“But, dear aunt, couldn’t I see him in the street?”
“Out in the street! No, my dear. All the world is not to know that he’s your brother; and he is dressed in such a rapscallion manner that the people would think you were talking to a housebreaker.” Dorothy’s face became again red as she heard this, and the angry words were very nearly spoken. “The last time I saw him,” continued Miss Stanbury, “he had on a short, rough jacket, with enormous buttons, and one of those flipperty-flopperty things on his head, that the butcher-boys wear. And, oh, the smell of tobacco! As he had been up in London I suppose he thought Exeter was no better than a village, and he might do just as he pleased. But he knew that if I’m particular about anything, it is about a gentleman’s hat in the streets. And he wanted me—me!—to walk with him across to Mrs. MacHugh’s! We should have been hooted about the Close like a pair of mad dogs;—and so I told him.”
“All the young men seem to dress like that now, Aunt Stanbury.”
“No, they don’t. Mr. Gibson doesn’t dress like that.”
“But he’s a clergyman, Aunt Stanbury.”
“Perhaps I’m an old fool. I dare say I am, and of course that’s what you mean. At any rate I’m too old to change, and I don’t mean to try. I like to see a difference between a gentleman and a housebreaker. For the matter of that I’m told that there is a difference, and that the housebreakers all look like gentlemen now. It may be proper to make us all stand on our heads, with our legs sticking up in the air; but I for one don’t like being topsy-turvey, and I won’t try it. When is he to reach Exeter?”
“He is coming on Tuesday next, by the last train.”
“Then you can’t see him that night. That’s out of the question. No doubt he’ll sleep at the Nag’s Head, as that’s the lowest radical public-house in the city. Martha shall try to find him. She knows more about his doings than I do. If he chooses to come here the following morning before he goes down to Nuncombe Putney, well and good. I shall wait up till Martha comes back from the train on Tuesday night, and hear.” Dorothy was of course full of gratitude and thanks; but yet she felt almost disappointed by the result of her aunt’s clemency on the matter. She had desired to take her brother’s part, and it had seemed to her as though she had done so in a very lukewarm manner. She had listened to an immense number of accusations against him, and had been unable to reply to them because she had been conquered by the promise of a visit. And now it was out of the question that she should speak of going. Her aunt had given way to her, and of course had conquered her.
Late on the Tuesday evening, after ten o’clock, Hugh Stanbury was walking round the Close with his aunt’s old servant. He had not put up at that dreadfully radical establishment of which Miss Stanbury was so much afraid, but had taken a bedroom at the Railway Inn. From there he had walked up to the Close with Martha, and now was having a few last words with her before he would allow her to return to the house.
“I suppose she’d as soon see the devil as see me,” said Hugh.
“If you speak in that way, Mr. Hugh, I won’t listen to you.”
“And yet I did everything I could to please her; and I don’t think any boy ever loved an old woman better than I did her.”
“That was while she used to send you cakes, and ham, and jam to school, Mr. Hugh.”
“Of course it was, and while she sent me flannel waistcoats to Oxford. But when I didn’t care any longer for cakes or flannel then she got tired of me. It is much better as it is, if she’ll only be good to Dorothy.”
“She never was bad to anybody, Mr. Hugh. But I don’t think an old lady like her ever takes to a young woman as she does to a young man, if only he’ll let her have a little more of her own way than you would. It’s my belief that you might have had it all for your own some day, if you’d done as you ought.”
“That’s nonsense, Martha. She means to leave it all to the Burgesses. I’ve heard her say so.”
“Say so; yes. People don’t always do what they say. If you’d managed rightly you might have it all;—and so you might now.”
“I’ll tell you what, old girl; I shan’t try. Live for the next twenty years under her apron strings, that I may have the chance at the end of it of cutting some poor devil out of his money! Do you know the meaning of making a score off your own bat, Martha?”
“No, I don’t; and if it’s anything you’re like to do, I don’t think I should be the better for learning,—by all accounts. And now if you please, I’ll go in.”
“Good night, Martha. My love to them both, and say I’ll be there tomorrow exactly at half-past nine. You’d better take it. It won’t turn to slate-stone. It hasn’t come from the old gentleman.”
“I don’t want anything of that kind, Mr. Hugh;—indeed I don’t.”
“Nonsense. If you don’t take it you’ll offend me. I believe you think I’m not much better than a schoolboy still.”
“I don’t think you’re half so good, Mr. Hugh,” said the old servant, sticking the sovereign which Hugh had given her in under her glove as she spoke.
On the next morning that other visit was made at the brick house, and Miss Stanbury was again in a fuss. On this occasion, however, she was in a much better humour than before, and was full of little jokes as to the nature of the visitation. Of course, she was not to see her nephew herself, and no message was to be delivered from her, and none was to be given to her from him. But an accurate report was to be made to her as to his appearance, and Dorothy was to be enabled to answer a variety of questions respecting him after he was gone. “Of course, I don’t want to know anything about his money,” Miss Stanbury said, “only I should like to know how much these people can afford to pay for their penny trash.” On this occasion she had left the room and gone upstairs before the knock came at the door, but she managed, by peeping over the balcony, to catch a glimpse of the “flipperty-flopperty” hat which her nephew certainly had with him on this occasion.
Hugh Stanbury had great news for his sister. The cottage in which Mrs. Stanbury lived at Nuncombe Putney, was the tiniest little dwelling in which a lady and her two daughters ever sheltered themselves. There was, indeed, a sitting-room, two bedrooms, and a kitchen; but they were all so diminutive in size that the cottage was little more than a cabin. But there was a house in the village, not large indeed, but eminently respectable, three stories high, covered with ivy, having a garden behind it, and generally called the Clock House, because there had once been a clock upon it. This house had been lately vacated, and Hugh informed his sister that he was thinking of taking it for his mother’s accommodation. Now, the late occupants of the Clock House, at Nuncombe Putney, had been people with five or six hundred a year. Had other matters been in accordance, the house would almost have entitled them to consider themselves as county people. A gardener had always been kept there,—and a cow!
“The Clock House for mamma!”
“Well, yes. Don’t say a word about it as yet to Aunt Stanbury, as she’ll think that I’ve sold myself altogether to the old gentleman.”
“But, Hugh, how can mamma live there?”
“The fact is, Dorothy, there is a secret. I can’t tell you quite yet. Of course, you’ll know it, and everybody will know it, if the thing comes about. But as you won’t talk, I will tell you what most concerns ourselves.”
“And am I to go back?”
“Certainly not,—if you will take my advice. Stick to your aunt. You don’t want to smoke pipes, and wear Tom-and-Jerry hats, and write for the penny newspapers.”
Now Hugh Stanbury’s secret was this;—that Louis Trevelyan’s wife and sister-in-law were to leave the house in Curzon Street, and come and live at Nuncombe Putney, with Mrs. Stanbury and Priscilla. Such, at least, was