LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

      “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?

      Aunt Stanbury at dinner will not speak.

      “Not for me, Aunt Stanbury,” said she, with a deploring tone.

      “Why not?”

      “I couldn’t drink it to-day.”

      “Why didn’t you say so before it was poured out? And why not to-day? 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 a great deal of difference to me. And I’m told that what they call ink comes off on your fingers like lampblack. I never touched one, thank God; but they tell me so. All the same; it isn’t your fault.”

      “I’ve nothing to do with it, Aunt Stanbury.”

      “Of course you’ve not. And as he is your brother it wouldn’t be natural that you should like to throw him off. And, my dear, I like you for taking his part. Only you needn’t have been so fierce with an old woman.”

      “Indeed—indeed I didn’t mean to be—fierce, Aunt Stanbury.”

      “I never was taken up so short in my life. But we won’t mind that. There; he shall come and see you. I suppose he won’t insist on leaving any of his nastiness about.”

      “But is he to come here, Aunt Stanbury?”

      “He may if he pleases.”

      “Oh, Aunt Stanbury!”

Скачать книгу