Books: He Knew He Was Right

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'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 round the bush,
when the only chance of getting the game was to be had by dashing at
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 candour, 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 strait 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 Crumbie says that you positively are engaged to marry Dorothy
Stanbury.'

'What does Mrs Crumbie 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 head-dress 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 avaunt.
'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! She has been shut up in a
little country cottage all her life just a labourer's hovel, no more
and though it wasn't her fault, of course, and we all pitied her, and
were 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. Miss Stanbury,
you know, is a woman who expresses herself strongly.'

'What would she say, if she were told that you and I were going to
marry those two girls? 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. 'For my part, I
rather like girls with chignons, and all that sort of get-up. 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.

CHAPTER XXXVI - 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 endeavouring 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 prebends who had a
better house. And there was a dovelike 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 shewn 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 fiddlestick! Offence indeed! An offer from an honest man,
with her friends' 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 bandboxes on their
sconces? Just simply the old reason "I do not like thee, Dr. 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'd made up her mind. I've coaxed,
and scolded, 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 a way
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 Stanbury?'

'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 have been seeing it come all the same. It's
just the Stanbury 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 Stanbury had painted for him a picture which, as it seemed,
was not to be realised. 'And what had I better do, Miss Stanbury?' 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 Stanbury,' he
said.

'So you have,' said she 'nasty, slatternly girls, without an idea
inside their noddles. But it's no use your scolding me.'

'I didn't mean to scold, Miss Stanbury.'

'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 Close, he passed through into Southernhay, and walked
across by the new streets towards the Heavitree road. He had no design
in taking this route, but he went on till he came in sight 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, an 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, and 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 Stan bury 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
some one 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 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. Why did you pretend to me that you would have
him when you had made up your mind against it all the time?'

'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've 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
oughtn't 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're tired of us all.'

'It is not that I'm tired, Aunt Stanbury. It isn't that at all.'
Dorothy had now become red up. to the roots of her hair, and her eyes
were full of tears. '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.

CHAPTER XXXVII - MONT CENIS

The night had been fine and warm, and it was now noon on a fine
September day when the train from. Paris reached St. Michael, on the
route to Italy by Mont Cenis as all the world knows St. Michael is, or
was a year or two back, the end of the railway travelling in that
direction. At the time Mr Fell's grand project of carrying a line of
rails over the top of the mountain was only in preparation, and the
journey from St. Michael to Susa was still made by the diligences those
dear old continental coaches which are now nearly as extinct as our
own, but which did not deserve death so fully as did our abominable
vehicles. The coupe of a diligence, or, better still, the banquette,
was a luxurious mode of travelling as compared with anything that our
coaches offered. There used indeed to be a certain halo of glory round
the occupant of the box of a mail-coach. The man who had secured that
seat was supposed to know something about the world, and to be such a
one that the passengers sitting behind him would be proud to be allowed
to talk to him. But the prestige of the position was greater than the
comfort. A night on the box of a mail-coach was but a bad time, and a
night inside a mail-coach was a night in purgatory. Whereas a seat up
above, on the banquette of a diligence passing over the Alps, with room
for the feet, and support for the back, with plenty of rugs and plenty
of tobacco, used to be on the Mont Cenis, and still is on some other
mountain passes, a very comfortable mode of seeing a mountain route.
For those desirous of occupying the coupe, or the three front seats of
the body of the vehicle, it must be admitted that difficulties
frequently arose; and that such difficulties were very common at St.
Michael. There would be two or three of those enormous vehicles
preparing to start for the mountain, whereas it would appear that
twelve or fifteen passengers had come down from Paris armed with
tickets assuring them that this preferable mode of travelling should be
theirs. And then assertions would be made, somewhat recklessly, by the
officials, to the effect that all the diligence was coupe. It would
generally be the case that some middle-aged Englishman who could not
speak French would go to the wall, together with his wife. Middle-aged
Englishmen with their wives, who can't speak French, can nevertheless
be very angry, and threaten loudly, when they suppose themselves to be
ill-treated. A middle-aged Englishman, though he can't speak a word of
French, won't believe a French official who tells him that the
diligence is all coupe, when he finds himself with his unfortunate
partner in a roundabout place behind with two priests, a dirty man who
looks like a brigand, a sick maid-servant, and three agricultural
labourers. The attempt, however, was frequently made, and thus there
used to be occasionally a little noise round the bureau at St. Michael.

On the morning of which we are speaking, two Englishmen had just made
good their claim, each independently of the other, each without having
heard or seen the other, when two American ladies, coming up very
tardily, endeavoured to prove their rights. The ladies were without
other companions, and were not fluent with their French, but were
clearly entitled to their seats. They were told that the conveyance was
all coupe, but perversely would not believe the statement. The official
shrugged his shoulders and signified that his ultimatum had been
pronounced. What can an official do in such circumstances, when more
coupe passengers are sent to him than the coupes at his command will
hold? 'But we have paid for the coupe,' said the elder American lady,
with considerable indignation, though her French was imperfect for
American ladies understand their rights. 'Bah; yes; you have paid and
you shall go. What would you have?' 'We would have what we have paid
for,' said the American lady. Then the official rose from his stool and
shrugged his shoulders again, and made a motion with both his hands,
intended to shew that the thing was finished. 'It is a robbery,' said
the elder American lady to the younger. 'I should not mind, only you
are so unwell.' 'It will not kill me, I dare say,' said the younger.
Then one of the English gentlemen declared that his place was very much
at the service of the invalid and the other Englishman declared that
his also was at the service of the invalid's companion. Then, and not
till then, the two men recognised each other. One was Mr Glascock, on
his way to Naples, and the other was Mr Trevelyan, on his way he knew
not whither.

Upon this, of course, they spoke to each other. In London they had been
well acquainted, each having been an intimate guest at the house of old
Lady Milborough. And each knew something of the other's recent history.
Mr Glascock was aware, as was all the world, that Trevelyan had
quarrelled with his wife; and Trevelyan was aware that Mr Glascock had
been spoken of as a suitor to his own sister-in-law. Of that visit
which Mr Glascock had made to Nuncombe Putney, and of the manner in
which Nora had behaved to her lover, Trevelyan knew nothing. Their
greetings spoken, their first topic of conversation was, of course, the
injury proposed to be done to the American ladies, and which would now
fall upon them. They went into the waiting-room together, and during
such toilet as they could make there, grumbled furiously. They would
take post horses over the mountain, not from any love of solitary
grandeur, but in order that they might make the company pay for its
iniquity. But it was soon apparent to them that they themselves had no
ground of complaint, and as everybody was very civil, and as a seat in
the banquette over the heads of the American ladies was provided for
them, and as the man from the bureau came and apologised, they
consented to be pacified, and ended, of course, by tipping half-a-dozen
of the servants about the yard. Mr Glascock had a man of his own with
him, who was very nearly being put on to the same seat with his master
as an extra civility; but this inconvenience was at last avoided.
Having settled these little difficulties, they went into breakfast in
the buffet.