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

the whole tenor of her life for the sake as she told herself of

doing her duty by a relative whom she did not even know But we may

fairly suppose that there had in truth been a feeling beyond that,

which taught her to desire to have some one near her to whom she

might not only do her duty as guardian, but whom she might also

love. She had tried this with her nephew; but her nephew had been

too strong for her, too far from her, too unlike to herself. When

he came to see her he had smoked a short pipe, which had been

shocking to her, and he had spoken of Reform, and Trades’ Unions,

and meetings in the parks, as though they had not been Devil’s

ordinances. And he was very shy of going to church, utterly refusing to

be taken there twice on the same Sunday. And he had told his aunt

that owing to a peculiar and unfortunate weakness in his constitution

he could not listen to the reading of sermons. And then she was

almost certain that he had once kissed one of the maids! She had

found it impossible to manage him in any way; and when he positively

declared himself as permanently devoted to the degrading iniquities

of penny newspapers, she had thought it best to cast him off

altogether. Now, thus late in life, she was going to make another

venture, to try an altogether new mode of living in order, as she

said to herself, that she might be of some use to somebody but,

no doubt, with a further unexpressed hope in her bosom, that the

solitude of her life might be relieved by the companionship of

some one whom she might love. She had arrayed herself in a clean

cap and her evening gown, and she went downstairs looking sternly,

with a fully-developed idea that she must initiate her new duties

by assuming a mastery at once. But inwardly she trembled, and was

intensely anxious as to the first appearance of her niece. Of course

there would be a little morsel of a bonnet. She hated those vile

patches dirty dirty flat daubs of millinery as she called them, but

they had become too general for her to refuse admittance for such

a thing within her doors. But a chignon, a bandbox behind the

noddle, she would not endure. And then there were other details of

feminine gear, which shall not be specified, as to which she was

painfully anxious, almost forgetting in her anxiety that the dress

of this young woman whom she was about to see must have ever been

regulated by the closest possible economy.

The first thing she saw on entering the room was a dark straw hat,

a straw hat with a strong penthouse flap to it, and her heart was

immediately softened.

‘My dear,’ she said, ‘I am glad to see you.’

Dorothy, who, on her part, was trembling also, whose position was

one to justify most intense anxiety, murmured some reply.

‘Take off your hat,’ said the aunt, ‘and let me give you a kiss.’

The hat was taken off and the kiss was given. There was certainly

no chignon there. Dorothy Stanbury was light haired, with almost

flaxen ringlets, worn after the old-fashioned way which we used to

think so pretty when we were young. She had very soft grey eyes,

which ever seemed to beseech you to do something when they looked

at you, and her mouth was a beseeching mouth. There are women who,

even amidst their strongest efforts at giving assistance to others,

always look as though they were asking aid themselves, and such a

one was Dorothy Stanbury. Her complexion was pale, but there was

always present in it a tint of pink running here and there, changing

with every word she spoke, changing indeed with every pulse of her

heart. Nothing ever was softer than her cheek; but her hands were

thin and hard, and almost fibrous with the working of the thread

upon them. She was rather tall than otherwise, but that extreme

look of feminine dependence which always accompanied her, took away

something even from the appearance of her height.

‘These are all real, at any rate,’ said her aunt, taking hold of

the curls, ‘and won’t be hurt by a little cold water.’

Dorothy smiled but said nothing, and was then taken up to her bedroom.

Indeed, when the aunt and niece sat down to dinner together Dorothy

had hardly spoken. But Miss Stanbury had spoken, and things upon

the whole had gone very well.

‘I hope you like roast chicken, my dear?’ said Miss Stanbury.

‘Oh, thank you.’

‘And bread sauce? Jane, I do hope the bread sauce is hot.’

If the reader thinks that Miss Stanbury was indifferent to

considerations of the table, the reader is altogether ignorant of

Miss Stanbury’s character. When Miss Stanbury gave her niece the

liver-wing, and picked out from the attendant sausages one that had

been well browned and properly broken in the frying, she meant to

do a real kindness.

‘And now, my dear, there are mashed potatoes and bread sauce. As

for green vegetables, I don’t know what has become of them. They

tell me I may have green peas from France at a shilling a quart;

but if I can’t have English green peas, I won’t have any.’

Miss Stanbury was standing up as she said this, as she always did

on such occasions, liking to have a full mastery over the dish.

‘I hope you like it, my dear?’

‘Everything is so very nice.’

‘That’s right. I like to see a young woman with an appetite.

Remember that God sends the good things for us to eat; and as long

as we don’t take more than our share, and give away something to

those who haven’t a fair share of their own, I for one think it

quite right to enjoy my victuals. Jane, this bread sauce isn’t hot.

It never is hot. Don’t tell me; I know what hot is!’

Dorothy thought that her aunt was very angry; but Jane knew Miss

Stanbury better, and bore the scolding without shaking in her shoes.

‘And now, my dear, you must take a glass of port wine. It will do

you good after your journey.’

Dorothy attempted to explain that she never did drink any wine,

but her aunt talked down her scruples at once.

‘One glass of port wine never did anybody any harm, and as there

is port wine, it must be intended that somebody should drink it.’

Miss Stanbury, as she sipped hers out very slowly, seemed to enjoy

it very much. Although May had come, there was a fire in the grate,

and she sat with her toes on the fender, and her silk dress folded

up above her knees. She sat quite silent in this position for a

quarter of an hour, every now and then raising her glass to her lips.

Dorothy sat silent also. To her, in the newness of her condition,

speech was impossible.

‘I think it will do,’ said Miss Stanbury at last.

As Dorothy had no idea what would do, she could make no reply to

this.

‘I’m sure it will do,’ said Miss Stanbury, after another short

interval. ‘You’re as like my poor sister as two eggs. You don’t

have headaches, do you?’

Dorothy said that she was not ordinarily affected in that way.

‘When girls have headaches it comes from tight-lacing, and not walking

enough, and carrying all manner of nasty smells about with them.

I know what headaches mean. How is a woman not to have a headache,

when she carries a thing on the back of her poll as big as a gardener’s

wheel-barrow? Come, it’s a fine evening, and we’ll go out and look

at the towers. You’ve never even seen them yet, I suppose?’

So they went out, and finding the verger at the Cathedral door,

he being a great friend of Miss Stanbury, they walked up and down

the aisles, and Dorothy was instructed as to what would be expected

from her in regard to the outward forms of religion. She was to

go to the Cathedral service on the morning of every week-day, and

on Sundays in the afternoon. On Sunday mornings she was to attend

the little church of St. Margaret. On Sunday evenings it was the

practice of Miss Stanbury to read a sermon in the dining-room to all

of whom her household consisted. Did Dorothy like daily services?

Dorothy, who was more patient than her brother, and whose life had

been much less energetic, said that she had no objection to going

to church every day when there was not too much to do.

‘There never need be too much to do to attend the Lord’s house,’

said Miss Stanbury, somewhat angrily.

‘Only if you’ve got to make the beds,’ said Dorothy.

‘My dear, I beg your pardon,’ said Miss Stanbury. ‘I beg your

pardon, heartily. I’m a thoughtless old woman, I know. Never mind.

Now, we’ll go in.’

Later in the evening, when she gave her niece a candlestick to go

to bed, she repeated what she had said before.

‘It’ll do very well, my dear. I’m sure it’ll do. But if you read

in bed either night or morning, I’ll never forgive you.’

This last caution was uttered with so much energy, that Dorothy

gave a little jump as she promised obedience.