that somebody shall hint that there is something peculiar;
and which is shocked and retreats backwards into its
boots when anything like a consequence forces itself
on the apprehension. Such men have their glory
in their own estimation. We remember how Falstaff
flouted the pride of his companion whose victory in
the fields of love had been but little glorious.
But there are victories going now-a-days so infinitely
less glorious, that Falstaff’s page was a Lothario,
a very Don Juan, in comparison with the heroes whose
praises are too often sung by their own lips.
There is this recompense: that their defeats are
always sung by lips louder than their own. Mr
Gibson, when he found that he was to escape apparently
unscathed, that people standing respectably before
the world absolutely dared to whisper words to him
of congratulation on this third attempt at marriage
within little more than a year, took pride to himself,
and bethought himself that he was a gay deceiver.
He believed that he had selected his wife and that
he had done so in circumstances of peculiar difficulty!
Poor Mr Gibson—we hardly know whether most
to pity him, or the unfortunate, poor woman who ultimately
became Mrs Gibson.
‘And so Bella French is to be the fortunate
woman after all,’ said Miss Stanbury to her
niece.
‘It does seem to me to be so odd,’ said
Dorothy. ’I wonder how he looked when he
proposed it.’
‘Like a fool, as he always does.’
Dorothy refrained from remarking that Miss Stanbury
had not always thought that Mr Gibson looked like
a fool, but the idea occurred to her mind. ‘I
hope they will be happy at last,’ she said.
’Pshaw! Such people can’t be happy,
and can’t be unhappy. I don’t suppose
it much matters which he marries, or whether he marries
them both, or neither. They are to be married
by banns, they say at Heavitree.’
‘I don’t see anything bad in that.’
‘Only Camilla might step out and forbid them,’
said Aunt Stanbury. ’I almost wish she
would.’
‘She has gone away, aunt, to an uncle who lives
at Gloucester.’
’It was well to get her out of the way, no doubt.
They’ll be married before you now, Dolly.’
‘That won’t break my heart, aunt.’
’I don’t suppose there’ll be much
of a wedding. They haven’t anybody belonging
to them, except that uncle at Gloucester.’
Then there was a pause. ’I think it is
a nice thing for friends to collect together at a
wedding,’ continued Aunt Stanbury.
‘I think it is,’ said Dorothy, in the
mildest, softest voice.
’I suppose we must make room for that black
sheep of a brother of yours, Dolly or else you won’t
be contented.’
‘Dear, dear, dearest aunt!’ said Dorothy,
falling down on her knees at her aunt’s feet.
SELF-SACRIFICE
