<p><SPAN name="c51" id="c51"></SPAN> </p>
<p> </p>
<h3>CHAPTER LI.</h3>
<h4>SHEWING WHAT HAPPENED<br/>DURING MISS STANBURY'S ILLNESS.<br/> </h4>
<p>It was on Christmas-day that Sir Peter Mancrudy, the highest
authority on such matters in the west of England, was sent for to see
Miss Stanbury; and Sir Peter had acknowledged that things were very
serious. He took Dorothy on one side, and told her that Mr. Martin,
the ordinary practitioner, had treated the case, no doubt, quite
wisely throughout; that there was not a word to be said against Mr.
Martin, whose experience was great, and whose discretion was
undeniable; but, nevertheless,—at least it seemed to Dorothy that
this was the only meaning to be attributed to Sir Peter's words,—Mr.
Martin had in this case taken one line of treatment, when he ought to
have taken another. The plan of action was undoubtedly changed, and
Mr. Martin became very fidgety, and ordered nothing without Sir
Peter's sanction. Miss Stanbury was suffering from bronchitis, and a
complication of diseases about her throat and chest. Barty Burgess
declared to more than one acquaintance in the little parlour behind
the bank, that she would go on drinking four or five glasses of new
port wine every day, in direct opposition to Martin's request.
Camilla French heard the report, and repeated it to her lover, and
perhaps another person or two, with an expression of her assured
conviction that it must be false,—at any rate, as regarded the fifth
glass. Mrs. MacHugh, who saw Martha daily, was much frightened. The
peril of such a friend disturbed equally the repose and the pleasures
of her life. Mrs. Clifford was often at Miss Stanbury's
bed-side,—and would have sat there reading for hours together, had
she not been made to understand by Martha that Miss Stanbury
preferred that Miss Dorothy should read to her. The sick woman
received the Sacrament weekly,—not from Mr. Gibson, but from the
hands of another minor canon; and, though she never would admit her
own danger, or allow others to talk to her of it, it was known to
them all that she admitted it to herself because she had, with much
personal annoyance, caused a codicil to be added to her will. "As you
didn't marry that man," she said to Dorothy, "I must change it
again." It was in vain that Dorothy begged her not to trouble herself
with such thoughts. "That's trash," said Miss Stanbury, angrily. "A
person who has it is bound to trouble himself about it. You don't
suppose I'm afraid of dying;—do you?" she added. Dorothy answered
her with some commonplace,—declaring how strongly they all expected
to see her as well as ever. "I'm not a bit afraid to die," said the
old woman, wheezing, struggling with such voice as she possessed;
"I'm not afraid of it, and I don't think I shall die this time; but
I'm not going to have mistakes when I'm gone." This was on the eve of
the new year, and on the same night she asked Dorothy to write to
Brooke Burgess, and request him to come to Exeter. This was Dorothy's
<span class="nowrap">letter:—</span><br/> </p>
<blockquote>
<p class="jright">Exeter, 31st December, 186—.</p>
<p class="noindent"><span class="smallcaps">My Dear Mr. Burgess</span>,</p>
<p>Perhaps I ought to have written before, to say that Aunt
Stanbury is not as well as we could wish her; but, as I
know that you cannot very well leave your office, I have
thought it best not to say anything to frighten you. But
to-night Aunt herself has desired me to tell you that she
thinks you ought to know that she is ill, and that she
wishes you to come to Exeter for a day or two, if it is
possible. Sir Peter Mancrudy has been here every day since
Christmas-day, and I believe he thinks she may get over
it. It is chiefly in the throat;—what they call
bronchitis,—and she has got to be very weak with it, and
at the same time very liable to inflammation. So I know
that you will come if you can.</p>
<p class="ind10">Yours very truly,</p>
<p class="ind12"><span class="smallcaps">Dorothy Stanbury</span>.</p>
<p class="noindent">Perhaps I ought
to tell you that she had her lawyer here
with her the day before yesterday; but she does not seem
to think that she herself is in danger. I read to her a
good deal, and I think she is generally asleep; when I
stop she wakes, and I don't believe she gets any other
rest at all.<br/> </p>
</blockquote>
<p>When it was known in Exeter that Brooke Burgess had been sent for,
then the opinion became general that Miss Stanbury's days were
numbered. Questions were asked of Sir Peter at every corner of the
street; but Sir Peter was a discreet man, who could answer such
questions without giving any information. If it so pleased God, his
patient would die; but it was quite possible that she might live.
That was the tenor of Sir Peter's replies,—and they were read in any
light, according to the idiosyncracies of the reader. Mrs. MacHugh
was quite sure that the danger was over, and had a little game of
cribbage on the sly with old Miss Wright;—for, during the severity
of Miss Stanbury's illness, whist was put on one side in the vicinity
of the Close. Barty Burgess was still obdurate, and shook his head.
He was of opinion that they might soon gratify their curiosity, and
see the last crowning iniquity of this wickedest of old women. Mrs.
Clifford declared that it was all in the hands of God; but that she
saw no reason why Miss Stanbury should not get about again. Mr.
Gibson thought that it was all up with his late friend; and Camilla
wished that at their last interview there had been more of charity on
the part of one whom she had regarded in past days with respect and
esteem. Mrs. French, despondent about everything, was quite
despondent in this case. Martha almost despaired, and already was
burdened with the cares of a whole wardrobe of solemn funereal
clothing. She was seen peering in for half-an-hour at the windows and
doorway of a large warehouse for the sale of mourning. Giles Hickbody
would not speak above his breath, and took his beer standing; but
Dorothy was hopeful, and really believed that her aunt would recover.
Perhaps Sir Peter had spoken to her in terms less oracular than those
which he used towards the public.</p>
<p>Brooke Burgess came, and had an interview with Sir Peter, and to him
Sir Peter was under some obligation to speak plainly, as being the
person whom Miss Stanbury recognised as her heir. So Sir Peter
declared that his patient might perhaps live, and perhaps might die.
"The truth is, Mr. Burgess," said Sir Peter, "a doctor doesn't know
so very much more about these things than other people." It was
understood that Brooke was to remain three days in Exeter, and then
return to London. He would, of course, come again if—if anything
should happen. Sir Peter had been quite clear in his opinion, that no
immediate result was to be anticipated,—either in the one direction
or the other. His patient was doomed to a long illness; she might get
over it, or she might succumb to it.</p>
<p>Dorothy and Brooke were thus thrown much together during these three
days. Dorothy, indeed, spent most of her hours beside her aunt's bed,
instigating sleep by the reading of a certain series of sermons in
which Miss Stanbury had great faith; but nevertheless, there were
some minutes in which she and Brooke were necessarily together. They
eat their meals in each other's company, and there was a period in
the evening, before Dorothy began her night-watch in her aunt's room,
at which she took her tea while Martha was nurse in the room above.
At this time of the day she would remain an hour or more with Brooke;
and a great deal may be said between a man and a woman in an hour
when the will to say it is there. Brooke Burgess had by no means
changed his mind since he had declared it to Hugh Stanbury under the
midnight lamps of Long Acre, when warmed by the influence of oysters
and whisky toddy. The whisky toddy had in that instance brought out
truth and not falsehood,—as is ever the nature of whisky toddy and
similar dangerous provocatives. There is no saying truer than that
which declares that there is truth in wine. Wine is a dangerous
thing, and should not be made the exponent of truth, let the truth be
good as it may; but it has the merit of forcing a man to show his
true colours. A man who is a gentleman in his cups may be trusted to
be a gentleman at all times. I trust that the severe censor will not
turn upon me, and tell me that no gentleman in these days is ever to
be seen in his cups. There are cups of different degrees of depth;
and cups do exist, even among gentlemen, and seem disposed to hold
their own let the censor be ever so severe. The gentleman in his cups
is a gentleman always; and the man who tells his friend in his cups
that he is in love, does so because the fact has been very present to
himself in his cooler and calmer moments. Brooke Burgess, who had
seen Hugh Stanbury on two or three occasions since that of the
oysters and toddy, had not spoken again of his regard for Hugh's
sister; but not the less was he determined to carry out his plan and
make Dorothy his wife if she would accept him. But could he ask her
while the old lady was, as it might be, dying in the house? He put
this question to himself as he travelled down to Exeter, and had told
himself that he must be guided for an answer by circumstances as they
might occur. Hugh had met him at the station as he started for
Exeter, and there had been a consultation between them as to the
propriety of bringing about, or of attempting to bring about, an
interview between Hugh and his aunt. "Do whatever you like," Hugh had
said. "I would go down to her at a moment's warning, if she should
express a desire to see me."</p>
<p>On the first night of Brooke's arrival this question had been
discussed between him and Dorothy. Dorothy had declared herself
unable to give advice. If any message were given to her she would
deliver it to her aunt, but she thought that anything said to her
aunt on the subject had better come from Brooke himself. "You
evidently are the person most important to her," Dorothy said, "and
she would listen to you when she would not let any one else say a
word." Brooke promised that he would think of it; and then Dorothy
tripped up to relieve Martha, dreaming nothing at all of that other
doubt to which the important personage downstairs was now subject.
Dorothy was, in truth, very fond of the new friend she had made; but
it had never occurred to her that he might be a possible suitor to
her. Her old conception of herself,—that she was beneath the notice
of any man,—had only been partly disturbed by the absolute fact of
Mr. Gibson's courtship. She had now heard of his engagement with
Camilla French, and saw in that complete proof that the foolish man
had been induced to offer his hand to her by the promise of her
aunt's money. If there had been a moment of exaltation,—a period in
which she had allowed herself to think that she was, as other women,
capable of making herself dear to a man,—it had been but a moment.
And now she rejoiced greatly that she had not acceded to the wishes
of one to whom it was so manifest that she had not made herself in
the least dear.</p>
<p>On the second day of his visit, Brooke was summoned to Miss
Stanbury's room at noon. She was forbidden to talk, and during a
great portion of the day could hardly speak without an effort; but
there would be half hours now and again in which she would become
stronger than usual, at which time nothing that Martha and Dorothy
could say would induce her to hold her tongue. When Brooke came to
her on this occasion he found her sitting up in bed with a great
shawl round her; and he at once perceived she was much more like her
own self than on the former day. She told him that she had been an
old fool for sending for him, that she had nothing special to say to
him, that she had made no alteration in her will in regard to
him,—"except that I have done something for Dolly that will have to
come out of your pocket, Brooke." Brooke declared that too much could
not be done for a person so good, and dear, and excellent as Dorothy
Stanbury, let it come out of whose pocket it might. "She is nothing
to you, you know," said Miss Stanbury.</p>
<p>"She is a great deal to me," said Brooke.</p>
<p>"What is she?" asked Miss Stanbury.</p>
<p>"Oh;—a friend; a great friend."</p>
<p>"Well; yes. I hope it may be so. But she won't have anything that I
haven't saved," said Miss Stanbury. "There are two houses at St.
Thomas's; but I bought them myself, Brooke;—out of the income."
Brooke could only declare that as the whole property was hers, to do
what she liked with it as completely as though she had inherited it
from her own father, no one could have any right to ask questions as
to when or how this or that portion of the property had accrued. "But
I don't think I'm going to die yet, Brooke," she said. "If it is
God's will, I am ready. Not that I'm fit, Brooke. God forbid that I
should ever think that. But I doubt whether I shall ever be fitter. I
can go without repining if He thinks best to take me." Then he stood
up by her bedside, with his hand upon hers, and after some hesitation
asked her whether she would wish to see her nephew Hugh. "No," said
she, sharply. Brooke went on to say how pleased Hugh would have been
to come to her. "I don't think much of death-bed reconciliations,"
said the old woman, grimly. "I loved him dearly, but he didn't love
me, and I don't know what good we should do each other." Brooke
declared that Hugh did love her; but he could not press the matter,
and it was dropped.</p>
<p>On that evening at eight Dorothy came down to her tea. She had dined
at the same table with Brooke that afternoon, but a servant had been
in the room all the time and nothing had been said between them. As
soon as Brooke had got his tea he began to tell the story of his
failure about Hugh. He was sorry, he said, that he had spoken on the
subject, as it had moved Miss Stanbury to an acrimony which he had
not expected.</p>
<p>"She always declares that he never loved her," said Dorothy. "She has
told me so twenty times."</p>
<p>"There are people who fancy that nobody cares for them," said Brooke.</p>
<p>"Indeed there are, Mr. Burgess; and it is so natural."</p>
<p>"Why natural?"</p>
<p>"Just as it is natural that there should be dogs and cats that are
petted and loved and made much of, and others that have to crawl
through life as they can, cuffed and kicked and starved."</p>
<p>"That depends on the accident of possession," said Brooke.</p>
<p>"So does the other. How many people there are that don't seem to
belong to anybody,—and if they do, they're no good to anybody.
They're not cuffed exactly, or starved;
<span class="nowrap">but—"</span></p>
<p>"You mean that they don't get their share of affection?"</p>
<p>"They get perhaps as much as they deserve," said Dorothy.</p>
<p>"Because they're cross-grained, or ill-tempered, or disagreeable?"</p>
<p>"Not exactly that."</p>
<p>"What then?" asked Brooke.</p>
<p>"Because they're just nobodies. They are not anything particular to
anybody, and so they go on living till they die. You know what I
mean, Mr. Burgess. A man who is a nobody can perhaps make himself
somebody,—or, at any rate, he can try; but a woman has no means of
trying. She is a nobody, and a nobody she must remain. She has her
clothes and her food, but she isn't wanted anywhere. People put up
with her, and that is about the best of her luck. If she were to die
somebody perhaps would be sorry for her, but nobody would be worse
off. She doesn't earn anything or do any good. She is just there and
that's all."</p>
<p>Brooke had never heard her speak after this fashion before, had never
known her to utter so many consecutive words, or to put forward any
opinion of her own with so much vigour. And Dorothy herself, when she
had concluded her speech, was frightened by her own energy and grew
red in the face, and showed very plainly that she was half ashamed of
herself. Brooke thought that he had never seen her look so pretty
before, and was pleased by her enthusiasm. He understood perfectly
that she was thinking of her own position, though she had entertained
no idea that he would so read her meaning; and he felt that it was
incumbent on him to undeceive her, and make her know that she was not
one of those women who are "just there and that's all." "One does see
such a woman as that now and again," he said.</p>
<p>"There are hundreds of them," said Dorothy. "And of course it can't
be helped."</p>
<p>"Such as Arabella French," said he, laughing.</p>
<p>"Well,—yes; if she is one. It is very easy to see the difference.
Some people are of use and are always doing things. There are others,
generally women, who have nothing to do, but who can't be got rid of.
It is a melancholy sort of feeling."</p>
<p>"You at least are not one of them."</p>
<p>"I didn't mean to complain about myself," she said. "I have got a
great deal to make me happy."</p>
<p>"I don't suppose you regard yourself as an Arabella French," said he.</p>
<p>"How angry Miss French would be if she heard you. She considers
herself to be one of the reigning beauties of Exeter."</p>
<p>"She has had a very long reign, and dominion of that sort to be
successful ought to be short."</p>
<p>"That is spiteful, Mr. Burgess."</p>
<p>"I don't feel spiteful against her, poor woman. I own I do not love
Camilla. Not that I begrudge Camilla her present prosperity."</p>
<p>"Nor I either, Mr. Burgess."</p>
<p>"She and Mr. Gibson will do very well together, I dare say."</p>
<p>"I hope they will," said Dorothy, "and I do not see any reason
against it. They have known each other a long time."</p>
<p>"A very long time," said Brooke. Then he paused for a minute,
thinking how he might best tell her that which he had now resolved
should be told on this occasion. Dorothy finished her tea and got up
as though she were about to go to her duty up-stairs. She had been as
yet hardly an hour in the room, and the period of her relief was not
fairly over. But there had come something of a personal flavour in
their conversation which prompted her, unconsciously, to leave him.
She had, without any special indication of herself, included herself
among that company of old maids who are born and live and die without
that vital interest in the affairs of life which nothing but family
duties, the care of children, or at least of a husband, will give to
a woman. If she had not meant this she had felt it. He had understood
her meaning, or at least her feeling, and had taken upon himself to
assure her that she was not one of the company whose privations she
had endeavoured to describe. Her instinct rather than her reason put
her at once upon her guard, and she prepared to leave the room. "You
are not going yet," he said.</p>
<p>"I think I might as well. Martha has so much to do, and she comes to
me again at five in the morning."</p>
<p>"Don't go quite yet," he said, pulling out his watch. "I know all
about the hours, and it wants twenty minutes to the proper time."</p>
<p>"There is no proper time, Mr. Burgess."</p>
<p>"Then you can remain a few minutes longer. The fact is, I've got
something I want to say to you."</p>
<p>He was now standing between her and the door, so that she could not
get away from him; but at this moment she was absolutely ignorant of
his purpose, expecting nothing of love from him more than she would
from Sir Peter Mancrudy. Her face had become flushed when she made
her long speech, but there was no blush on it as she answered him
now. "Of course, I can wait," she said, "if you have anything to say
to me."</p>
<p>"Well;—I have. I should have said it before, only that that other
man was here." He was blushing now,—up to the roots of his hair, and
felt that he was in a difficulty. There are men, to whom such moments
of their lives are pleasurable, but Brooke Burgess was not one of
them. He would have been glad to have had it done and over,—so that
then he might take pleasure in it.</p>
<p>"What man?" asked Dorothy, in perfect innocence.</p>
<p>"Mr. Gibson, to be sure. I don't know that there is anybody else."</p>
<p>"Oh, Mr. Gibson. He never comes here now, and I don't suppose he will
again. Aunt Stanbury is so very angry with him."</p>
<p>"I don't care whether he comes or not. What I mean is this. When I
was here before, I was told that you were going—to marry him."</p>
<p>"But I wasn't."</p>
<p>"How was I to know that, when you didn't tell me? I certainly did
know it after I came back from Dartmoor." He paused a moment, as
though she might have a word to say. She had no word to say, and did
not in the least know what was coming. She was so far from
anticipating the truth, that she was composed and easy in her mind.
"But all that is of no use at all," he continued. "When I was here
before Miss Stanbury wanted you to marry Mr. Gibson; and, of course,
I had nothing to say about it. Now I want you—to marry me."</p>
<p>"Mr. Burgess!"</p>
<p>"Dorothy, my darling, I love you better than all the world. I do,
indeed." As soon as he had commenced his protestations he became
profuse enough with them, and made a strong attempt to support them
by the action of his hands. But she retreated from him step by step,
till she had regained her chair by the tea-table, and there she
seated herself,—safely, as she thought; but he was close to her,
over her shoulder, still continuing his protestations, offering up
his vows, and imploring her to reply to him. She, as yet, had not
answered him by a word, save by that one half-terrified exclamation
of his name. "Tell me, at any rate, that you believe me, when I
assure you that I love you," he said. The room was going round with
Dorothy, and the world was going round, and there had come upon her
so strong a feeling of the disruption of things in general, that she
was at the moment anything but happy. Had it been possible for her to
find that the last ten minutes had been a dream, she would at this
moment have wished that it might become one. A trouble had come upon
her, out of which she did not see her way. To dive among the waters
in warm weather is very pleasant; there is nothing pleasanter. But
when the young swimmer first feels the thorough immersion of his
plunge, there comes upon him a strong desire to be quickly out again.
He will remember afterwards how joyous it was; but now, at this
moment, the dry land is everything to him. So it was with Dorothy.
She had thought of Brooke Burgess as one of those bright ones of the
world, with whom everything is happy and pleasant, whom everybody
loves, who may have whatever they please, whose lines have been laid
in pleasant places. She thought of him as a man who might some day
make some woman very happy as his wife. To be the wife of such a man
was, in Dorothy's estimation, one of those blessed chances which come
to some women, but which she never regarded as being within her own
reach. Though she had thought much about him, she had never thought
of him as a possible possession for herself; and now that he was
offering himself to her, she was not at once made happy by his love.
Her ideas of herself and of her life were all dislocated for the
moment, and she required to be alone, that she might set herself in
order, and try herself all over, and find whether her bones were
broken. "Say that you believe me," he repeated.</p>
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<span class="caption">The world was going round with Dorothy.<br/>
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<p>"I don't know what to say," she whispered.</p>
<p>"I'll tell you what to say. Say at once that you will be my wife."</p>
<p>"I can't say that, Mr. Burgess."</p>
<p>"Why not? Do you mean that you cannot love me?"</p>
<p>"I think, if you please, I'll go up to Aunt Stanbury. It is time for
me; indeed it is; and she will be wondering, and Martha will be put
out. Indeed I must go up."</p>
<p>"And will you not answer me?"</p>
<p>"I don't know what to say. You must give me a little time to
consider. I don't quite think you're serious."</p>
<p>"Heaven and earth!" began Brooke.</p>
<p>"And I'm sure it would never do. At any rate, I must go now. I must,
indeed."</p>
<p>And so she escaped, and went up to her aunt's room, which she reached
at ten minutes after her usual time, and before Martha had begun to
be put out. She was very civil to Martha, as though Martha had been
injured; and she put her hand on her aunt's arm, with a soft,
caressing, apologetic touch, feeling conscious that she had given
cause for offence. "What has he been saying to you?" said her aunt,
as soon as Martha had closed the door. This was a question which
Dorothy, certainly, could not answer. Miss Stanbury meant nothing by
it,—nothing beyond a sick woman's desire that something of the
conversation of those who were not sick should be retailed to her;
but to Dorothy the question meant so much! How should her aunt have
known that he had said anything? She sat herself down and waited,
giving no answer to the question. "I hope he gets his meals
comfortably," said Miss Stanbury.</p>
<p>"I am sure he does," said Dorothy, infinitely relieved. Then, knowing
how important it was that her aunt should sleep, she took up the
volume of Jeremy Taylor, and, with so great a burden on her mind, she
went on painfully and distinctly with the second sermon on the
Marriage Ring. She strove valiantly to keep her mind to the godliness
of the discourse, so that it might be of some possible service to
herself; and to keep her voice to the tone that might be of service
to her aunt. Presently she heard the grateful sound which indicated
her aunt's repose, but she knew of experience that were she to stop,
the sound and the sleep would come to an end also. For a whole hour
she persevered, reading the sermon of the Marriage Ring with such
attention to the godly principles of the teaching as she could
give,—with that terrible burden upon her mind.</p>
<p>"Thank you;—thank you; that will do, my dear. Shut it up," said the
sick woman. "It's time now for the draught." Then Dorothy moved
quietly about the room, and did her nurse's work with soft hand, and
soft touch, and soft tread. After that her aunt kissed her, and bade
her sit down and sleep.</p>
<p>"I'll go on reading, aunt, if you'll let me," said Dorothy. But Miss
Stanbury, who was not a cruel woman, would have no more of the
reading, and Dorothy's mind was left at liberty to think of the
proposition that had been made to her. To one resolution she came
very quickly. The period of her aunt's illness could not be a proper
time for marriage vows, or the amenities of love-making. She did not
feel that he, being a man, had offended; but she was quite sure that
were she, a woman, the niece of so kind an aunt, the nurse at the
bed-side of such an invalid,—were she at such a time to consent to
talk of love, she would never deserve to have a lover. And from this
resolve she got great comfort. It would give her an excuse for making
no more assured answer at present, and would enable her to reflect at
leisure as to the reply she would give him, should he ever, by any
chance, renew his offer. If he did not,—and probably he would
not,—then it would have been very well that he should not have been
made the victim of a momentary generosity. She had complained of the
dulness of her life, and that complaint from her had produced his
noble, kind, generous, dear, enthusiastic benevolence towards her. As
she thought of it all,—and by degrees she took great pleasure in
thinking of it,—her mind bestowed upon him all manner of eulogies.
She could not persuade herself that he really loved her, and yet she
was full at heart of gratitude to him for the expression of his love.
And as for herself, could she love him? We who are looking on of
course know that she loved him;—that from this moment there was
nothing belonging to him, down to his shoe-tie, that would not be
dear to her heart and an emblem so tender as to force a tear from
her. He had already become her god, though she did not know it. She
made comparisons between him and Mr. Gibson, and tried to convince
herself that the judgment, which was always pronounced very clearly
in Brooke's favour, came from anything but her heart. And thus
through the long watches of the night she became very happy, feeling
but not knowing that the whole aspect of the world was changed to her
by those few words which her lover had spoken to her. She thought now
that it would be consolation enough to her in future to know that
such a man as Brooke Burgess had once asked her to be the partner of
his life, and that it would be almost ungenerous in her to push her
advantage further and attempt to take him at his word. Besides, there
would be obstacles. Her aunt would dislike such a marriage for him,
and he would be bound to obey her aunt in such a matter. She would
not allow herself to think that she could ever become Brooke's wife,
but nothing could rob her of the treasure of the offer which he had
made her. Then Martha came to her at five o'clock, and she went to
her bed to dream for an hour or two of Brooke Burgess and her future
life.</p>
<p>On the next morning she met him at breakfast. She went down stairs
later than usual, not till ten, having hung about her aunt's room,
thinking that thus she would escape him for the present. She would
wait till he was gone out, and then she would go down. She did wait;
but she could not hear the front door, and then her aunt murmured
something about Brooke's breakfast. She was told to go down, and she
went. But when on the stairs she slunk back to her own room, and
stood there for awhile, aimless, motionless, not knowing what to do.
Then one of the girls came to her, and told her that Mr. Burgess was
waiting breakfast for her. She knew not what excuse to make, and at
last descended slowly to the parlour. She was very happy, but had it
been possible for her to have run away she would have gone.</p>
<p>"Dear Dorothy," he said at once. "I may call you so,—may I not?"</p>
<p>"Oh, yes."</p>
<p>"And you will love me;—and be my own, own wife?"</p>
<p>"No, Mr. Burgess."</p>
<p>"No?"</p>
<p>"I mean;—that is to say—"</p>
<p>"Do you love me, Dorothy?"</p>
<p>"Only think how ill Aunt Stanbury is, Mr. Burgess;—perhaps dying!
How can I have any thought now except about her? It wouldn't be
right;—would it?"</p>
<p>"You may say that you love me."</p>
<p>"Mr. Burgess, pray, pray don't speak of it now. If you do I must go
away."</p>
<p>"But do you love me?"</p>
<p>"Pray, pray don't, Mr. Burgess!"</p>
<p>There was nothing more to be got from her during the whole day than
that. He told her in the evening that as soon as Miss Stanbury was
well, he would come again;—that in any case he would come again. She
sat quite still as he said this, with a solemn face,—but smiling at
heart, laughing at heart, so happy! When she got up to leave him, and
was forced to give him her hand, he seized her in his arms and kissed
her. "That is very, very wrong," she said, sobbing, and then ran to
her room,—the happiest girl in all Exeter. He was to start early on
the following morning, and she knew that she would not be forced to
see him again. Thinking of him was so much pleasanter than seeing
him!</p>
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