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

Murder, sacrilege, adultery,

treason, atheism—that’s what Reform means; besides every kind of

nastiness under the sun.’ In which latter category Miss Stanbury

intended especially to include bad printer’s ink, and paper made of

straw.

 

The reader may as well see the letter, which was as civil a letter as

ever one woman wrote to another, so that the collection of the Stanbury

correspondence may be made perfect.

 

‘The Close, August 6, 186-.

 

My Dear Niece,

 

Your letter has not astonished me nearly as much as you expected it

would. I am an older woman than you, and, though you will not believe

it, I have seen more of the world. I knew that the gentleman would come

after the lady. Such gentlemen always do go after their ladies. As for

yourself, I can see all that you have done, and pretty nearly hear all

that you have said, as plain as a pikestaff. I do you the credit of

believing that the plan is none of your making. I know who made the

plan, and a very bad plan it is.

 

As to my former letters and the other man, I understand all about it.

You were very angry that I should accuse you of having this man at the

house; and you were right to be angry. I respect you for having been

angry. But what does all that say as to his coming—now that he has come?

 

If you will consent to take an old woman’s advice, get rid of the whole

boiling of them. I say it in firm love and friendship, for I am

 

Your affectionate aunt,

 

Jemima Stanbury.’

 

The special vaunted courtesy of this letter consisted, no doubt, in the

expression of respect which it contained, and in that declaration of

affection with which it terminated. The epithet was one which Miss

Stanbury would by no means use promiscuously in writing to her nearest

relatives. She had not intended to use it when she commenced her letter

to Priscilla. But the respect of which she had spoken had glowed, and

had warmed itself into something of temporary love; and feeling at the

moment that she was an affectionate aunt, Miss Stanbury had so put

herself down in her letter. Having done such a deed she felt that

Dorothy, though Dorothy knew nothing about it, ought in her gratitude

to listen patiently to anything that she might now choose to say

against Priscilla.

 

But Dorothy was in truth very miserable, and in her misery wrote a long

letter that afternoon to her mother which, however, it will not be

necessary to place entire among the Stanbury records begging that she

might be informed as to the true circumstances of the case. She did not

say a word of censure in regard either to her mother or sister; but she

expressed an opinion in the mildest words which she could use, that if

anything had happened which had compromised their names since their

residence at the Clock House, she, Dorothy, had better go home and join

them. The meaning of which was that it would not become her to remain

in the house in the Close, if the house in the Close would be disgraced

by her presence, Poor Dorothy had taught herself to think that the

iniquity of roaring lions spread itself very widely.

 

In the afternoon she made some such proposition to her aunt in

ambiguous terms. ‘Go home!’ said Miss Stanbury. ‘Now?’

 

‘If you think it best, Aunt Stanbury’

 

‘And put yourself in the middle of all this iniquity and abomination! I

don’t suppose you want to know the woman?’

 

‘No, indeed!’

 

‘Or the man?’

 

‘Oh, Aunt Stanbury!’

 

‘It’s my belief that no decent gentleman in Exeter would look at you

again if you were to go and live among them at Nuncombe Putney while

all this is going on. No, no. Let one of you be saved out of it, at

least.’ Aunt Stanbury had more than once made use of expressions which

brought the faintest touch of gentle pink up to her niece’s cheeks. We

must do Dorothy the justice of saying that she had never dreamed of

being looked at by any gentleman, whether decent or indecent. Her life

at Nuncombe Putney had been of such a nature, that though she knew that

other girls were looked at, and even made love to, and that they got

married and had children, no dim vision of such a career for herself

had ever presented itself to her eyes. She had known very well that her

mother and sister and herself were people apart, ladies, and yet so

extremely poor that they could only maintain their rank by the most

rigid seclusion. To live, and work unseen, was what the world had

ordained for her. Then her call to Exeter had come upon her, and she

had conceived that she was henceforth to be the humble companion of a

very imperious old aunt. Her aunt, indeed, was imperious, but did not

seem to require humility in her companion. All the good things that

were eaten and drunk were divided between them with the strictest

impartiality. Dorothy’s cushion and hassock in the church and in the

cathedral were the same as her aunt’s. Her bedroom was made very

comfortable for her. Her aunt never gave her any orders before company,

and always spoke of her before the servants as one whom they were to

obey and respect. Gradually Dorothy came to understand the meaning of

this, but her aunt would sometimes say things about young men which she

did not quite understand. Could it be that her aunt supposed that any

young man would come and wish to marry her—her, Dorothy Stanbury? She

herself had not quite so strong an aversion to men in general as that

which Priscilla felt, but she had not as yet found that any of those

whom she had seen at Exeter were peculiarly agreeable to her. Before

she went to bed that night her aunt said a word to her which startled

her more than she had ever been startled before. On that evening Miss

Stanbury had a few friends to drink tea with her. There were Mr and Mrs

Crumbie, and Mrs MacHugh of course, and the Cheritons from Alphington,

and the Miss Apjohns from Helion Villa, and old Mr Powel all the way

from Haldon, and two of the Wrights from their house in the

Northernhay, and Mr Gibson; but the Miss Frenches from Heavitree were

not there. ‘Why don’t you have the Miss Frenches, aunt?’ Dorothy had

asked.

 

‘Bother the Miss Frenches! I’m not bound to have them every time.

There’s Camilla has been and got herself a bandbox on the back of her

head a great deal bigger than the place inside where her brains ought

to be.’ But the bandbox at the back of Camilla French’s head was not

the sole cause of the omission of the two sisters from the list of Miss

Stanbury’s visitors on this occasion.

 

The party went off very much as usual. There were two whist tables, for

Miss Stanbury could not bear to cut out. At other houses than her own,

when there was cutting out, it was quite understood that Miss Stanbury

was to be allowed to keep her place. ‘I’ll go away, and sit out there

by myself, if you like,’ she would say. But she was never thus

banished; and at her own house she usually contrived that there should

be no system of banishment. She would play dummy whist, preferring it

to the four-handed game; and, when hard driven, and with a meet

opponent, would not even despise double-dummy. It was told of her and

of Mrs MacHugh that they had played double-dummy for a whole evening

together; and they who were given to calumny had declared that the

candles on that evening had been lighted very early. On the present

occasion a great many sixpenny points were scored, and much tea and

cake were consumed. Mr Gibson never played whist nor did Dorothy. That

young John Wright and Mary Cheriton should do nothing but talk to each

other was a thing of course, as they were to be married in a month or

two. Then there was Ida Cheriton, who could not very well be left at

home; and Mr Gibson made himself pleasant to Dorothy and Ida Cheriton,

instead of making himself pleasant to the two Miss Frenches. Gentlemen

in provincial towns quite understand that, from the nature of social

circumstances in the provinces, they should always be ready to be

pleasant at least to a pair at a time. At a few minutes before twelve

they were all gone, and then came the shock.

 

‘Dolly, my dear, what do you think of Mr Gibson?’

 

‘Think of him, Aunt Stanbury?’

 

‘Yes; think of him think of him. I suppose you know how to think?’

 

‘He seems to me always to preach very drawling sermons.’

 

‘Oh, bother his sermons! I don’t care anything about his sermons now.

He is a very good clergyman, and the Dean thinks very much about him.’

 

‘I am glad of that, Aunt Stanbury.’ Then came the shock. ‘Don’t you

think it would be a very good thing if you were to become Mrs Gibson?’

 

It may be presumed that Miss Stanbury had assured herself that she

could not make progress with Dorothy by ‘beating about the bush.’ There

was an inaptitude in her niece to comprehend the advantages of the

situations, which made some direct explanation absolutely necessary.

Dorothy stood half smiling, half crying, when she heard the

proposition, her cheeks suffused with that pink colour, and with both

her hands extended with surprise.

 

‘I’ve been thinking about it ever since you’ve been here,’ said Miss

Stanbury.

 

‘I think he likes Miss French,’ said Dorothy, in a whisper.

 

‘Which of them? I don’t believe he likes them at all. Maybe, if they go

on long enough, they may be able to toss up for him. But I don’t think

it of him. Of course they’re after him, but he’ll be too wise for them.

And he’s more of a fool than I take him to be if he don’t prefer you to

them.’ Dorothy remained quite silent. To such an address as this it was

impossible that she should reply a word. It was incredible to her that

any man should prefer herself to either of the young women in question;

but she was too much confounded for the expression even of her

humility. ‘At any rate you’re wholesome, and pleasant and modest,’ said

Miss Stanbury.

 

Dorothy did not quite like being told that she was wholesome; but,

nevertheless, she was thankful to her aunt.

 

‘I’ll tell you what it is,’ continued Miss Stanbury; ‘I hate all

mysteries, especially with those I love. I’ve saved two thousand

pounds, which I’ve put you down for in my will. Now, if you and he can

make it up together, I’ll give you the money at once. There’s no

knowing how often an old woman may alter her will; but when you’ve got

a thing, you’ve got it. Mr Gibson would know the meaning of a bird in

the hand as well as anybody. Now those girls at Heavitree will never

have above a few hundreds each, and not that while their mother lives.’

Dorothy made one little attempt at squeezing her aunt’s hand, wishing

to thank her aunt for this affectionate generosity; but she had hardly

accomplished the squeeze, when she desisted, feeling strangely averse

to any acknowledgment of such a boon as that which had been offered to

her. ‘And now, good night, my dear. If I did not think you a very

sensible young woman, I