Towards the end of February Sir Peter Mancrudy declared Miss Stanbury to be out of danger, and Mr Martin began to be sprightly on the subject, taking to himself no inconsiderable share of the praise accruing to the medical faculty in Exeter generally for the saving of a life so valuable to the city. ‘Yes, Mr Burgess,’ Sir Peter said to old Barty of the bank, ‘our friend will get over it this time, and without any serious damage to her constitution, if she will only take care of herself.’ Barty made some inaudible grunt, intended to indicate his own indifference on the subject, and expressed his opinion to the chief clerk that old Jemima Wideawake as he was pleased to call her was one of those tough customers who would never die. ‘It would be nothing to us, Mr Barty, one way or the other,’ said the clerk; to which Barty Burgess assented with another grunt.
Camilla French declared that she was delighted to hear the news. At this time there had been some sort of a reconciliation between her and her lover. Mrs French had extracted from him a promise that he would not go to Natal; and Camilla had commenced the preparations for her wedding. His visits to Heavitree were as few and far between as he could make them with any regard to decency; but the 31st of March was coming on quickly, and as he was to be made a possession of them for ever, it was considered to be safe and well to allow him some liberty in his present condition. ‘My dear, if they are driven, there is no knowing what they won’t do,’ Mrs French said to her daughter. Camilla had submitted with compressed lips and a slight nod of her head. She had worked very hard, but her day of reward was coming. It was impossible not to perceive both for her and her mother that the scantiness of Mr Gibson’s attention to his future bride was cause of some weak triumph to Arabella. She said that it was very odd that he did not come and once added with a little sigh that he used to come in former days, alluding to those happy days in which another love was paramount. Camilla could not endure this with an equal mind. ‘Bella, dear,’ she said, ‘we know what all that means. He has made his choice, and if I am satisfied with what he does now, surely you need not grumble.’ Miss Stanbury’s illness had undoubtedly been a great source of contentment to the family at Heavitree, as they had all been able to argue that her impending demise was the natural consequence of her great sin in the matter of Dorothy’s proposed marriage. When, however, they heard from Mr Martin that she would certainly recover, that Sir Peter’s edict to that effect had gone forth, they were willing to acknowledge that Providence, having so far punished the sinner, was right in staying its hand and abstaining from the final blow. ‘I’m sure we are delighted,’ said Mrs French, ‘for though she has said cruel things of us and so untrue, too, yet of course it is our duty to forgive her. And we do forgive her.’
Dorothy had written three or four notes to Brooke since his departure, which contained simple bulletins of her aunt’s health. She always began her letters with ‘My dear Mr Burgess,’ and ended them with ‘yours truly.’ She never made any allusion to Brooke’s declaration of love, or gave the slightest sign in her letters to shew that she even remembered it. At last she wrote to say that her aunt was convalescent; and, in making this announcement, she allowed herself some enthusiasm of expression. She was so happy, and was so sure that Mr Burgess would be equally so! And her aunt had asked after her ‘dear Brooke,’ expressing her great satisfaction with him, in that he had come down to see her when she had been almost too ill to see anyone. In answer to this there came to her a real love-letter from Brooke Burgess. It was the first occasion on which he had written to her. The little bulletins had demanded no replies, and had received none. Perhaps there had been a shade of disappointment on Dorothy’s side, in that she had written thrice, and had been made rich with no word in return. But, although her heart had palpitated on hearing the postman’s knock, and had palpitated in vain, she had told herself that it was all as it should be. She wrote to him, because she possessed information which it was necessary that she should communicate. He did not write to her, because there was nothing for him to tell. Then had come the love-letter, and in the love-letter there was an imperative demand for a reply.
What was she to do? To have recourse to Priscilla for advice was her first idea; but she herself believed that she owed a debt of gratitude to her aunt, which Priscilla would not take into account — the existence of which Priscilla would by no means admit. She knew Priscilla’s mind in this matter, and was sure that Priscilla’s advice, whatever it might be, would be given without any regard to her aunt’s views. And then Dorothy was altogether ignorant of her aunt’s views. Her aunt had been very anxious that she should marry Mr Gibson, but had clearly never admitted into her mind the idea that she might possibly marry Brooke Burgess; and it seemed to her that she herself would be dishonest, both to her aunt and to her lover, if she were to bind this man to herself without her aunt’s knowledge. He was to be her aunt’s heir, and she was maintained by her aunt’s liberality! Thinking of all this, she at last resolved that she would take the bull by the horns, and tell her aunt. She felt that the task would be one almost beyond her strength. Thrice she went into her aunt’s room, intending to make a clean breast; Thrice her courage failed her, and she left the room with her tale untold, excusing herself on various pretexts. Her aunt had seemed to be not quite so well, or had declared herself to be tired, or had been a little cross or else Martha had come in at the nick of time. But there was Brooke Burgess’s letter unanswered, a letter that was read night and morning, and which was never for an instant out of her mind. He had demanded a reply, and he had a right at least to that. The letter had been with her for four entire days before she had ventured to speak to her aunt on the subject.
On the first of March Miss Stanbury came out of her bed-room for the first time. Dorothy, on the previous day, had decided on postponing her communication for this occasion; but, when she found herself sitting in the little sitting-room up stairs close at her aunt’s elbow, and perceived the signs of weakness which the new move had made conspicuous, and heard the invalid declare that the little journey had been almost too much for her, her heart misgave her. She ought to have told her tale while her aunt was still in bed. But presently there came a question, which put her into such a flutter that she was for the time devoid of all resolution. ‘Has Brooke written?’ said Miss Stanbury.
‘Yes aunt; he has written.’
‘And what did he say?’ Dorothy was struck quite dumb. ‘Is there anything wrong?’ And now, as Miss Stanbury asked the question, she seemed herself to have forgotten that she had two minutes before declared herself to be almost too feeble to speak. ‘I’m sure there is something wrong. What is it? I will know’
‘There is nothing wrong, Aunt Stanbury’
‘Where is the letter? Let me see it.’
‘I mean there is nothing wrong about him.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘He is quite well, Aunt Stanbury.’
‘Shew me the letter. I will see the letter. I know that there is something the matter. Do you mean to say you won’t shew me Brooke’s letter?’
There was a moment’s pause before Dorothy answered. ‘I will shew you his letter though I am sure he didn’t mean that I should shew it to anyone.’
‘He hasn’t written evil of me?’
‘No; no; no. He would sooner cut his hand off than say a word bad of you. He never says or writes anything bad of anybody. But Oh, aunt; I’ll tell you everything. I should have told you before, only that you were ill.’
Then Miss Stanbury was frightened. ‘What is it?’ she said hoarsely, clasping the arms of the great chair, each with a thin, shrivelled hand.
‘Aunt Stanbury, Brooke — Brooke wants me to be his wife!’
‘What!’
‘You cannot be more surprised than I have been, Aunt Stanbury; and there has been no fault of mine.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said the old woman.
‘Now you may read the letter,’ said Dorothy, standing up. She was quite prepared to be obedient, but she felt that her aunt’s manner of receiving the information was almost an insult.
‘He must be a fool,’ said Miss Stanbury.
This was hard to hear, and the colour went and came rapidly across Dorothy’s cheeks as she gave herself a few moments to prepare an answer. She already perceived that her aunt would be altogether adverse to the marriage, and that therefore the marriage could never take place. She had never for a moment allowed herself to think otherwise, but, nevertheless, the blow was heavy on her. We all know how constantly hope and expectation will rise high within our own bosoms in opposition to our own judgment, how we become sanguine in regard to events which we almost know can never come to pass. So it had been with Dorothy. Her heart had been almost in a flutter of happiness since she had had Brooke’s letter in her possession, and yet she never ceased to declare to herself her own conviction that that letter could lead to no good result. In regard to her own wishes on the subject she had never asked herself a single question. As it had been quite beyond her power to bring herself to endure the idea of marrying Mr Gibson, so it had been quite impossible to her not to long to be Brooke’s wife from the moment in which a suggestion to that effect had fallen from his lips. This was a state of things so certain, so much a matter of course, that, though she had not spoken a word to him in which she owned her love, she had never for a moment doubted that he knew the truth and that everybody else concerned would know it too. But she did not suppose that her wishes would go for anything with her aunt. Brooke Burgess was to become a rich man as her aunt’s heir, and her aunt would of course have her own ideas about Brooke’s advancement in life. She was quite prepared to submit without quarrelling when her aunt should tell her that the idea must not be entertained. But the order might be given, the prohibition might be pronounced, without an insult to her own feelings as a woman. ‘He must he a fool,’ Miss Stanbury had said, and Dorothy took time to collect her thoughts before she would reply. In the meantime her aunt finished the reading of the letter.
‘He may be foolish in this,’ Dorothy said; ‘but I don’t think you should call him a fool.’
‘I shall call him what I please. I suppose this was going on at the time when you refused Mr Gibson.’
‘Nothing was going on. Nothing has gone on at all,’ said Dorothy, with as much indignation as she was able to assume.
‘How can you tell me that? That is an untruth.’
‘It is not an untruth,’ said Dorothy, almost sobbing, but driven at the same time to much anger.
‘Do you mean to say that this is the first you ever heard of it?’ And she held out the letter, shaking it in her thin hand.
‘I have never said so, Aunt Stanbury.’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘I said that nothing was going on, when Mr Gibson was —. If you choose to suspect me, Aunt Stanbury, I’ll go away. I won’t stay here if you suspect me. When Brooke spoke to me, I told him you wouldn’t like it.’
‘Of course I don’t like it.’ But she gave no reason why she did not ............