He Knew He Was Right - Anthony Trollope (rainbow fish read aloud txt) 📗

Miss Stanbury,

she, Dorothy, owed her aunt everything. She would immolate herself if

Brooke would only let her. She did not quite understand her aunt’s

stubborn opposition; but she knew that there was some great cause for

her aunt’s feeling on the matter. There had been a promise made, or an

oath sworn, that the property of the Burgess family should not go into

the hands of any Stanbury. Dorothy told herself that, were she married,

she would be a Stanbury no longer, that her aunt would still comply with

the obligation she had fixed for herself; but, nevertheless, she was

ready to believe that her aunt might be right. Her aunt had always

declared that it should be so; and Dorothy, knowing this, confessed to

herself that she should have kept her heart under better control.

Thinking of these things, she went to the table where paper and ink and

pens had all been prepared for her so prettily, and began her letter to

Brooke. ‘Dearest, dearest Brooke.’ But then she thought that this was

not a fair keeping of her promise, and she began again. ‘My dear

Brooke.’ The letter, however, did not get itself written that night. It

was almost impossible for her to write it. ‘I think it will be better

for you,’ she had tried to say, ‘to be guided by my aunt.’ But how

could she say this when she did not believe it? It was her wish to make

him understand that she would never think ill of him, for a moment, if

he would make up his mind to abandon her—but she could not find the

words to express herself, and she went, at last, to bed, leaving the

half-covered paper upon the table.

 

She went to bed, and cried herself to sleep. It had been so sweet to

have a lover, a man of her own, to whom she could say what she pleased,

from whom she had a right to ask for counsel and protection, a man who

delighted to be near her, and to make much of her. In comparison with

her old mode of living, her old ideas of life, her life with such a

lover was passed in an elysium. She had entered from barren lands into

so rich a paradise! But there is no paradise, as she now found, without

apples which must be eaten, and which lead to sorrow. She regretted in

this hour that she had ever seen Brooke Burgess. After all, with her

aunt’s love and care for her, with her mother and sister near her, with

the respect of those who knew her, why should the lands have been

barren, even had there been no entrance for her into that elysium? And

did it not all result in this, that the elysium to be desired should not

be here; that the paradise, without the apples, must be waited for till

beyond the grave? It is when things go badly with us here, and for most

of us only then, that we think that we can see through the dark clouds

into the joys of heaven. But at last she slept, and in her dreams

Brooke was sitting with her in Niddon Park with his arm tight clasped

round her waist.

 

She slept so soundly, that when a step crept silently into her room,

and when a light was held for awhile over her face, neither the step

nor the light awakened her. She was lying with her head back upon the

pillow, and her arm hung by the bedside, and her lips were open, and

her loose hair was spread upon the pillow. The person who stood there

with the light thought that there never had been a fairer sight.

Everything there was so pure, so sweet, so good! She was one whose only

selfish happiness could come to her from the belief that others loved

her. The step had been very soft, and even the breath of the intruder

was not allowed to pass heavily into the air, but the light of the

candle shone upon the eyelids of the sleeper, and she moved her head

restlessly on the pillow. ‘Dorothy, are you awake? Can you speak to

me?’

 

Then the disturbed girl gradually opened her eyes and gazed upwards,

and raised herself in her bed, and sat wondering. ‘Is anything the

matter, aunt?’ she said.

 

‘Only the vagaries of an old woman, my pet, of an old woman who cannot

sleep in her bed.’

 

‘But what is it, aunt?’

 

‘Kiss me, dearest.’ Then, with something of slumber still about her,

Dorothy raised herself in her bed, and placed her arm on her aunt’s

shoulder and embraced her. ‘And now for my news,’ said Miss Stanbury.

 

‘What news, aunt? It isn’t morning yet; is it?’

 

‘No it is not morning. You shall sleep again presently. I have thought

of it, and you shall be Brooke’s wife, and I will have it here, and we

will all be friends.’

 

‘What!’

 

‘You will like that will you not?’

 

‘And you will not quarrel with him? What am I to say? What am I to do?’

She was, in truth, awake now, and, not knowing what she did, she jumped

out of bed, and stood holding her aunt by the arm.

 

‘It is not a dream,’ said Miss Stanbury.

 

‘Are you sure that it is not a dream? And may he come here tomorrow?’

 

‘Of course he will come tomorrow.’

 

‘And may I see him, Aunt Stanbury?’

 

‘Not if you go home, my dear.’

 

‘But I won’t go home. And will you tell him? Oh dear, oh dear! Aunt

Stanbury, I do not think that I believe it yet.’

 

‘You will catch cold, my dear, if you stay there trying to believe it.

You have nothing on. Get into bed and believe it there. You will have

time to think of it before the morning.’ Then Miss Stanbury went back

to her own chamber, and Dorothy was left alone to realise her bliss.

 

She thought of all her life for the last twelve months, of the first

invitation to Exeter, and the doubts of the family as to its

acceptance, of her arrival and of her own doubts as to the possibility

of her remaining, of Mr Gibson’s courtship and her aunt’s

disappointment, of Brooke’s coming, of her love and of his, and then of

her departure back to Nuncombe. After that had come the triumph of

Brooke’s visit, and then the terrible sadness of her aunt’s

displeasure. But now everything was good and glorious. She did not care

for money herself. She thought that she never could care much for being

rich. But had she made Brooke poor by marrying him, that must always

have been to her matter of regret, if not of remorse. But now it was

all to be smooth and sweet. Now a paradise was to be opened to her,

with no apples which she might not eat, no apples which might not, but

still must, be eaten. She thought that it would be impossible that she

should sleep again that night; but she did sleep, and dreamed that

Brooke was holding her in Niddon Park, tighter than ever.

 

When the morning came she trembled as she walked down into the parlour.

Might it not still be possible that it was all a dream? or what if her

aunt should again have changed her purpose? But the first moment of her

aunt’s presence told her that there was nothing to fear. ‘How did you

sleep, Dorothy?’ said the old lady.

 

‘Dear aunt, I do not know. Was it all sleep?’

 

‘What shall we say to Brooke when he comes?’

 

‘You shall tell him.’

 

‘No, dearest, you must tell him. And you must say to him that if he is

not good to my girl, and does not love her always, and cling to her,

and keep her from harm, and be in truth her loving husband, I will hold

him to be the most ungrateful of human beings.’ And before Brooke came,

she spoke again. ‘I wonder whether he thinks you as pretty as I do,

Dolly?’

 

‘He never said that he thought me pretty at all.’

 

‘Did he not? Then he shall say so, or he shall not have you. It was

your looks won me first, Dolly, like an old fool as I am. It is so

pleasant to have a little nature after such a deal of artifice.’ In

which latter remarks it was quite understood that Miss Stanbury was

alluding to her enemies at Heavitree.