He Knew He Was Right, Anthony Trollope [children's ebooks free online .TXT] 📗

her niece, she was pleased to promise

that such visits should be permitted on a Wednesday morning. Such a

visit was now to be made, and old Miss Stanbury was quite moved by the

occasion. ‘I shall not see them, you know, Martha,’ she had said, on

the afternoon of the preceding day.

 

‘I suppose not, ma’am.’

 

‘Certainly not. Why should I? It would do no good.’

 

‘It is not for me to say, ma’am, of course.’

 

‘No, Martha, it is not. And I am sure that I am right. It’s no good

going back and undoing in ten minutes what twenty years have done.

She’s a poor harmless creature, I believe.’

 

‘The most harmless in the world, ma’am.’

 

‘But she was as bad as poison to me when she was young, and what’s the

good of trying to change it now? If I was to tell her that I loved her,

I should only be lying.’

 

‘Then, ma’am, I would not say it.’

 

‘And I don’t mean. But you’ll take in some wine and cake, you know.’

 

‘I don’t think they’ll care for wine and cake.’

 

‘Will you do as I tell you? What matters whether they care for it or

not. They need not take it. It will look better for Miss Dorothy. If

Dorothy is to remain here I shall choose that she should be respected.’

And so the question of the cake and wine had been decided overnight.

But when the morning came Miss Stanbury was still in a twitter.

Half-past ten had been the hour fixed for the visit, in consequence of

there being a train in from Lessboro’, due at the Exeter station at

ten. As Miss Stanbury breakfasted always at half-past eight, there was

no need of hurry on account of the expected visit. But, nevertheless,

she was in a fuss all the morning; and spoke of the coming period as

one in which she must necessarily put herself into solitary

confinement.

 

‘Perhaps your mamma will be cold,’ she said, ‘and will expect a fire.’

 

‘Oh, dear, no, Aunt Stanbury.’

 

‘It could be lighted of course. It is a pity they should come just so

as to prevent you from going to morning service; is it not?’

 

‘I could go with you, aunt, and be back very nearly in time. They won’t

mind waiting a quarter of an hour.’

 

‘What; and have them here all alone! I wouldn’t think of such a thing.

I shall go upstairs. You had better come to me when they are gone.

Don’t hurry them. I don’t want you to hurry them at all; and if you

require anything, Martha will wait upon you. I have told the girls to

keep out of the way. They are so giddy, there’s no knowing what they

might be after. Besides they’ve got their work to mind.’

 

All this was very terrible to poor Dorothy, who had not as yet quite

recovered from the original fear with which her aunt had inspired her—

so terrible that she was almost sorry that her mother and sister were

coming to her. When the knock was heard at the door, precisely as the

cathedral clock was striking half-past ten, to secure which punctuality,

and thereby not to offend the owner of the mansion, Mrs Stanbury and

Priscilla had been walking about the Close for the last ten minutes

Miss Stanbury was still in the parlour.

 

‘There they are!’ she exclaimed, jumping up. ‘They haven’t given a body

much time to run away, have they, my dear? Half a minute, Martha just

half a minute!’ Then she gathered up her things as though she had been

ill-treated in being driven to make so sudden a retreat, and Martha, as

soon as the last hem of her mistress’s dress had become invisible on

the stairs, opened the front door for the visitors.

 

‘Do you mean to say you like it?’ said Priscilla, when they had been

there about a quarter of an hour.

 

‘H u sh,’ whispered Mrs Stanbury.

 

‘I don’t suppose she’s listening at the door,’ said Priscilla.

 

‘Indeed, she’s not,’ said Dorothy. ‘There can’t be a truer, honester

woman, than Aunt Stanbury.’

 

‘But is she kind to you, Dolly?’ asked the mother.

 

‘Very kind; too kind. Only I don’t understand her quite, and then she

gets angry with me. I know she thinks I’m a fool, and that’s the worst

of it.’

 

‘Then, if I were you, I would come home,’ said Priscilla.

 

‘She’ll never forgive you if you do,’ said Mrs Stanbury.

 

‘And who need care about her forgiveness?’ said Priscilla.

 

‘I don’t mean to go home yet, at any rate,’ said Dorothy. Then there

was a knock at the door, and Martha entered with the cake and wine.

‘Miss Stanbury’s compliments, ladies, and she hopes you’ll take a glass

of sherry.’ Whereupon she filled out the glasses and carried them

round.

 

‘Pray give my compliments and thanks to my sister Stanbury,’ said

Dorothy’s mother. But Priscilla put down the glass of wine without

touching it, and looked her sternest at the maid.

 

Altogether, the visit was not very successful, and poor Dorothy almost

felt that if she chose to remain in the Close she must lose her mother

and sister, and that without really making a friend of her aunt. There

had as yet been no quarrel, nothing that had been plainly recognised as

disagreeable; but there had not as yet come to be any sympathy, or

assured signs of comfortable love. Miss Stanbury had declared more than

once that it would do, but had not succeeded in showing in what the

success consisted. When she was told that the two ladies were gone, she

desired that Dorothy might be sent to her, and immediately began to

make anxious inquiries.

 

‘Well, my dear, and what do they think of it?’

 

‘I don’t know, aunt, that they think very much.’

 

‘And what do they say about it?’

 

‘They didn’t say very much, aunt. I was very glad to see mamma and

Priscilla. Perhaps I ought to tell you that mamma gave me back the

money I sent her.’

 

‘What did she do that for?’ asked Miss Stanbury very sharply.

 

‘Because she says that Hugh sends her now what she wants.’ Miss

Stanbury, when she heard this, looked very sour. ‘I thought it best to

tell you, you know.’

 

‘It will never come to any good, got in that way, never.’

 

‘But, Aunt Stanbury, isn’t it good of him to send it?’

 

‘I don’t know. I suppose it’s better than drinking, and smoking, and

gambling. But I dare say he gets enough for that too. When a man, born

and bred like a gentleman, condescends to let out his talents and

education for such purposes, I dare say they are willing enough to pay

him. The devil always does pay high wages. But that only makes it so

much the worse. One almost comes to doubt whether any one ought to

learn to write at all, when it is used for such vile purposes. I’ve

said what I’ve got to say, and I don’t mean to say anything more.

What’s the use? But it has been hard upon me very. It was my money did

it, and I feel I’ve misused it. It’s a disgrace to me which I don’t

deserve.’

 

For a couple of minutes Dorothy remained quite silent, and Miss

Stanbury did not herself say anything further. Nor during that time did

she observe her niece, or she would probably have seen that the subject

was not to be dropped. Dorothy, though she was silent, was not calm,

and was preparing herself for a crusade in her brother’s defence.

 

‘Aunt Stanbury, he’s my brother, you know.’

 

‘Of course he’s your brother. I wish he were not.’

 

‘I think him the best brother in the world and the best son.’

 

‘Why does he sell himself to write sedition?’

 

‘He doesn’t sell himself to write sedition. I don’t see why it should

be sedition, or anything wicked, because it’s sold for a penny.’

 

‘If you are going to cram him down my throat, Dorothy, you and I had

better part.’

 

‘I don’t want to say anything about him, only you ought not to abuse

him before me.’

 

By this time Dorothy was beginning to sob, but Miss Stanbury’s

countenance was still very grim and very stern. ‘He’s coming home to

Nuncombe Putney, and I want to see see him,’ continued Dorothy.

 

‘Hugh Stanbury coming to Exeter! He won’t come here.’

 

‘Then I’d rather go home, Aunt Stanbury.’

 

‘Very well, very well,’ said Miss Stanbury, and she got up and left the

room.

 

Dorothy was in dismay, and began to think that there was nothing for

her to do but to pack up her clothes and prepare for her departure. She

was very sorry for what had occurred, being fully alive to the

importance of the aid not only to herself, but to her mother and

sister, which was afforded by the present arrangement, and she felt

very angry with herself, in that she had already driven her aunt to

quarrel with her. But she had found it to be impossible to hear her own

brother abused without saying a word on his behalf. She did not see her

aunt again till dinnertime, and then there was hardly a word uttered.

Once or twice Dorothy made a little effort to speak, but these attempts

failed utterly. The old woman would hardly reply even by a

monosyllable, but simply muttered something, or shook her head when she

was addressed. Jane, who waited at table, was very demure and silent,

and Martha, who once came into the room during the meal, merely

whispered a word into Miss Stanbury’s ear. When the cloth was removed,

and two glasses of port had been poured out by Miss Stanbury herself,

Dorothy felt that she could endure this treatment no longer. How was it

possible that she could drink wine under such circumstances?

 

‘Not for me, Aunt Stanbury,’ said she, with a deploring tone.

 

‘Why not?’

 

‘I couldn’t drink it today.’

 

‘Why didn’t you say so before it was poured out? And why not today?

Come, drink it. Do as I bid you.’ And she stood over her niece, as a

tragedy queen in a play with a bowl of poison. Dorothy took it and

sipped it from mere force of obedience. ‘You make as many bones about a

glass of port wine as though it were senna and salts,’ said Miss

Stanbury. ‘Now I’ve got something to say to you.’ By this time the

servant was gone, and the two were seated alone together in the

parlour. Dorothy, who had not as yet swallowed above half her wine, at

once put the glass down. There was an importance in her aunt’s tone

which frightened her, and made her feel that some evil was coming. And

yet, as she had made up her mind that she must return home, there was

no further evil that she need dread. ‘You didn’t write any of those

horrid articles?’ said Miss Stanbury.

 

‘No, aunt; I didn’t write them. I shouldn’t know how.’

 

‘And I hope you’ll never learn. They say women are to vote, and become

doctors, and if so, there’s no knowing what devil’s tricks they mayn’t

do. But it isn’t your fault about that filthy newspaper. How he can let

himself down to write stuff that is to be printed on straw is what I

can’t understand.’

 

‘I don’t see how it can make a difference as he writes it.’

 

‘It would make