He Knew He Was Right by Anthony Trollope (books you need to read .txt) 📕

himself again, and sat down and wrote a letter to his intended

mother-in-law.

‘I do not mean to complain,’ he said, ‘God knows I have no right; but I

cannot stand a repetition of what has occurred just now. If your

younger daughter comes to see me again I must refuse to see her, and

shall leave the town. I am ready to make what reparation may be

possible for the mistake into which I have fallen.

‘T. G.’

Mrs French was no doubt much afraid of her younger daughter, but she

was less afraid of her than were other people. Familiarity, they say,

breeds contempt; and who can be so familiar with a child as its parent?

She did not in her heart believe that Camilla would murder anybody, and

she fully realised the conviction that, even after all that was come

and gone, it would be better that one of her daughters should have a

husband than that neither should be so blessed. If only Camilla could

be got out of Exeter for a few months how good a thing it would be for

them all! She had a brother in Gloucester; if only he could be got to

take Camilla for a few months! And then, too, she knew that if the true

rights of her two daughters were strictly and impartially examined,

Arabella’s claim was much stronger than any that Camilla could put

forward to the hand of Mr Gibson.

‘You must not go there again, Camilla,’ the mother said.

‘I shall go whenever I please,’ replied the fury.

‘Now, Camilla, we may as well understand each other. I will not have it

done. If I am provoked, I will send to your uncle at Gloucester.’ Now

the uncle at Gloucester was a timber merchant, a man with protuberant

eyes and a great square chin, known to be a very stern man indeed, and

not at all afraid of young women.

‘What do I care for my uncle? My uncle would take my part.’

‘No, he would not. The truth is, Camilla, you interfered with Bella

first.’

‘Mamma, how dare you say so!’

‘You did, my dear. And these are the consequences.’

‘And you mean to say that she is to be Mrs Gibson?’

‘I say nothing about that. But I do not see why they shouldn’t be

married if their hearts are inclined to each other.’

‘I will die first!’

‘Your dying has nothing to do with it, Camilla.’

‘And I will kill her!’

‘If you speak to me again in that way I will write to your uncle at

Gloucester. I have done the best I could for you both, and I will not

bear such treatment.’

‘And how am I treated?’

‘You should not have interfered with your sister.’

‘You are all in a conspiracy together,’ shouted Camilla, ‘you are!

There never was anybody so badly treated—never, never, never! What will

everybody say of me?’

‘They will pity you, if you will be quiet.’

‘I don’t want to be pitied—I won’t be pitied. I wish I could die; and I

will die! Anybody else would, at any rate, have had their mother and

sister with them!’ Then she burst into a flood of real, true, womanly

tears.

After this there was a lull at Heavitree for a few days. Camilla did

not speak to her sister, but she condescended to hold some intercourse

with her mother, and to take her meals at the family table. She did not

go out of the house, but she employed herself in her own room, doing no

one knew what, with all that new clothing and household gear which was

to have been transferred in her train to Mr Gibson’s house. Mrs French

was somewhat uneasy about the new clothing and household gear, feeling

that, in the event of Bella’s marriage, at least a considerable portion

of it must be transferred to the new bride. But it was impossible at

the present moment to open such a subject to Camilla; it would have been

as a proposition to a lioness respecting the taking away of her whelps.

Nevertheless, the day must soon come in which something must be said

about the clothing and household gear. All the property that had been

sent into the house at Camilla’s orders could not be allowed to remain

as Camilla’s perquisites, now that Camilla was not to be married. ‘Do

you know what she is doing, my dear?’ said Mrs French to her elder

daughter.

‘Perhaps she is picking out the marks,’ said Bella.

‘I don’t think she would do that as yet,’ said Mrs French.

‘She might just as well leave it alone,’ said Bella, feeling that one

of the two letters would do for her. But neither of them dared to speak

to her of her occupation in these first days of her despair.

Mr Gibson in the meantime remained at home, or only left his house to

go to the Cathedral or to visit the narrow confines of his little

parish. When he was out he felt that everybody looked at him, and it

seemed to him that people whispered about him when they saw him at his

usual desk in the choir. His friends passed him merely bowing to him,

and he was aware that he had done that which would be regarded by every

one around him as unpardonable. And yet what ought he to have done? He

acknowledged to himself that he had been very foolish, mad, quite

demented at the moment when he allowed himself to think it possible

that he should marry Camilla French. But having found out how mad he

had been at that moment, having satisfied himself that to live with her

as his wife would be impossible, was he not right to break the

engagement? Could anything be so wicked as marrying a woman whom he

hated? Thus he tried to excuse himself; but yet he knew that all the

world would condemn him. Life in Exeter would be impossible, if no way

to social pardon could be opened for him. He was willing to do anything

within bounds in mitigation of his offence. He would give up fifty

pounds a year to Camilla for his life or he would marry Bella. Yes; he

would marry Bella at once if Camilla would only consent, and give up

that idea of stabbing some one. Bella French was not very nice in his

eyes; but she was quiet, he thought, and it might be possible to live

with her. Nevertheless, he told himself over and over again that the

manner in which unmarried men with incomes were set upon by ladies in

want of husbands was very disgraceful to the country at large. That

mission to Natal which had once been offered to him would have had

charms for him now, of which he had not recognised the force when he

rejected it.

‘Do you think that he ever was really engaged to her?’ Dorothy said to

her aunt. Dorothy was now living in a seventh heaven of happiness,

writing love-letters to Brooke Burgess every other day, and devoting to

this occupation a number of hours of which she ought to have been

ashamed; making her purchases for her wedding with nothing, however, of

the magnificence of a Camilla, but discussing everything with her aunt,

who urged her on to extravagances which seemed beyond the scope of her

own economical ideas; settling, or trying to settle, little

difficulties which perplexed her somewhat, and wondering at her own

career. She could not of course be married without the presence of her

mother and sister, and her aunt with something of a grim courtesy had

intimated that they should be made welcome to the house in the Close

for the special occasion. But nothing had been said about Hugh. The

wedding was to be in the Cathedral, and Dorothy had a little scheme in

her head for meeting her brother among the aisles. He would no doubt

come down with Brooke, and nothing perhaps need be said about it to

Aunt Stanbury. But still it was a trouble. Her aunt had been so good

that Dorothy felt that no step should be taken which would vex the old

woman. It was evident enough that when permission had been given for

the visit of Mrs Stanbury and Priscilla, Hugh’s name had been purposely

kept back. There had been no accidental omission. Dorothy, therefore,

did not dare to mention it, and yet it was essential for her happiness

that he should be there. At the present moment Miss Stanbury’s intense

interest in the Stanbury wedding was somewhat mitigated by the

excitement occasioned by Mr Gibson’s refusal to be married. Dorothy was

so shocked that she could not bring herself to believe the statement

that had reached them through Martha.

‘Of course he was engaged to her. We all knew that,’ said Miss

Stanbury.

‘I think there must have been some mistake,’ said Dorothy. ‘I don’t see

how he could do it.’

‘There is no knowing what people can do, my dear, when they’re hard

driven. I suppose we shall have a lawsuit now, and he’ll have to pay

ever so much money. Well, well, well! see what a deal of trouble you

might have saved!’

‘But, he’d have done the same to me, aunt, only, you know, I never could

have taken him. Isn’t it better as it is, aunt? Tell me.’

‘I suppose young women always think it best when they can get their own

ways. An old woman like me has only got to do what she is bid.’

‘But this was best, aunt, was it not?’

‘My dear, you’ve had your way, and let that be enough. Poor Camilla

French is not allowed to have hers at all. Dear, dear, dear! I didn’t

think the man would ever have been such a fool to begin with or that he

would ever have had the heart to get out of it afterwards.’ It

astonished Dorothy to find that her aunt was not loud in reprobation of

Mr Gibson’s very dreadful conduct.

In the meantime Mrs French had written to her brother at Gloucester.

The maidservant, in making Miss Camilla’s bed, and in ‘putting the

room to rights,’ as she called it—which description probably was

intended to cover the circumstances of an accurate search—had

discovered, hidden among some linen, a carving knife! such a knife as is

used for the cutting up of fowls; and, after two days’ interval, had

imparted the discovery to Mrs French. Instant visit was made to the

pantry, and it was found that a very aged but unbroken and

sharply-pointed weapon was missing. Mrs French at once accused Camilla,

and Camilla, after some hesitation, admitted that it might be there.

Molly, she said, was a nasty, sly, wicked thing, to go looking in her

drawers, and she would never leave anything unlocked again. The knife,

she declared, had been taken upstairs, because she had wanted something

very sharp to cut the bones of her stays. The knife was given up, but

Mrs French thought it best to write to her brother, Mr Crump. She was

in great doubt about sundry matters. Had the carving knife really

pointed to a domestic tragedy, and if so, what steps ought a poor widow

to take with such a daughter? And what ought to be done about Mr

Gibson? It ran through Mrs French’s mind that unless something were

done at once, Mr Gibson would escape scot-free. It was her wish that he

should yet become her son-in-law. Poor Bella was entitled to her

chance. But