was upstairs in the sanded parlor of the full moon public house round the corner. Mrs. Trevelyan, when she heard this, clasped her hands and bit her lips. What was he there for? If he wanted to see her, why did he not come boldly to the parsonage? But it soon appeared that he had no desire to see his wife. I am to take Louis to him, said Hugh Stanbury, if you will allow me. What! To be taken away from me! exclaimed the mother. But Hugh assured her that no such idea had been formed, that he would have concerned himself in no such stratagem, and that he would himself undertake to bring the boy back again within an hour. Emily was, of course, anxious to be informed what other message was to be conveyed to her, but there was no other message, no message either of love or of instruction. Mr. Stanbury, said the parson, has left something in my hands for you. This something was given over to her as soon as Stanbury had left the house, and consisted of checks for various small sums, amounting an all to two hundred pounds. And he hasn't said what I am to do with it, Emily asked of her uncle. Mr. Out has declared that the checks had been given to him without any instructions on that head. Mr. Travellian had simply expressed his satisfaction that his wife should be with her uncle and aunt, had sent the money, and had desired to see the child. The boy was got ready, and Hugh walked with him in his arms round the corner to the full moon. He had to pass by the bar, and the barmaid and the pot boy looked at him very hard. There's a young woman has to do with that here little game, said the pot boy, and it's two to one the young woman has the worst of it, said the barmaid. They mostly does, said the pot boy, not without some feeling of pride in the immunities of his sex. Here he is, said Hugh, as he entered the parlor. My boy, there's Papa.  She would talk of her separation from her husband as though it must be permanent. She would declare to her sister how impossible it was that they should ever again live together. She would repeat to herself over and over the tale of the injustice that had been done to her, assuring herself that it was out of the question that she should ever pardon the man. But yet, at the bottom of her heart, there was a hope that the quarrel should be healed before her boy would be old enough to understand the nature of quarreling. Travalion took the child on his knee and kissed him, but the poor little fellow, startled by his transference from one male set of arms to another, confused by the strangeness of the room and by the absence of things familiar to his sight, burst out into loud tears. He had stood the journey round the corner in Hugh's arms manfully, and though he had looked about him with very serious eyes as he passed through the bar, he had borne that and his carriage up the stairs. But when he was transferred to his father, whose heir, as he took the boy, was melancholy and legubrious in the extreme, the poor little fellow could endure no longer a mode of treatment so unusual, and with a grimace which for a moment or two threatened the coming storm, burst out with an infantine howl. That's how he has been taught, said Travalion. Nonsense, said Standbury. He's not been taught at all. It's nature. Nature, that he should be afraid of his own father. He did not cry when he was with you. No, as it happened he did not. I played with him when I was at Nuncombe, but of course one can't tell when a child will cry and when it won't.  It was now nearly two months since he had seen his father, and when age is counted by months only almost everything may be forgotten in six weeks. I suppose you must take him back again, said Travalion sadly. Of course I must take him back again. Come along, Louis, my boy. It is cruel, very cruel, said Travalion. No man living could love his child better than I love mine, or for the matter of that his wife. It is very cruel. The remedy is in your own hands, Travalion, said Standbury, as he marched off with the boy in his arms. Travalion had now become so accustomed to being told by everybody that he was wrong and was at the same time so convinced that he was right that he regarded the perversity of his friends as a part of the persecution to which he was subjected. Even Lady Milborough, who objected to Colonel Osborne quite as strongly as did Travalion himself, even she blamed him now, telling him that he had done wrong to separate himself from his wife. Mr. Bidowile, the old family lawyer, was of the same opinion. Travalion had spoken to Mr. Bidowile as to the expediency of making some lasting arrangement for a permanent maintenance for his wife, but the attorney had told him that nothing of the kind could be held to be lasting. It was clearly the husband's duty to look forward to a reconciliation, and Mr. Bidowile became quite severe in the tone of rebuke which he assumed. Standbury treated him almost as though he were a madman, and as for his wife herself, when she wrote to him she would not even pretend to express any feeling of affection, and yet as he thought, no man had ever done more for a wife. When Standbury had gone with the child, he sat waiting for him in the parlor of the public house, as miserable a man as one could find. He had promised himself something that should be akin to pleasure in seeing his boy, but it had been all disappointment and pain. What was it that they expected him to do? What was it that they desired? His wife had behaved with such indiscretion as almost to have compromised his honor, and in return for that he was to beg her pardon, confess himself to have done wrong, and allow her to return in triumph. That was the light in which she regarded his own position, but he promised to himself that let his own misery be what it might, he would never so degrade him. The only person who had been true to him was Boswell. Let them all look to it. If there were any further intercourse between his wife and Colonel Osborn, he would take the matter into open court, and put her away publicly, let Mr. Bydwell say what he might. Boswell should see to that, and as to himself, he would take himself out of England and hide himself abroad. Boswell should know his address, but he would give it to no one else. Nothing on earth should make him yield to a woman who had ill-treated him. Nothing but confession and promise of amendment on her part. If she would acknowledge and promise, then he would forgive all, and the events of the last four months should never again be mentioned by him. So resolving he sat and waited till Stanbury should return to him. When Stanbury got back to the parsonage with the boy, he had nothing to do but to take his leave. He would fain have asked permission to come again, could he have invented any reason for doing so? But the child was taken from him at once by its mother, and he was left alone with Mr. Outhouse. Nora Rowley did not even show herself, and he hardly knew how to express sympathy and friendship for the guests of the parsonage without seeming to be untrue to his friend Trevalion. I hope all this may come to an end soon, he said. I hope it may, Mr. Stanbury, said the clergyman, but to tell you the truth it seems to me that Mr. Trevalion is so unreasonable a man, so much like a madman indeed, that I hardly know how to look forward to any future happiness for my niece. This was spoken with the utmost severity that Mr. Outhouse could assume. And yet no man loves his wife more tenderly. Tender love should show itself by tender conduct, Mr. Stanbury. What has he done to his wife? He has blackened her name among all his friends and hers, he has turned her out of her house, he has reviled her, and then thinks to prove how good he is by sending her money. The only possible excuse is that he must be mad. Stanbury went back to the full moon, and retraced his steps with his friend towards Lincoln's Inn. Two minutes took him from the parsonage to the public house, but during these two minutes he resolved that he would speak his mind roundly to Trevalion as they returned home. Trevalion should either take his wife back again at once, or else he, Stanbury, would have no more to do with him. He said nothing till they had threaded together the maze of streets which led them from the neighborhood of the church of St. Diddalf's into the straight way of the commercial road. Then he began. Trevalion, said he, you are wrong in all this from beginning to end. What do you mean? Just what I say. If there was anything in what your wife did to offend you, a soft word from you would have put it all right. A soft word? How do you know what soft words I used? A soft word now would do it. You have only to bid her come back to you, and let bygones be bygones and all would be right.  Stanbury, I believe you want to quarrel with me. I tell you fairly that I think that you are wrong. They have talked you over to their side. I know nothing about sides. I only know that you are wrong. And what would you have me do? Go and travel together for six months. Here was Lady Milborough's receipt again. Travel together for a year, if you will. Then come back and live where you please. People will have forgotten it, or if they remember what matters, no sane person can advise you to go on as you are doing now. But it was of no avail. Before they had reached the bank the two friends had quarreled and had parted. Then Trevelian felt that there was indeed no one left to him but Basel. On the following morning he saw Basel, and on the evening of the next day he was in Paris. Trevelian was gone, and Basel alone knew his address. During the first fortnight of her residence at St. Diddalf's, Mrs. Trevelian received two letters from Lady Milborough, in both of which she was recommended, indeed tenderly implored to be submissive to her husband. Anything, said Lady Milborough, is better than separation. In answer to the second letter, Mrs. Trevelian told the old lady that she had no means by which she could show any submission to her husband, even if she were so minded. Her husband had gone away, she did not know wither, and she had no means by which she could communicate with him. And then came a packet to her from her father and mother, dispatched from the islands after the receipt by Lady Rowley of the melancholy tidings of the journey to Nuncamputney. Both Sir Marmaduke and Lady Rowley were full of anger against Trevelian, and wrote as though the husband could certainly be brought back to a sense of his duty, if they only were present. This packet had been at Nuncamputney, and contained a sealed note from Sir Marmaduke addressed to Mr. Trevelian. Lady Rowley explained that it was impossible that they should get to England earlier than in the spring. I would come myself at once and leave Papa to follow, said Lady Rowley, only for the children. If I were to bring them I must take a house for them, and the expense would ruin us. Papa has written to Mr. Trevelian in a way that he thinks will bring him to reason. But how was this letter by which the husband was to be brought to reason to be put into the husband's hands? Mrs. Trevelian applied to Mr. Bidowile and to Lady Milbora and to Stanbury for Trevelian's address, but was told by each of them that nothing was known of his whereabouts. She did not apply to Mr. Boswell, although Mr. Boswell was more than once in her neighborhood, but as yet she knew nothing of Mr. Boswell. The replies from Mr. Bidowile and from Lady Milbora came by the post, but Hugh Stanbury thought that duty required him to make another journey to St. Diddalf's and carry his own answer with him. And on this occasion fortune was either very kind to him or very unkind, whichever it was he found himself alone for a few seconds in the Parsonage Parlor with Nora Rowley. Mr. Outhouse was away at the time. Emily had gone upstairs for the boy, and Mrs. Outhouse, suspecting nothing, had followed her. Miss Rowley said he, getting up from his seat, if you think it will do any good I will follow Trevelian till I find him. How can you find him? Besides, why should you give up your own business? I would do anything, to serve your sister, this he said with hesitation in his voice, as though he did not dare to speak all that he desired to have spoken. I am sure that Emily is very grateful, said Nora, but she would not wish to give you such trouble as that. I would do anything for your sister, he repeated. For your sake, Miss Rowley. This was the first time that he had ever spoken a word to her in such a strain, and it would be hardly too much to say that her heart was sick for some such expression. But now that it had come, though there was a sweetness about it that was delicious to her, she was absolutely silenced by it, and she was at once not only silent, but stern, rigid, and apparently cold. Stanbury could not but feel as he looked at her that he had offended her. Perhaps I ought not to say as much, said he, but it is so. Mr. Stanbury, said she, that is nonsense. It is of my sister, not of me that we are speaking. Then the door was opened and Emily came in with her child, followed by her aunt. There was no other opportunity, and perhaps it was well for Nora and for Hugh, that there should have been no other. Enough had been said to give her comfort, and more might have led to his discomposure. As to that matter on which she was presumed to have come to St. Diddalf's, he could do nothing. He did not know Trevelyan's address, but did know that Trevelyan had abandoned the chambers in Lincoln's Inn. And then he found himself compelled to confess that he had quarreled with Trevelyan, and that they had parted in anger on the day of their joint visit to the East. Everybody who knows him must quarrel with him, said Mrs. Outhouse. Hugh, when he took his leave, was treated by them all as a friend who had been gained. Mrs. Outhouse was gracious to him. Mrs. Trevelyan whispered a word to him of her own trouble. If I can hear anything of him, you may be sure that I will let you know, he said. Then it was Nora's turn to bid him adieu. There was nothing to be said. No word could be spoken before others that should be of any avail. But as he took her hand in his, he remembered the reticence of her fingers on that former day, and thought that he was sure there was a difference. On this occasion he made his journey back to the end of Chancey Lane on the top of an omnibus, and as he lit his little pipe, disregarding altogether the scrutiny of the public, thoughts passed through his mind similar to those in which he had indulged as he sat smoking on the corner of the churchyard wall at Nuncomputney. He declared to himself that he did love this girl, and as it was so would it not be better, at any rate more manly, that he should tell her so honestly, then go on groping about with half-expressed words when he saw her, thinking of her, and yet hardly daring to go near her, bidding himself to forget her, although he knew that such forgetting was impossible, hankering after the sound of her voice and the touch of her hand, and something of the tenderness of returned affection, and yet regarding her as a prize altogether out of his reach. Why should she be out of his reach? She had no money, and he had not a couple of hundred pounds in the world. But he was earning an income which would give them both shelter and clothes and bread and cheese. What reader is there, male or female, of such stories as is this, who has not often discussed in his or her own mind the different sides of this question of love and marriage? On either side enough may be said by any arguer to convince at any rate himself. It must be wrong for a man, whose income is both insufficient and precarious also, not only to double his own cares and burdens, but to place the weight of that doubled burden on other shoulders besides his own, on shoulders that are tender and soft, and ill-adapted to the carriage of any crushing weight. And then that doubled burden, that burden of two mouths to be fed, of two backs to be covered, of two minds to be satisfied, is so apt to double itself again and again, the two so speedily become four and six, and then there is the feeling that that kind of semi-poverty, which has in itself something of the pleasantness of independence when it is borne by a man alone, entails the miseries of a dragletailed and querulous existence when it is imposed on a woman who has in her own home enjoyed the comforts of affluence. As a man thinks of all this, if he chooses to argue with himself on that side, there is enough in the argument to make him feel that not only as a wise man, but as an honest man, he had better let the young lady alone. She is well as she is, and he sees around him so many who have tried the chances of marriage and who are not well.  Jones, who is not yet thirty, of whom he happens to know that the wretched man cannot look his doctor in the face, and that the doctor is as necessary to the man's house as is the butcher. What heart can Jones have for his work with such a burden as this upon his shoulders, and so the thinker, who argues on that side, resolves that the young lady shall go her own way for him. But the arguments on the other side are equally cogent and so much more alluring, and they are used by the same man with reference to the same passion, and are intended by him to put himself right in his conduct in reference to the same dear girl. Only the former line of thoughts occurred to him on a Saturday, when he was ending his week rather gloomily, and this other way of thinking on the same subject has come upon him on a Monday, as he is beginning his week with renewed hope. Does this young girl of his heart love him? And if so, their affection for each other being thus reciprocal, is she not entitled to an expression of her opinion and her wishes on this difficult subject? And if she be willing to run the risk and to encounter the dangers, to do so on his behalf because she is willing to share everything with him, is it becoming in him a man to fear what she does not fear? If she be not willing let her say so, if there be any speaking he must speak first, but she is entitled as much as he is to her own ideas respecting their great outlook into the affairs of the world. And then is it not manifestly God's ordinance that a man should live together with a woman? How poor a creature does the man become who has shirked his duty in this respect? Who has done nothing to keep the world going, who has been willing to ignore all affection so that he might avoid all burdens and to has put into his own belly every good thing that has come to him, either by the earning of his own hands or from the bounty and industry of others? Of course there is a risk, but what excitement is there in anything in which there is none? So on the Tuesday he speaks his mind to the young lady and tells her candidly that there will be potatoes for the two of them, sufficient as he hopes of potatoes, but no more. As a matter of course the young lady replies that she for her part will be quite content to take the pairings for her own eating. Then they rush deliciously into each other's arms and the matter is settled. For though the convictions arising from the former line of argument may be set aside as often as need be, those reached from the latter are generally conclusive. That such a settlement will always be better for the young gentleman and the young lady concerned than one founded on a sterner prudence is more than one may dare to say, but we do feel sure that the country will be most prosperous in which such leaps in the dark are made with the greatest freedom. Our friend Hugh, as he sat smoking on the knife-board of the omnibus, determined that he would risk everything. If it were ordained that prudence should prevail, the prudence should be hers, why should he take upon himself to have prudence enough for two, seeing that she was so very discreet in all her bearings? Then he remembered the touch of her hand, which he still felt upon his palm as he sat handling his pipe, and he told himself that after that he was bound to say a word more. And more over he confessed to himself that he was compelled by a feeling that mastered him altogether. He could not get through an hour's work without throwing down his pen and thinking of Nora Rowley. It was his destiny to love her.  It might well be that she should rebuke him, but he thought that he could bear that. It might well be that he had altogether mistaken that touch of her hand. After all, it had been the slightest possible motion of no more than one finger. But he would at any rate know the truth. If she would tell him at once that she did not care for him, he thought that he could get over it. But life was not worth having while he lived in this shifty, dubious, and uncomfortable state. So he made up his mind that he would go to St. Diddolph's with his heart in his hand. In the meantime, Mr. Basel had been twice to St. Diddolph's, and now he made a third journey there, two days after Stanbury's visit. Trevelyan, who, in truth, hated the sight of the man, and who suffered agonies in his presence, had nevertheless taught himself to believe that he could not live without his assistance. That it should be so was a part of the cruelty of his lot, who else was there that he could trust. His wife had renewed her intimacy with Colonel Osbourne the moment that she had left him. Mrs. Stanbury, who had been represented to him as the most correct of matrons, had at once been false to him and to her trust in allowing Colonel Osbourne to enter her house. Mr. and Mrs. Outhouse, with whom his wife had now located herself, not by his orders, were of course his enemies. His old friend, Hugh Stanbury, had gone over to the other side and had quarreled with him purposely, with malice pre-pence, because he would not submit himself to the caprices of the wife who had injured him.  Who was then left to him but Basel? Basel was very disagreeable. Basel said things and made suggestions to him which were as bad as pins stuck into his flesh, but Basel was true to his employer and could find out facts. Had it not been for Basel, he would have known nothing of the Colonel's journey to Devonshire. Had it not been for Basel, he would never have heard of the correspondence, and therefore when he left London he gave Basel a roving commission, and when he went to Paris and from Paris onwards over the Alps into Italy he furnished Basel with his address. At this time, in the midst of all his misery, it never occurred to him to inquire of himself whether it might be possible that his old friends were right and that he himself was wrong. From morning to night he sang to himself melancholy silent songs of inward wailing as to the cruelty of his own lot in life, and in the meantime he employed Basel to find out for him how far that cruelty was carried. Mr. Basel was, of course, convinced that the lady whom he was employed to watch was no better than she ought to be. That is the usual Baselian language for broken vows, secrecy, intrigue, dirt, and adultery. It was his business to obtain evidence of her guilt. There was no question to be solved as to her innocence. The Baselian mind would have regarded any such suggestion as the product of a green softness, the possession of which would have made him quite unfit for his profession. He was aware that ladies who are no better than they should be are often very clever. So clever as to make it necessary that the Basels who shall at last confound them should be first rate Basels, Basels quite at the top of their profession, and therefore he went about his work with great industry and much caution. Colonel Osborn was at the present moment in Scotland. Basel was sure of that. He was quite in the north of Scotland. Basel had examined his map and had found that Wick, which was the Colonel's post-town, was very far north indeed. He had half a mind to run down to Wick, as he was possessed by a certain honest zeal which made him long to do something hard and laborious. But his experience told him that it was very easy for the Colonel to come up to the neighbourhood of St. Diddalf's, whereas the lady could not go down to Wick, unless she were to decide upon throwing herself into her lover's arms, whereby Basel's work would be brought to an end. He therefore confined his immediate operations to St. Diddalf's. He made acquaintance with one or two important persons in and about Mr. Outhouse's parsonage. He became very familiar with the postman. He arranged terms of intimacy, I am sorry to say, with the housemaid, and on the third journey he made an alliance with the Potboy at the Full Moon. The Potboy remembered well the fact of the child being brought to our house, as he called the Full Moon, and he was enabled to say that the same gent as his brought the boy backwards and forwards had since that been at the parsonage, but Basel was quite quick enough to perceive that all this had nothing to do with the Colonel. He was led, indeed, to fear that his governor, as he was in the habit of calling Trevelyan in his half-spoken soliloquies, that his governor was not as true to him as he was to his governor. What business had that meddling fellow St. Diddalf's? For Trevelyan had not thought it necessary to tell his satellite that he had quarreled with his friend. Basel was grieved in his mind when he learned that St. Diddalf's interference was still to be dreaded, and wrote to his governor, rather severely, to that effect. But when so writing he was able to give no further information, facts in such cases will not unravel themselves without much patience on the part of the investigators. End of Chapter 33 Recording by Ariel Lipschaw in New York City Chapter 34 of He Knew He Was Right This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Ariel Lipschaw He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollop Chapter 34 Priscilla's Wisdom On the night after the dinner party in the close, Dorothy was not the only person in the house who laid awake thinking of what had taken place. Miss Standbury also was full of anxiety, and for hour after hour could not sleep as she remembered the fruitlessness of her efforts on behalf of her nephew and niece. It had never occurred to her when she had first proposed to herself that Dorothy should become Mrs. Gibson, that Dorothy herself would have any objection to such a step in life. Her fear had been that Dorothy would have become over-radiant with triumph at the idea of having a husband, and going to that husband with a fortune of her own. That Mr. Gibson might hesitate she had thought very likely. It is thus in general that women regard the feelings, desires, and aspirations of other women. You will hardly ever meet an elderly lady who will not speak of her juniors as living in a state of breathless anxiety to catch husbands. And the elder lady will speak of the younger as though any kind of choice in such catching was quite disregarded. The man must be a gentleman, or at least gentleman-like, and there must be bread. Let these things be given and what girl won't jump into what man's arms. Female reader, is it not thus that the elders of your sex speak of the younger? When old Mrs. Stanbury heard that Nora Rowley had refused Mr. Glasscock, the thing was to her unintelligible, and it was now quite unintelligible to Ms. Stanbury that Dorothy should prefer a single life to matrimony with Mr. Gibson. It must be acknowledged on Aunt Stanbury's behalf that Dorothy was one of those yielding, hesitating, submissive young women, trusting others but doubting ever of themselves as to whom it is natural that their stronger friends should find it expedient to decide for them. Ms. Stanbury was almost justified in thinking that unless she were to find a husband for her niece, her niece would never find one for herself. Dorothy would drift into being an old maid like Priscilla, simply because she would never assert herself, never put her best foot foremost. Aunt Stanbury had therefore taken upon herself to put out a foot, and having carefully found that Mr. Gibson was willing, had conceived that all difficulties were over. She would be enabled to do her duty by her niece, and establish comfortably in life at any rate one of her brother's children. And now Dorothy was taking upon herself to say that she did not like the gentleman. Such conduct was almost equal to writing for a penny newspaper. On the following morning after breakfast, when Brooke Burgess was gone out to call upon his uncle, which he insisted upon doing openly and not under the rose, in spite of Ms. Stanbury's great gravity on the occasion, there was a very serious conversation, and poor Dorothy had found herself to be almost silenced. She did argue for a time, but her argument seemed, even to herself, to amount to so little. Why shouldn't she love Mr. Gibson? That was a question which she found it impossible to answer. And though she did not actually yield, though she did not say that she would accept the man, still when she was told that three days were to be allowed to her for consideration, and that then the offer would be made to her in form, she felt that, as regarded the anti-Gibson interest, she had not a leg to stand upon. Why should not such an insignificant creature, as was she, love Mr. Gibson, or any other man who had bred to give her, and was in some degree like a gentleman? On that night she wrote the following letter to her sister. The Close Tuesday Dearest Priscilla, I do so wish that you could be with me, so that I could talk to you again. Aunt Stanbury is the most affectionate and kindest friend in the world, but she has always been so able to have her own way, because she is both clever and good, that I find myself almost like a baby with her. She has been talking to me again about Mr. Gibson, and it seems that Mr. Gibson really does mean it. It is certainly very strange, but I do think now that it is true. He is to come on Friday. It seems very odd that it should all be settled for him in that way, but then Aunt Stanbury is so clever at settling things. He sat next to me almost all the evening yesterday, but he didn't say anything about it, except that he hoped I agreed with him about going to church and all that. I suppose I do, and I am quite sure that if I were to be a clergyman's wife I should endeavour to do whatever my husband thought right about religion, why not to try to do so, even if the clergyman is not one's husband. Mr. Burgess has come, and he was so very amusing all the evening that perhaps that was the reason Mr. Gibson said so little. Mr. Burgess is a very nice man, and I think Aunt Stanbury is more fond of him than of anybody. He is not at all the sort of person that I expected. But if Mr. Gibson does come on Friday, and does really mean it, what am I to say to him? Aunt Stanbury will be very angry if I do not take her advice. I am quite sure that she intends it all for my happiness, and then of course she knows so much more about the world than I do. She asks me what it is that I expect. Of course I do not expect anything. It is a great compliment for Mr. Gibson, who is a clergyman, and thought well of by everybody, and nothing could be more respectable. Aunt Stanbury says that with the money she would give us we should be quite comfortable, and she wants us to live in this house. She says that there are thirty girls around Exeter who would give their eyes for such a chance, and looking at it in that light, of course, it is a very great thing for me. Only think how poor we have been. And then, dear Priscilla, perhaps he would let me be good to you, and dear Mama. But of course he will ask me whether I love him, and what am I to say? Aunt Stanbury says that I am to love him. Begin to love him at once, she said this morning. I would, if I could, partly for her sake, and because I do feel that it would be so respectable. When I think of it, it does seem such a pity that poor I should throw away such a chance. And I must say that Mr. Gibson is very good and most obliging, and everybody says that he has an excellent temper, and that he is a most prudent, well-dispositioned man. I declare, dear Priscilla, when I think of it, I cannot bring myself to believe that such a man should want me to be his wife. But what ought I to do? I suppose when a girl is in love, she is very unhappy if the gentleman does not propose to her. I am sure it would not make me at all unhappy if I were told that Mr. Gibson had changed his mind. Dearest Priscilla, you must write it once, because he is to be here on Friday. Oh, dear, Friday does seem to be so near, and I shall never know what to say to him, either one way or the other. Your most affectionate sister, Dorothy Stanbury. PS. Give my kindest love to Mamma, but you need not tell her unless you think it best. Priscilla received this letter on the Wednesday morning, and felt herself bound to answer it on that same afternoon. Had she postponed her reply for a day, it would still have been in Dorothy's hands before Mr. Gibson could have come to her on the dreaded Friday morning. But still, that would hardly give her time enough to consider the matter with any degree of deliberation, after she should have been armed with what wisdom Priscilla might be able to send her. The post left noncomputny at three, and therefore the letter had to be written before their early dinner. So Priscilla went into the garden and sat herself down under an old cedar that she might discuss the matter with herself in all its bearings. She felt that no woman could be called upon to write a letter that should be of more importance. The whole welfare in life of the person who was dearest to her would probably depend upon it. The weight upon her was so great that she thought for a while she would take counsel with her mother, but she felt sure that her mother would recommend the marriage, and that if she afterwards should find herself bound to oppose it, then her mother would be a miserable woman. There could be no use to her in taking counsel with her mother, because her mother's mind was known to her beforehand. The responsibility was thrown upon her, and she alone must bear it. She tried hard to persuade herself to write at once and tell her sister to marry the man. She knew her sister's heart so well as to be sure that Dorothy would learn to love the man who was her husband. It was almost impossible that Dorothy should not love those with whom she lived.  Her temper was so sweet. She was so pure, so unselfish, so devoted, and so healthy with all. She was so happy when she was acting for others and so excellent in action when she had another one to think for her. She was so trusting and trustworthy that any husband would adore her. Then Priscilla walked slowly into the house, got her prayer book, and returning to her seat under the tree read the marriage service. It was one o'clock when she went upstairs to write her letter, and it had not yet struck eleven when she first seated herself beneath the tree. Her letter, when written, was as follows. Nuncomputny, August twenty-fifth, eighteen sixty blank. Dear as Dorothy, I got your letter this morning, and I think it is better to answer it at once, as the time is very short. I have been thinking about it with all my mind, and I feel almost awestruck unless I should advise you wrongly. After all, I believe that your own dear sweet truth and honesty would guide you better than anybody else can guide you. You may be sure of this, that whichever way it is, I shall think that you have done right. Dearest sister, I suppose there can be no doubt that for most women a married life is happier than a single one. It is always thought so, as we may see by the anxiety of others to get married. And when an opinion becomes general, I think that the world is most often right. And then, my own one, I feel sure that you are adapted both for the cares and for the joys of married life. You would do your duty as a married woman happily, and would be a comfort to your husband, not a thorn in his side as are so many women. But, my pet, do not let that reasoning advance standberries about the thirty young girls who would give their eyes for Mr. Gibson have any weight with you. You should not take him because thirty other young girls would be glad to have him, and do not think too much of that respectability of which you speak. I would never advise my dolly to marry any man unless she could be respectable in her new position, but that alone should go for nothing. Nor should our poverty, we shall not starve, and even if we did that would be but a poor excuse. I can find no escape from this, that you should love him before you say that you will take him. But honest, loyal love need not, I take it, be of that romantic kind which people write about in novels and poetry. You need not think him to be perfect, or the best or grandest of men. Your heart will tell you whether he is dear to you, and remember dolly, that I shall remember that love itself must begin at some precise time, though you had not learned to love him when you wrote on Tuesday you may have begun to do so when you get this on Thursday. If you find that you love him then say that you will be his wife. If your heart revolts from such a declaration as being false, if you cannot bring yourself to feel that you prefer him to others as the partner of your life, then tell him with thanks for his courtesy that it cannot be as he would have it. Yours always and ever most affectionately. Priscilla.  There's nothing she likes so much as taking someone up in order that she may throw him over afterwards. It was thus that Mr. Bartholomew Burgess cautioned his nephew, Brooke. I'll take care that she shan't break my heart, Uncle Barty. I will go my way and she may go hers and she may give her money to the hospital if she pleases. On the morning after his arrival, Brooke Burgess had declared aloud in Miss Stanbury's parlor that he was going over to the bank to see his uncle. Now there was in this almost a breach of contract. Miss Stanbury, when she invited the young man to Exeter, had stipulated that there should be no intercourse between her house and the bank. Of course I shall not need to know where you go or where you don't go, she had written, but after all that has passed there must not be any positive intercourse between my house and the bank. And now he had spoken of going over to C and B, as he called them, with the utmost indifference. Miss Stanbury had looked very grave but had said nothing. She had determined to be on her guard so that she should not be driven to quarrel with Brooke if she could avoid it. Bartholomew Burgess was a tall, thin, ill-tempered old man as well known in Exeter as the Cathedral and respected after a fashion. No one liked him. He said ill-natured things of all his neighbours and had never earned any reputation for doing good-natured acts. But he had lived in Exeter for nearly seventy years and had achieved that sort of esteem which comes from long tenure. And he had committed no great iniquities in the course of his fifty years of business. The bank had never stopped payment and he had robbed no one. He had not swallowed up widows and orphans and had done his work in the firm of Cropper and Burgess after the old-fashioned safe manner which leads neither to riches nor to ruin. Therefore he was respected. But he was a discontented, sour old man who believed himself to have been injured by all his own friends, who disliked his own partners because they had bought that which had, at any rate, never belonged to him, and whose strongest passionate was to hate Miss Stanbury of the close. She's got a parson by the hand now, said the uncle as he continued his caution to the nephew. There was a clergyman there last night.  I know her. She has got a right to do what she likes with her own uncle Barty. And how did she get it? Never mind, I'm not going to set you against her if you're her favorite for the moment. She has a niece with her there, hasn't she? One of her brother's daughters. They say she's going to make that clergyman marry her. What, Mr. Gibson? Yes, they tell me he was as good as engaged to another girl, one of the Frenches of hevetry, and therefore dear Jemima could do nothing better than interfere, when she has succeeded in breaking the girl's heart. Which girl's heart, Uncle Barty? The girl the man was to have married, when that's done she'll throw Gibson over, you'll see. She'll refuse to give the girl a shilling. She took the girl's brother by the hand ever so long, and then she threw him over, and she'll throw the girl over too and send her back to the place she came from.  According to you, she must be the most malicious old woman that ever was allowed to live. I don't think there are many to beat her as far as Malice goes, but you'll find out for yourself. I shouldn't be surprised if she were to tell you before long that you were to marry the niece. I shouldn't think that such very hard lines either, said Brooke Burgess. I've no doubt you may have her if you like, said Barty, in spite of Mr. Gibson. Only I should recommend you to take care and get the money first. When Brooke went back to the house in the close, Miss Stanbury was quite fussy in her silence. She would have given much to have been told something about Barty, and above all to have learned what Barty had said about herself. But she was far too proud even to mention the old man's name of her own accord. She was quite sure that she had been abused. She guessed, probably with tolerable accuracy, the kind of things that had been said of her, and suggested to herself what answer Brooke would make to such accusations. But she had resolved to cloak it all in silence, and pretended for a while not to remember the young man's declared intention when he left the house. It seems odd to me, said Brooke, that Uncle Barty should always live alone as he does. He must have a dreary time of it. I don't know anything about your Uncle Barty's manner of living. No, I suppose not. You and he are not friends. By no means, Brooke. He lives there all alone in that pokey bank house, and nobody ever goes near him. I wonder whether he has any friends in the city. I really cannot tell you anything about his friends, and to tell you the truth, Brooke, I don't want to talk about your Uncle.   He had no intention in this of animadverting upon Miss Stanbury's secret enmity, nor had he purposed to ask any question as to her relations with the old man. He had alluded to his dislike of having secrets of his own, but she misunderstood him. If you are anxious to know, she said, becoming very red in the face. I am not at all curious to know. You quite mistake me. He has chosen to believe, or to say that he believed, that I wronged him in regard to his brother's will. I nursed his brother when he was dying, as I considered it to be my duty to do. I cannot tell you all that story. It is too long and too sad. Romance is very pretty in novels, but the romance of a life is always a melancholy matter. They are most happy who have no story to tell. I quite believe that. But your Uncle Barty chose to think. Indeed, I hardly know what he thought. He said that the will was a will of my making. When it was made, I and his brother were apart. We were not even on speaking terms. There had been a quarrel and all manner of folly. I am not very proud when I look back upon it. It is not that I think myself better than others, but your Uncle Brooke's will was made before we had come together again. When he was ill, it was natural that I should go to him. After all that had passed between us. A. Brooke? It was womanly. But it made no difference about the will. Mr. Bartholomew Burgess might have known that at once, and must have known it afterwards, but he has never acknowledged that he was wrong, never even yet. He could not bring himself to do that, I should say. The will was no great triumph to me. I could have done without it. As God is my judge, I would not have lifted up my little finger to get either apart or the whole of poor Brooke's money.  She had risen from her seat, and was speaking with a solemnity that almost filled her listener with awe. She was a woman short of stature, but now as she stood over him, she seemed to be tall and majestic. But when the man was dead, she continued, and the will was there. The property was mine, and I was bound in duty to exercise the privileges and bear the responsibilities which the dead man had conferred upon me. It was Bartholomew who sent a low attorney to me, offering me a compromise. What had I to compromise? Compromise? No. If it was not mine by all the right the law could give, I would sooner have starved than have had a crust of bread out of the money. She had now clenched both her fists and was shaking them rapidly as she stood over him, looking down upon him. Of course it was your own. Yes, though they asked me to compromise and sent messages to me to frighten me, both Barty and your Uncle Tom, I and your father too, Brooke, they did not dare to go to law, to law indeed. If ever there was a good will in the world, the will of your Uncle Brooke was good. They could talk and malign me and tell lies as to dates and strive to make my name odious in the county, but they knew that the will was good. They did not succeed very well in what they did attempt. I would try to forget it all now, Aunt Stanbury. Forget it? How is that to be done? How can the mind forget the history of its own life? No, I cannot forget it. I can forgive it. Then why not forgive it? I do. I have. Why else are you here? But forgive old Uncle Barty also. Has he forgiven me? Come now. If I wish to forgive him, how should I begin? Would he be gracious if I went to him? Does he love me, do you think, or hate me? Uncle Barty is a good hater. It is the best point about him. No, Brooke, we won't try the farce of a reconciliation after a long life of enmity. Nobody would believe us, and we should not believe each other. Then I certainly would not try. I do not mean to do so. The truth is, Brooke, you shall have it all when I'm gone, if you don't turn against me. You won't take to writing for penny newspapers, will you, Brooke? As she asked the question, she put one of her hands softly on his shoulder. I certainly shan't offend in that way. And you won't be a radical? No, not a radical. I mean a man to follow Beals and Bright, a Republican, a putter down of the church, a hater of the throne. You won't take up that line, will you, Brooke? It isn't my way at present, Aunt Stanbury, but a man shouldn't promise. Ami, it makes me sad when I think what the country is coming to. I'm told there are scores of members of parliament who don't pronounce their H's. When I was young, a member of parliament used to be a gentleman, and they've taken to ordaining all manner of people.  By the by, Brooke, what do you think of Mr. Gibson? Mr. Gibson? To tell the truth, I haven't thought much about him. But you must think about him. Perhaps you haven't thought about my niece, Dolly Stanbury. I think that she's an uncommonly nice girl. She's not to be nice for you, young man. She is to be married to Mr. Gibson. Are they engaged? Well, no, but I intend that they shall be.  You don't know me, Aunt Stanbury, if you think that I should begrudge anything that you might do with your money. Dolly has been here a month or two. I think it's three months since she came, and I do like her. She's soft and womanly, and hasn't taken up those vile, filthy habits which almost all the girls have adopted.  I was speaking to them yesterday. Nasty sluts!  Dolly is not like that, is she? She is not in the least like either of the Miss Frenches. And now I want her to become Mrs. Gibson. He is quite taken. Is he? Oh, dear, yes. Didn't you see him the other night at dinner and afterwards? Of course he knows that I can give her a little bit of money, which always goes for something, Brooke. And I do think it would be such a nice thing for Dolly. And what does Dolly think about it? There's the difficulty. She likes him well enough, I'm sure of that, and she has no stuck-up ideas about herself. She isn't one of those who think that almost nothing is good enough for them. But—she has an objection. I don't know what it is. I sometimes think she is so bashful and modest she doesn't like to talk of being married, even to an old woman like me. Dear me, that's not the way of the age, is it, Aunt Stanbury? It's coming to that, Brooke, that the girls will ask the men soon. Yes, and that they won't take a refusal either. I do believe that Camilla French did ask Mr. Gibson. And what did Mr. Gibson say? Ah, I can't tell you that. He knows too well what he's about to take her. He's to come here on Friday at eleven, and you must be out of the way. I shall be out of the way, too, but if Dolly says a word to you before that, mind you make her understand that she ought to accept Gibson. She's too good for him, according to my thinking. Don't you be a fool! How can any young woman be too good for a gentleman and a clergyman? Mr. Gibson is a gentleman. Do you know—only you must not mention this—that I have a kind of idea that we could get an uncomputney for him. My father had the living, and my brother, and I should like it to go on in the family. No opportunity came in the way of Brooke Burgess to say anything in favor of Mr. Gibson to Dorothy Stanbury. There did come to be very quickly a sort of intimacy between her and her aunt's favorite, but she was not one prone to talk about her own affairs. And to such an affair as this, a question as to whether she should or should not give herself in marriage to her suitor—she who could not speak of it even to her own sister without a blush—who felt confused and almost confounded when receiving her aunt's admonitions and instigations on the subject—would not have endured to hear Brooke Burgess speak on the matter. Dorothy did feel that a person easier to know than Brooke had never come in her way. She had already said as much to him as she had spoken to Mr. Gibson in the three months that she had made his acquaintance. They had talked about Exeter and about Mrs. McHugh and the Cathedral and Tennyson's poems and the London theatres and Uncle Barty and the family quarrel. They had become quite confidential with each other on some matters, but on this heavy subject of Mr. Gibson and his proposal of marriage not a word had been said. When Brooke once mentioned Mr. Gibson on the Thursday morning, Dorothy within a minute had taken an opportunity of escaping from the room. But circumstances did give him an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gibson. On the Wednesday afternoon both he and Mr. Gibson were invited to drink tea at Mrs. French's house on that evening. Such invitations at Exeter were want to be given at short dates, and both the gentlemen had said that they would go. Then Arabella French had called in the close and had asked Ms. Stanbury and Dorothy. It was well understood by Arabella that Ms. Stanbury herself would not drink tea at Havatory, and it may be that Dorothy's company was not in truth desired. The ladies had both declined. Don't you stay at home for me, my dear, Ms. Stanbury said to her niece, but Dorothy had not been out without her aunt since she had been at Exeter, and understood perfectly that it would not be wise to commence the practice at the house of the French's. Mr. Brook is coming, Ms. Stanbury, and Mr. Gibson, Ms. French said, and Ms. Stanbury had thought that there was some triumph in her tone. Mr. Brook can go where he pleases, my dear, Ms. Stanbury replied, and as for Mr. Gibson, I am not his keeper. The tone in which Ms. Stanbury spoke would have implied great imprudence, had not the two ladies understood each other so thoroughly, and had not each known that it was so. There was the accustomed set of people in Mrs. French's drawing room, the Crumbies and the Wrights and the Apjons, and Mrs. McHugh came also, knowing that there would be a rubber. Their naked shoulders don't hurt me, Mrs. McHugh said, when her friend almost scolded her for going to the house. I'm not a young man, I don't care what they do to themselves. You might say as much if they went naked altogether, Ms. Stanbury had replied in anger. If nobody else complained I shouldn't, said Mrs. McHugh. Mrs. McHugh got her rubber, and as she had gone for her rubber, on a distinct promise that there should be a rubber, and as there was a rubber, she felt that she had no right to say ill-natured things. What does it matter to me, said Mrs. McHugh, how nasty she is. She's not going to be my wife. Ugg, exclaimed Ms. Stanbury, shaking her head both in anger and disgust. Camilla French was by no means so bad as she was painted by Ms. Stanbury, and Brooke Burgess rather liked her than otherwise, and it seemed to him that Mr. Gibson did not at all dislike Arabella, and felt no repugnance at either the lady's noddle or shoulders, now that he was removed from Ms. Stanbury's influence. It was clear enough also that Arabella had not given up the attempt, although she must have admitted to herself that the claims of Dorothy Stanbury were very strong. On this evening it seemed to have been specially permitted to Arabella, who was the elder sister, to take into her own hands the management of the case. Beholders of the game had hitherto declared that Mr. Gibson's safety was secured by the constant coupling of the sisters. Neither would allow the other to hunt alone, but a common sense of the common danger had made some special strategy necessary, and Camilla hardly spoke a word to Mr. Gibson during the evening. Let us hope that she found some temporary consolation in the presence of the stranger. I hope you are going to stay with us ever so long, Mr. Burgess, said Camilla. A month? That is ever so long, isn't it? Why, I mean to see all Devonshire within that time. I feel already that I know Exeter thoroughly and everybody in it. I'm sure we are very much flattered. As for you, Ms. French, I've heard so much about you all my life that I felt that I knew you before I came here. Who can have spoken to you about me? You forget how many relatives I have in the city. Do you think my Uncle Barty never writes to me? Not about me. Does he not? And do you suppose I don't hear from Ms. Stanbury? But she hates me. I know that. And do you hate her? No indeed, I have the greatest respect for her. But she is a little odd, isn't she now, Mr. Burgess? We all like her ever so much, and we've known her ever so long, six or seven years, since we were quite young things, but she has such queer notions about girls. What sort of notions? She'd like them all to dress just like herself, and she thinks that they should never talk to young men. If she was here she'd say I was flirting with you because we're sitting together. But you are not, are you? Of course I am not. I wish you would, said Brooke. I shouldn't know how to begin. I shouldn't indeed. I don't know what flirting means, and I don't know who does know. When young ladies and gentlemen go out, I suppose they are intended to talk to each other. But very often they don't, you know.  I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Burgess. I don't care what any old maid says about me. I always talk to people that I like. And if they choose to call me a flirt, they may. It's my opinion that still waters run the deepest. No doubt the noisy streams are very shallow, said Brooke. You may call me a shallow stream if you like, Mr. Burgess. I meant nothing of the kind. But what do you call Dorothy Stanbury?  She runs deep enough. The quietest young lady I ever saw in my life. Exactly. So quiet, but so clever. What do you think of Mr. Gibson? Everybody is asking me what I think of Mr. Gibson. You know what they say. They say he is to marry Dorothy Stanbury. Poor man. I don't think his own consent has ever been asked yet. But nevertheless, it's settled. Just at present he seems to me to be, what shall I say? I oughtn't to say, flirting with your sister, ought I? Miss Stanbury would say so if she were here no doubt. But the fact is, Mr. Burgess, we've known him almost since we were infants. And of course we take an interest in his welfare. There has never been anything more than that. Arabella is nothing more to him than I am. Once indeed, but however that does not signify. It would be nothing to us if he really liked Dorothy Stanbury. But as far as we can see, and we do see a good deal of him, there is no such feeling on his part. Of course we haven't asked. We should not think of such a thing. Mr. Gibson may do just as he likes for us. But I am not quite sure that Dorothy Stanbury is just the girl that would make him a good wife. Of course when you've known a person seven or eight years you do get anxious about his happiness. Do you know, we think her, perhaps, a little sly. In the meantime, Mr. Gibson was completely subject to the individual charms of Arabella. Camilla had been quite correct in a part of her description of their intimacy. She and her sister had known Mr. Gibson for seven or eight years, but nevertheless the intimacy could not with truth be said to have commenced during the infancy of the young ladies, even if the word were used in its legal sense. Seven or eight years, however, is a long acquaintance, and there was perhaps something of a real grievance in this Stanbury intervention. If it be a recognized fact in society that young ladies are in want of husbands, and that an effort on their part towards matrimony is not altogether impossible, it must be recognized also that failure will be disagreeable, and interference regarded with animosity. Miss Stanbury the Elder was undoubtedly interfering between Mr. Gibson and the Frenches, and it is neither manly nor womanly to submit to interference with one's dearest prospects. It may perhaps be admitted that the Miss Frenches had shown too much open ardor in their pursuit of Mr. Gibson. Perhaps there should have been no ardor and no pursuit. It may be that the theory of womanhood is right which forbids to women any such attempts, which teaches them that they must ever be pursued, never the pursuers. As to that there shall be no discourse at present, but it must be granted that whenever the pursuit has been attempted, it is not in human nature to abandon it without an effort. That the French girls should be very angry with Miss Stanbury, that they should put their heads together with the intention of thwarting her, that they should think evil things of poor Dorothy, that they should have despise Mr. Gibson, and yet resolve to keep their hold upon him as a chattel and a thing of value that was almost their own, was not perhaps much to their discredit. You are a good deal at the house in the close now," said Arabella in her lowest voice, in a voice so low that it was almost melancholy. Well, yes. Miss Stanbury, you know, has always been a staunch friend of mine, and she takes an interest in my little church. People say that girls are sly, but men can be sly too sometimes. It seems that she has taken you so much away from us, Mr. Gibson. I don't know why you should say that, Miss French. Perhaps I am wrong. One is apt to be sensitive about one's friends. We seem to have known you so well. There is nobody else in Exeter that Mama regards as she does you. But of course, if you are happy with Miss Stanbury, that is everything. I am speaking of the old lady, said Mr. Gibson, who in spite of his slyness was here thrown a little off his guard. And I am speaking of the old lady too, said Arabella. Of whom else should I be speaking? No, of course not. Of course, continued Arabella. I hear what people say about the niece. One cannot help what one hears you know, Mr. Gibson, but I don't believe that. I can assure you. As she said this, she looked into his face, as though waiting for an answer, but Mr. Gibson had no answer ready. Then Arabella told herself that if anything was to be done, it must be done at once. What use was there in beating around the bush, when the only chance of getting the game was to be had by dashing it once into the thicket? I own. I should be glad, she said, turning her eyes away from him. If I could hear from your own mouth that it is not true. Mr. Gibson's position was one not to be envied. Were he willing to tell the very secrets of his soul to Miss French with the utmost candor, he could not answer her question either one way or the other, and he was not willing to tell her any of his secrets. It was certainly the fact, too, that there had been tender passages between him and Arabella. Now, when there have been such passages, and the gentleman is cross-examined by the lady, as Mr. Gibson was being cross-examined at the present moment, the gentleman usually teaches himself to think that a little falsehood is permissible. A gentleman can hardly tell a lady that he has become tired of her and has changed his mind. He feels the matter, perhaps, more keenly even than she does, and though at all other times he may be a very paladin in the cause of truth, in such straight as this he does allow himself some latitude. You are only joking, of course, he said. Indeed I am not joking! I can assure you, Mr. Gibson, that the welfare of the friends whom I really love can never be a matter of joke to me. Mrs. Crumby says that you positively are engaged to Mary Dorothy Stanbury. What does Mrs. Crumby know about it? I dare say nothing. It is not so, is it? Certainly not. And there is nothing in it, is there? I wonder why people make these reports, said Mr. Gibson, prevaricating. It is a fabrication from beginning to end, then, said Arabella, pressing the matter quite home. At this time she was very close to him, and though her words were severe, the glance from her eyes was soft, and the scent from her hair was not objectionable to him, as it would have been to Miss Stanbury, and the mode of her headdress was not displeasing to him, and the folds of her dress, as they fell across his knee, were welcome to his feelings. He knew that he was as one under temptation, but he was not strong enough to bid the tempter avante. Say that it is so, Mr. Gibson! Of course it is not so, said Mr. Gibson, lying. I am so glad! For of course, Mr. Gibson, when we heard it, we thought a great deal about it. A man's happiness depends so much on whom he marries, doesn't it? And a clergyman's more than anybody else's, and we didn't think she was quite the sort of woman that you would like. You see, she has had no advantages, poor thing.  And though it wasn't her fault, of course, and we all pitied her, and we're so glad when Miss Stanbury brought her to the close, still, you know, though one was very glad of her as an acquaintance, yet, you know, as a wife, and for such a dear, dear friend. She went on, and said many other things with equal enthusiasm, and then wiped her eyes, and then smiled and laughed. After that she declared that she was quite happy, so happy, and so she left him. The poor man, after the falsehood had been extracted from him, said nothing more, but sat in patience, listening to the raptures and enthusiasm of his friend. He knew that he had disgraced himself, and he knew also that his disgrace would be known if Dorothy Stanbury should accept his offer on the morrow, and yet how hardly he had been used. What answer could he have given compatible both with the truth and with his own personal dignity? About half an hour afterwards he was walking back to Exeter with Brooke Burgess, and then Brooke did ask him a question or two. "'Nice girls, those Frenches, I think,' said Brooke. "'Very nice,' said Mr. Gibson. "'How Miss Stanbury does hate them,' says Brooke. "'Not hate them, I hope,' said Mr. Gibson. "'She doesn't love them, does she?' "'Well, as for love, yes, in one sense, I hope she does.  We are both favourites, you know.' "'Dear me, what a very odd supposition,' said Mr. Gibson. "'For my part, I don't think I shall,' said Brooke. "'I don't suppose I shall either,' said Mr. Gibson, with a gravity which was intended to convey some smattering of rebuke. "'A fellow might do worse, you know,' said Brooke.  But the worst of it is one can't marry two at a time.' "'That would be bigamy,' said Mr. Gibson. "'Just so,' said Brooke.' End of Chapter 35. Recording by Ariel Lipschaw in New York City. Chapter 36 of He Knew He Was Right. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Ariel Lipschaw. He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollope. Chapter 36. Miss Stanbury's Wrath Punctually at eleven o'clock on the Friday morning, Mr. Gibson knocked at the door of the house in the close. The reader must not imagine that he had ever wavered in his intention with regard to Dorothy Stanbury because he had been driven into a corner by the pertinacious ingenuity of Miss French. He never for a moment thought of being false to Miss Stanbury, the elder. Falseness of that nature would have been ruinous to him, would have made him a marked man in the city all his days, and would probably have reached even to the bishop's ears. He was neither bad enough nor audacious enough nor foolish enough for such perjury as that. And moreover, though the wiles of Arabella had been potent with him, he very much preferred Dorothy Stanbury. Seven years of flirtation with a young lady is more trying to the affection than any duration of matrimony. Arabella had managed to awaken something of the old glow, but Mr. Gibson, as soon as he was alone, turned from her mentally in disgust. No. Whatever little trouble there might be in his way, it was clearly his duty to marry Dorothy Stanbury. She had the sweetest temper in the world, and blushed with the prettiest blush. She would have, moreover, two thousand pounds on the day she married, and there was no saying what other and greater pecuniary advantages might follow. His mind was quite made up, and during the whole morning he had been endeavoring to drive all disagreeable reminiscences of Miss French from his memory, and to arrange the words with which he would make his offer to Dorothy. He was aware that he need not be very particular about his words, as Dorothy, from the bashfulness of her nature, would be no judge of eloquence at such a time. But still, for his own sake, there should be some form of expression, some propriety of diction. Before eleven o'clock he had it all by heart, and had nearly freed himself from the uneasiness of his falsehood to Arabella. He had given much serious thought to the matter, and had quite resolved that he was right in his purpose, and that he could marry Dorothy with a pure conscience and with a true promise of a husband's love. Dear Dolly, he said to himself, with something of enthusiasm as he walked across the close, and he looked up to the house as he came to it. There was to be his future home. There was not one of the pre-bents who had a better house, and there was a dove-like softness about Dorothy's eyes, and a winning obedience in her manner that were charming. His lines had fallen to him in very pleasant places. Yes, he would go up to her and take her at once by the hand and ask her whether she would be his, now and for ever. He would not let go her hand till he had brought her so close to him that she could hide her blushes on his shoulder. The whole thing had been so well conceived, had become so clear to his mind, that he felt no hesitation or embarrassment as he knocked at the door. Arabella French would, no doubt, hear of it soon. Well, she must hear of it. After all, she could do him no injury. He was shown up at once into the drawing-room, and there he found Miss Stanbury, the elder. Oh, Mr. Gibson, she said at once. Is anything the matter with dear Dorothy? She is the most obstinate, pig-headed young woman I ever came across since the world began. You don't say so. But what is it, Miss Stanbury? What is it? Why just this? Nothing on earth that I can say to her will induce her to come down and speak to you. Have I offended her? Offended a fiddle-stick, a fence indeed, an offer from an honest man with her friend's approval and a fortune at her back, as though she had been born with a gold spoon in her mouth. And she tells me that she can't, and won't, and wouldn't, and shouldn't, as though I were asking her to walk the streets. I declare I don't know what has come to the young women, or what it is they want. One would have thought that butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. But what is the reason, Miss Stanbury? Oh, reason. You don't suppose people give reasons in these days. What reason have they when they dress themselves up with band-boxes on their sconces? Just simply the old reason. I do not like the doctor fell. Why I cannot tell. May I not see her myself, Miss Stanbury? I can't make her come downstairs to you. I've been at her the whole morning, Mr. Gibson, ever since daylight pretty nearly. She came into my room before I was up, and told me she had made up her mind. I've coaxed and scoldened, and threatened, and cried, but if she'd been a milestone it couldn't have been of less use. I told her she might go back to Nuncombe, and she just went off to pack up. But she's not to go. How can I say what such a young woman will do? I'm never allowed away of my own for a moment. There's Brooke Burgess been scolding me at that rate. I didn't know whether I stood on my head or my heels, and I don't know now. Then there was a pause, while Mr. Gibson was endeavouring to decide what would now be his best course of action. Don't you think she'll ever come round, Miss Standbury? I don't think she'll ever come any way that anybody wants her to come, Mr. Gibson. I didn't think she was at all like that, said Mr. Gibson, almost in tears. No, nor anybody else. I've been seeing it come all the same. It's just the Standbury perversity. If I'd wanted to keep her by herself, to take care of me, and had set my back up at her if she spoke to a man, and made her understand that she wasn't to think of getting married, she'd have been making eyes at every man that came into the house. It's just what one gets for going out of one's way. I did think she'd be so happy Mr. Gibson living here as your wife. She and I between us could have managed for you so nicely. Mr. Gibson was silent for a minute or two, during which he walked up and down the room, contemplating no doubt the picture of married life which Miss Standbury had painted for him. A picture which, as it seemed, was not to be realised. And what had I better do, Miss Standbury? He asked at last. Do I don't know what you're to do? I'm groom enough to bring a mare to water, but I can't make her drink. Will waiting be any good? How can I say? I'll tell you one thing not to do. Don't go and philander with those girls at Heavitree. It's my belief that Dorothy has been thinking of them. People talk to her, of course. I wish people would hold their tongues. People are so indiscreet. People don't know how much harm they may do. You've given them some excuse, you know, Mr. Gibson. This was very ill-natured, and was felt by Mr. Gibson to be so rude that he almost turned upon his patroness in anger. He had known Dolly for not more than three months, and had devoted himself to her to the great anger of his older friends. He had come this morning true to his appointment, expecting that others would keep their promises to him, as he was ready to keep those which he had made, and now he was told that it was his fault. I do think that's rather hard, Miss Standbury, he said.  I didn't mean to scold Miss Standbury. I've done all that I could. And you think she won't see me for a minute? She says she won't. I can't bid Martha carry her down. Then perhaps I had better leave you for the present, said Mr. Gibson, after another pause. So he went, a melancholy, blighted man. Leaving the clothes he passed through into Southern Hay, and walked across by new streets towards the hevetry road. He had no design in taking this route, but he went on till he came inside of the house in which Mrs. French lived. As he walked slowly by it, he looked up at the windows, and something of a feeling of romance came across his heart. Were his young affections buried there, or were they not? And if so, with which of those fair girls were they buried? For the last two years, up to last night, Camilla had certainly been in the ascendant. But Arabella was a sweet young woman, and there had been a time, when those tender passages were going on, in which he had thought that no young woman ever was so sweet. A period of romance and era of enthusiasm, a short-lived, delicious holiday of hot-tongued insanity had been permitted to him in his youth, but all that was now over. And yet here he was, with three strings to his bow, so he told himself, and he had not as yet settled for himself the great business of matrimony. He was inclined to think, as he walked on, that he would walk his life alone, an active, useful, but a melancholy man. After such experiences as his, how should he ever again speak of his heart to a woman? During this walk his mind recurred frequently to Dorothy Stanbury, and doubtless he thought that he had often spoken of his heart to her. He was back at his lodgings before three, at which hour he ate an early dinner, and then took the afternoon cathedral service at four, the evening he spent at home, thinking of the romance of his early days. What would Miss Stanbury have said had she seen him in his easy chair behind the Exeter Argus, with a pipe in his mouth? In the meantime there was an uncomfortable scene in progress between Dorothy and her aunt. Brooke Burgess, as desired, had left the house before eleven, having taken upon himself, when consulted, to say in the mildest terms that he thought that, in general, young women should not be asked to marry if they did not like to, which opinion had been so galling to Miss Stanbury that she had declared that he had so scolded her that she did not know whether she was standing on her head or her heels. As soon as Mr. Gibson left her she sat herself down and fairly cried. She had ardently desired this thing, had allowed herself to think of her desire as of one that would certainly be accomplished. Dorothy would have been so happy as the wife of a clergyman. Miss Stanbury's standard for men and women was not high. She did not expect others to be as self-sacrificing, as charitable, and as good as herself. It was not that she gave to herself credit for such virtues, but she thought of herself as one who, from the peculiar circumstances of life, was bound to do much for others. There was no end to her doing good for others, if only the others would allow themselves to be governed by her. She did not think that Mr. Gibson was a great divine, but she perceived that he was a clergyman, living decently, of that secret pipe Miss Stanbury knew nothing, doing his duty punctually and, as she thought, very much in want of a wife. Then there was her niece Dolly, soft, pretty, feminine, without a shilling, and much in want of someone to comfort and take care of her. What could be better than such a marriage? And the overthrow to the girls with the big chignons would be so complete. She had set her mind upon it, and now Dorothy said that it couldn't and it wouldn't and it shouldn't be accomplished. She was to be thrown over by this chit of a girl, as she had been thrown over by the girl's brother. And when she complained, the girl simply offered to go away. At about twelve, Dorothy came creeping down into the room in which her aunt was sitting and pretended to occupy herself on some piece of work. For a considerable time, for three minutes perhaps, Miss Stanbury did not speak. She had resolved that she would not speak to her niece again, at least not for that day. She would let the ungrateful girl know how miserable she had been made. But at the close of the three minutes her patience was exhausted. What are you doing there? She said. I am quilting your cap, Aunt Stanbury. Put it down. You shan't do anything for me. I won't have you touch my things any more. I don't like pretended service. It is not pretended, Aunt Stanbury. I say it is pretended.  But I hadn't made up my mind. If you had so much doubt about it, you might have done what I wanted you. I couldn't, Aunt Stanbury. You mean you wouldn't. I wonder what it is you do expect. I don't expect anything, Aunt Stanbury. No, and I don't expect anything. What an old fool I am ever to look for any comfort. Why should I think that anybody would care for me? Indeed, I do care for you. In what sort of way do you show it? You're just like your brother Hugh. I've disgraced myself to that man, promising what I could not perform. I declare it makes me sick when I think of it. Why did you not tell me at once? Dorothy said nothing further, but sat with the cap on her lap. She did not dare to resume her needle, and she did not like to put the cap aside, as by doing so it would seem as though she had accepted her aunt's prohibition against her work. For half an hour she sat thus, during which time Miss Stanbury dropped asleep. She woke with a start and began to scold again. What's the good of sitting there all the day with your hands before you doing nothing? But Dorothy had been very busy. She had been making up her mind and had determined to communicate her resolution to her aunt. Dear aunt, she said, I have been thinking of something. It's too late now, said Miss Stanbury. I see I've made you very unhappy. Of course you have. And you think that I'm ungrateful. I'm not ungrateful, and I don't think that Hugh is. Never mind Hugh, only because it seems so hard that you should take so much trouble about us, and that then there should be so much vexation. I find it very hard. So I think that I'd better go back to Nuncombe. That's what you call gratitude. I don't like to stay here and make you unhappy. I can't think that I ought to have done what you asked me, because I did not feel at all in that way about Mr. Gibson. But as I have only disappointed you, it will be better that I should go home. I have been very happy here. Very. Bother, exclaimed Miss Stanbury. I have, and I do love you, though you won't believe it, but I am sure I ought to remain to make you unhappy. I shall never forget all that you have done for me, and though you call me ungrateful, I am not. But I know that I ought not to stay as I cannot do what you wish, so if you please, I will go back to Nuncombe. You'll not do anything of the kind, said Miss Stanbury. But it will be better. Yes, of course, no doubt, I suppose you are tired of us all. It is not that I'm tired, Aunt Stanbury. It isn't that at all.  But I cannot stay where people think that I am ungrateful. If you please, Aunt Stanbury, I will go. Then, of course, there was a compromise. Dorothy did at last consent to remain in the close, but only on condition that she should be forgiven for her sin in reference to Mr. Gibson, and be permitted to go on with her aunt's cap. End of Chapter 36, Recording by Ariel Lipschaw in New York City