Was it then really written in the book of the Fates that she, Dorothy Stanbury, was to become Mrs Gibson?  Poor Dorothy began to feel that she was called upon to exercise an amount of thought and personal decision to which she had not been accustomed.  Hitherto, in the things which she had done, or left undone, she had received instructions which she could obey.  Had her mother and Priscilla told her positively not to go to her aunt’s house, she would have remained at Nuncombe without complaint.  Had her aunt since her coming given her orders as to her mode of life—­ enjoined, for instance, additional church attendances, or desired her to perform menial services in the house—­she would have obeyed, from custom, without a word.  But when she was told that she was to marry Mr Gibson, it did seem to her to be necessary to do something more than obey.  Did she love Mr Gibson?  She tried hard to teach herself to think that she might learn to love him.  He was a nice-looking man enough, with sandy hair, and a head rather bald, with thin lips, and a narrow nose, who certainly did preach drawling sermons; but of whom everybody said that he was a very excellent clergyman.  He had a house and an income, and all Exeter had long since decided that he was a man who would certainly marry.  He was one of those men of whom it may be said that they have no possible claim to remain unmarried.  He was fair game, and unless he surrendered himself to be bagged before long, would subject himself to just and loud complaint.  The Miss Frenches had been aware of this, and had thought to make sure of him among them.  It was a little hard upon them that the old maid of the Close, as they always called Miss Stanbury, should interfere with them when their booty was almost won.  And they felt it to be the harder because Dorothy Stanbury was, as they thought, so poor a creature.  That Dorothy herself should have any doubt as to accepting Mr Gibson, was an idea that never occurred to them.  But Dorothy had her doubts.  When she came to think of it, she remembered that she had never as yet spoken a word to Mr Gibson, beyond such little trifling remarks as are made over a tea-table.  She might learn to love him, but she did not think that she loved him as yet.

‘I don’t suppose all this will make any difference to Mr Gibson,’ said Miss Stanbury to her niece, on the morning after the receipt of Priscilla’s note stating that the Trevelyans had left Nuncombe.

Dorothy always blushed when Mr Gibson’s name was mentioned, and she blushed now.  But she did not at all understand her aunt’s allusion.  ’I don’t know what you mean, aunt,’ she said.

’Well, you know, my dear, what they say about Mrs Trevelyan and the Clock House is not very nice.  If Mr Gibson were to turn round and say that the connection wasn’t pleasant, no one would have a right to complain.’

The faint customary blush on Dorothy’s cheeks which Mr Gibson’s name had produced now covered her whole face even up to the roots of her hair.  ’If he believes bad of mamma, I’m sure, Aunt Stanbury, I don’t want to see him again.’