THE SHATTERED TREE.
When Mrs. Arabin saw Johnny in the middle of that day, she could
hardly give him much encouragement. And yet she felt by no means sure
that he might not succeed even yet. Lily had been very positive in
her answers, and yet there had been something, either in her words
or in the tone of her voice, which had made Mrs. Arabin feel that
even Lily was not quite sure of herself. There was still room for
relenting. Nothing, however, had been said which could justify her in
bidding John Eames simply "to go in and win." "I think he is light of
heart," Lily had said. Those were the words which, of all that had
been spoken, most impressed themselves on Mrs. Arabin's memory. She
would not repeat them to her friend, but she would graft upon them
such advice as she had to give him.
And this she did, telling him that she thought that perhaps Lily
doubted his actual earnestness. "I would marry her this moment," said
Johnny. But that was not enough, as Mrs. Arabin knew, to prove his
earnestness. Many men, fickle as weathercocks, are ready to marry
at the moment,--are ready to marry at the moment, because they are
fickle, and think so little about it. "But she hears, perhaps, of
your liking other people," said Mrs. Arabin. "I don't care a straw
for any other person," said Johnny. "I wonder whether if I was to
shut myself up in a cage for six months, it would do any good?" "If
she had the keeping of the cage, perhaps it might," said Mrs. Arabin.
She had nothing more to say to him on that subject, but to tell him
that Miss Dale would expect him that afternoon at half-past five. "I
told her that you would come to wish her good-by, and she promised to
see you."
"I wish she'd say she wouldn't see me. Then there would be some
chance," said Johnny.
Between him and Mrs. Arabin the parting was very affectionate. She
told him how thankful she was for his kindness in coming to her,
and how grateful she would ever be,--and the dean also,--for his
attention to her. "Remember, Mr. Eames, that you will always be most
welcome at the deanery of Barchester. And I do hope that before long
you may be there with your wife." And so they parted.
He left her at about two, and went to Mr. Toogood's office in Bedford
Row. He found his uncle, and the two went out to lunch together in
Holborn. Between them there was no word said about Lily Dale, and
John was glad to have some other subject in his mind for half an
hour. Toogood was full of his triumph about Mr. Crawley and of his
successes in Barsetshire. He gave John a long account of his visit
to Plumstead, and expressed his opinion that if all clergymen were
like the archdeacon there would not be so much room for Dissenters.
"I've seen a good many parsons in my time," said Toogood; "but I
don't think I ever saw such a one as him. You know he is a clergyman
somehow, and he never lets you forget it; but that's about all. Most
of 'em are never contented without choking you with their white
cravats all the time you're with 'em. As for Crawley himself," Mr.
Toogood continued, "he's not like anybody else that ever was born,
saint or sinner, parson or layman. I never heard of such a man in all
my experience. Though he knew where he got the cheque as well as I
know it now, he wouldn't say so, because the dean had said it wasn't
so. Somebody ought to write a book about it,--indeed they ought."
Then he told the whole story of Dan Stringer, and how he had found
Dan out, looking at the top of Dan's hat through the little aperture
in the wall of the inn parlour. "When I saw the twitch in his hat,
John, I knew he had handled the cheque himself. I don't mean to say
that I'm sharper than another man, and I don't think so; but I do
mean to say that when you are in any difficulty of that sort, you
ought to go to a lawyer. It's his business, and a man does what is
his business with patience and perseverance. It's a pity, though,
that that scoundrel should get off." Then Eames gave his uncle an
account of his Italian trip, to and fro, and was congratulated also
upon his success. John's great triumph lay in the fact that he had
been only two nights in bed, and that he would not have so far
condescended on those occasions but for the feminine weakness of his
fellow-traveller. "We shan't forget it all in a hurry,--shall we,
John?" said Mr. Toogood, in a pleasant voice, as they parted at the
door of the luncheon-house in Holborn. Toogood was returning to his
office, and John Eames was to prepare himself for his last attempt.
He went home to his lodgings, intending at first to change his
dress,--to make himself smart for the work before him,--but after
standing for a moment or two leaning on the chest of drawers in his
bed-room, he gave up this idea. "After all that's come and gone," he
said to himself, "if I cannot win her as I am now, I cannot win her
at all." And then he swore to himself a solemn oath, resolving that
he would repeat the purport of it to Lily herself,--that this should
be the last attempt. "What's the use of it? Everybody ridicules me.
And I am ridiculous. I am an ass. It's all very well wanting to be
prime minister; but if you can't be prime minister, you must do
without being prime minister." Then he attempted to sing the old
song--"Shall I, sighing in despair, die because a woman's fair? If
she be not fair for me, what care I how fair she be?" But he did
care, and he told himself that the song did him no good. As it was
not time for him as yet to go to Lily, he threw himself on the sofa,
and strove to read a book. Then all the weary nights of his journey
prevailed over him, and he fell asleep.
When he awoke it wanted a quarter to six. He sprang up, and rushing
out, jumped into a cab. "Berkeley Square,--as hard as you can go," he
said. "Number --." He thought of Rosalind, and her counsels to lovers
as to the keeping of time, and reflected that in such an emergency as
his, he might really have ruined himself by that unfortunate slumber.
When he got to Mrs. Thorne's door he knocked hurriedly, and bustled
up to the drawing-room as though everything depended on his saving a
minute. "I'm afraid I'm ever so much behind my time," he said.
"It does not matter in the least," said Lily. "As Mrs. Arabin said
that perhaps you might call, I would not be out of the way. I
supposed that Sir Raffle was keeping you and that you wouldn't come."
"Sir Raffle was not keeping me. I fell asleep. That is the truth of
it."
"I am so sorry that you should have been disturbed!"
"Do not laugh at me, Lily,--to-day. I had been travelling a good
deal, and I suppose I was tired."
"I won't laugh at you," she said, and of a sudden her eyes became
full of tears,--she did not know why. But there they were, and she
was ashamed to put up her handkerchief, and she could not bring
herself to turn away her face, and she had no resource but that he
should see them.
"Lily!" he said.
"What a paladin you have been, John, rushing all about Europe on your
friend's behalf!"
"Don't talk about that."
"And such a successful paladin too! Why am I not to talk about it? I
am going home to-morrow, and I mean to talk about nothing else for a
week. I am so very, very, very glad that you have saved your cousin."
Then she did put up her handkerchief, making believe that her tears
had been due to Mr. Crawley. But John Eames knew better than that.
"Lily," he said, "I've come for the last time. It sounds as though I
meant to threaten you; but you won't take it in that way. I think you
will know what I mean. I have come for the last time--to ask you to
be my wife." She had got up to greet him when he entered, and they
were both still standing. She did not answer him at once, but turning
away from him walked towards the window. "You knew why I was coming
to-day, Lily?"
"Mrs. Arabin told me. I could not be away when you were coming, but
perhaps it would have been better."
"Is it so? Must it be so? Must you say that to me, Lily? Think of it
for a moment, dear."
"I have thought of it."
"One word from you, yes or no, spoken now is to be everything to me
for always. Lily, cannot you say yes?" She did not answer him, but
walked further away from him to another window. "Try to say yes. Look
round at me with one look that may only half mean it;--that may tell
me that it shall not positively be no for ever." I think that she
almost tried to turn her face to him; but be that as it may, she kept
her eyes steadily fixed upon the window-pane. "Lily," he said, "it is
not that you are hard-hearted,--perhaps not altogether that you do
not like me. I think that you believe things against me that are not
true." As she heard this she moved her foot angrily upon the carpet.
She had almost forgotten M. D., but now he had reminded her of the
note. She assured herself that she had never believed anything
against him except on evidence that was incontrovertible. But she
was not going to speak to him on such a matter as that! It would
not become her to accuse him. "Mrs. Arabin tells me that you doubt
whether I am in earnest," he said.
Upon hearing this she flashed round upon him almost angrily. "I never
said that."
"If you will ask me for any token of earnestness, I will give it
you."
"I want no token."
"The best sign of earnestness a man can give generally in such a
matter, is to show how ready he is to be married."
"I never said anything about earnestness."
"At the risk of making you angry I will go on, Lily. Of course when
you tell me that you will have nothing to say to me, I try to amuse
myself"--"Yes; by writing love-letters to M. D.," said Lily to
herself.--"What is a poor fellow to do? I tell you fairly that when
I leave you I swear to myself that I will make love to the first girl
I can see who will listen to me--to twenty, if twenty will let me.
I feel I have failed, and it is so I punish myself for my failure."
There was something in this which softened her brow, though she did
not intend that it should be so; and she turned away again, that he
might not see that her brow was softened. "But, Lily, the hope ever
comes back again, and then neither the one nor the twenty are of
avail,--even to punish me. When I look forward and see what it might
be if you were with me, how green it all looks and how lovely, in
spite of all the vows I have made, I cannot help coming back again."
She was now again near the window, and he had not followed her. As
she neither turned towards him nor answered him, he moved from the
table near which he was standing on to the rug before the fire, and
leaned with both his elbows on the mantelpiece. He could still watch
her in the mirror over the fireplace, and could see that she was
still seeming to gaze out upon the street. And had he not moved her?
I think he had so far moved her now, that she had ceased to think of
the woman who had written to her,--that she had ceased to reject him
in her heart on the score of such levities as that! If there were M.
D.'s, like sunken rocks, in his course, whose fault was it? He was
ready enough to steer his bark into the tranquil blue waters, if only
she would aid him. I think that all his sins on that score were at
this moment forgiven him. He had told her now what to him would be
green and beautiful, and she did not find herself able to disbelieve
him. She had banished M. D. out of her mind, but in doing so she
admitted other reminiscences into it. And then,--was she in a moment
to be talked out of the resolution of years; and was she to give
up herself, not because she loved, but because the man who talked
to her talked so well that he deserved a reward? Was she now to be
as light, as foolish, as easy, as in those former days from which
she had learned her wisdom? A picture of green lovely things could
be delicious to her eyes as to his; but even for such a picture as
that the price might be too dear! Of all living men,--of all men
living in their present lives,--she loved best this man who was now
waiting for some word of answer to his words, and she did love him
dearly; she would have tended him if sick, have supplied him if in
want, have mourned for him if dead, with the bitter grief of true
affection;--but she could not say to herself that he should be her
lord and master, the head of her house, the owner of herself, the
ruler of her life. The shipwreck to which she had once come, and
the fierce regrets which had thence arisen, had forced her to think
too much of these things. "Lily," he said, still facing towards the
mirror, "will you not come to me and speak to me?" She turned round,
and stood a moment looking at him, and then, having again resolved
that it could not be as he wished, she drew near to him. "Certainly I
will speak to you, John. Here I am." And she came close to him.
[Illustration: The last Denial.]
He took both her hands, and looked into her eyes. "Lily, will you be
mine?"
"No, dear; it cannot be so."
"Why not, Lily?"
"Because of that other man."
"And is that to be a bar for ever?"
"Yes; for ever."
"Do you still love him?"
"No; no, no!"
"Then why should this be so?"
"I cannot tell, dear. It is so. If you take a young tree and split
it, it still lives, perhaps. But it isn't a tree. It is only a
fragment."
"Then be my fragment."
"So I will, if it can serve you to give standing ground to such a
fragment in some corner of your garden. But I will not have myself
planted out in the middle, for people to look at. What there is left
would die soon." He still held her hands, and she did not attempt to
draw them away. "John," she said, "next to mamma, I love you better
than all the world. Indeed I do. I can't be your wife, but you need
never be afraid that I shall be more to another than I am to you."
"That will not serve me," he said, grasping both her hands till he
almost hurt them, but not knowing that he did so. "That is no good."
"It is all the good that I can do you. Indeed I can do you,--can do
no one any good. The trees that the storms have splintered are never
of use."
"And is this to be the end of all, Lily?"
"Not of our loving friendship."
"Friendship! I hate the word. I hear some one's step, and I had
better leave you. Good-by."
"Good-by, John. Be kinder than that to me as you are going." He
turned back for a moment, took her hand, and held it tight against
his heart, and then he left her. In the hall he met Mrs. Thorne, but,
as she said afterwards, he had been too much knocked about to be able
to throw a word to a dog.
To Mrs. Thorne Lily said hardly a word about John Eames, and when her
cousin Bernard questioned her about him she was dumb. And in these
days she could assume a manner, and express herself with her eyes as
well as with her voice, after a fashion, which was apt to silence
unwelcome questioners, even though they were as intimate with her as
was her cousin Bernard. She had described her feelings more plainly
to her lover than she had ever done to any one,--even to her mother;
and having done so she meant to be silent on that subject for
evermore. But of her settled purpose she did say some word to Emily
Dunstable that night. "I do feel," she said, "that I have got the
thing settled at last."
"And you have settled it, as you call it, in opposition to the wishes
of all your friends?"
"That is true; and yet I have settled it rightly, and I would not for
worlds have it unsettled again. There are matters on which friends
should not have wishes, or at any rate should not express them."
"Is that meant to be severe to me?"
"No; not to you. I was thinking about mamma, and Bell, and my uncle,
and Bernard, who all seem to think that I am to be looked upon as a
regular castaway because I am not likely to have a husband of my own.
Of course you, in your position, must think a girl a castaway who
isn't going to be married?"
"I think that a girl who is going to be married has the best of it."
"And I think a girl who isn't going to be married has the best of
it;--that's all. But I feel that the thing is done now, and I am
contented. For the last six or eight months there has come up, I
know not how, a state of doubt which has made me so wretched that I
have done literally nothing. I haven't been able to finish old Mrs.
Heard's tippet, literally because people would talk to me about that
dearest of all dear fellows, John Eames. And yet all along I have
known how it would be,--as well as I do now."
"I cannot understand you, Lily; I can't indeed."
"I can understand myself. I love him so well,--with that intimate,
close, familiar affection,--that I could wash his clothes for him
to-morrow, out of pure personal regard, and think it no shame. He
could not ask me to do a single thing for him,--except the one
thing,--that I would refuse. And I'll go further. I would sooner
marry him than any man in the world I ever saw, or, as I believe,
that I ever shall see. And yet I am very glad that it is settled."
On the next day Lily Dale went down to the Small House of Allington,
and so she passes out of our sight. I can only ask the reader to
believe that she was in earnest, and express my own opinion, in this
last word that I shall ever write respecting her, that she will live
and die as Lily Dale.
CHAPTER LXXVII.
THE ARABINS RETURN TO BARCHESTER.
In these days Mr. Harding was keeping his bed at the deanery, and
most of those who saw him declared that he would never again leave
it. The archdeacon had been slow to believe so, because he had
still found his father-in-law able to talk to him;--not indeed with
energy, but then Mr. Harding had never been energetic on ordinary
matters,--but with the same soft cordial interest in things which had
ever been customary with him. He had latterly been much interested
about Mr. Crawley, and would make both the archdeacon and Mrs.
Grantly tell him all that they heard, and what they thought of the
case. This of course had been before the all-important news had been
received from Mrs. Arabin. Mr. Harding was very anxious, "Firstly,"
as he said, "for the welfare of the poor man, of whom I cannot
bring myself to think ill; and then for the honour of the cloth
in Barchester." "We are as liable to have black sheep here as
elsewhere," the archdeacon replied. "But, my dear, I do not think
that the sheep is black; and we never have had black sheep in
Barchester." "Haven't we though?" said the archdeacon, thinking,
however, of sheep who were black with a different kind of blackness
from this which was now attributed to poor Mr. Crawley,--of a
blackness which was not absolute blackness to Mr. Harding's milder
eyes. The archdeacon, when he heard his father-in-law talk after this
fashion, expressed his opinion that he might live yet for years. He
was just the man to linger on, living in bed,--as indeed he had
lingered all his life out of bed. But the doctor who attended him
thought otherwise, as did also Mrs. Grantly, and as did Mrs. Baxter,
and as also did Posy. "Grandpa won't get up any more, will he?"
Posy said to Mrs. Baxter. "I hope he will, my dear; and that very
soon." "I don't think he will," said Posy, "because he said he would
never see the big fiddle again." "That comes of his being a little
melancholy like, my dear," said Mrs. Baxter.
Mrs. Grantly at this time went into Barchester almost every day, and
the archdeacon, who was very often in the city, never went there
without passing half-an-hour with the old man. These two clergymen,
essentially different in their characters and in every detail of
conduct, had been so much thrown together by circumstances that
the life of each had almost become a part of the life of the other.
Although the fact of Mr. Harding's residence at the deanery had of
late years thrown him oftener into the society of the dean than that
of his other son-in-law, yet his intimacy with the archdeacon had
been so much earlier, and his memories of the archdeacon were so much
clearer, that he depended almost more upon the rector of Plumstead,
who was absent, than he did upon the dean, whom he customarily saw
every day. It was not so with his daughters. His Nelly, as he had
used to call her, had ever been his favourite, and the circumstances
of their joint lives had been such, that they had never been further
separated than from one street of Barchester to another,--and that
only for the very short period of the married life of Mrs. Arabin's
first husband. For all that was soft and tender therefore,--which
with Mr. Harding was all in the world that was charming to him,--he
looked to his youngest daughter; but for authority and guidance and
wisdom, and for information as to what was going on in the world, he
had still turned to his son-in-law the archdeacon,--as he had done
for nearly forty years. For so long had the archdeacon been potent as
a clergyman in the diocese, and throughout the whole duration of such
potency his word had been law to Mr. Harding in most of the affairs
of life,--a law generally to be obeyed, and if sometimes to be
broken, still a law. And now, when all was so nearly over, he would
become unhappy if the archdeacon's visits were far between. Dr.
Grantly, when he found that this was so, would not allow that they
should be far between.
"He puts me so much in mind of my father," the archdeacon said to his
wife one day.
"He is not so old as your father was when he died, by many years,"
said Mrs. Grantly, "and I think one sees that difference."
"Yes;--and therefore I say that he may still live for years. My
father, when he took to his bed at last, was manifestly near his
death. The wonder with him was that he continued to live so long.
Do you not remember how the London doctor was put out because his
prophecies were not fulfilled?"
"I remember it well;--as if it were yesterday."
"And in that way there is a great difference. My father, who was
physically a much stronger man, did not succumb so easily. But the
likeness is in their characters. There is the same mild sweetness,
becoming milder and sweeter as they increased in age;--a sweetness
that never could believe much evil, but that could believe less,
and still less, as the weakness of age came on them. No amount of
evidence would induce your father to think that Mr. Crawley stole
that money." This was said of course before the telegram had come
from Venice.
"As far as that goes I agree with him," said Mrs. Grantly, who had
her own reasons for choosing to believe Mr. Crawley to be innocent.
"If your son, my dear, is to marry a man's daughter, it will be as
well that you should at least be able to say that you do not believe
that man to be a thief."
"That is neither here nor there," said the archdeacon. "A jury must
decide it."
"No jury in Barsetshire shall decide it for me," said Mrs. Grantly.
"I'm sick of Mr. Crawley, and I'm sorry I spoke of him," said the
archdeacon. "But look at Mrs. Proudie. You'll agree that she was not
the most charming woman in the world."
"She certainly was not," said Mrs. Grantly, who was anxious to
encourage her husband, if she could do so without admitting anything
which might injure herself afterwards.
"And she was at one time violently insolent to your father. And even
the bishop thought to trample upon him. Do you remember the bishop's
preaching against your father's chaunting? If I ever forget it!" And
the archdeacon slapped his closed fist against his open hand.
"Don't, dear; don't. What is the good of being violent now?"
"Paltry little fool! It will be long enough before such a chaunt as
that is heard in any English cathedral again." Then Mrs. Grantly got
up and kissed her husband, but he, somewhat negligent of the kiss,
went on with his speech. "But your father remembers nothing of it,
and if there was a single human being who shed a tear in Barchester
for that woman, I believe it was your father. And it was the same
with mine. It came to that at last, that I could not bear to speak
to him of any shortcoming as to one of his own clergymen. I might as
well have pricked him with a penknife. And yet they say men become
heartless and unfeeling as they grow old!"
"Some do, I suppose."
"Yes; the heartless and unfeeling do. As the bodily strength fails
and the power of control becomes lessened, the natural aptitude of
the man pronounces itself more clearly. I take it that that is it.
Had Mrs. Proudie lived to be a hundred and fifty, she would have
spoken spiteful lies on her deathbed." Then Mrs. Grantly told
herself that her husband, should he live to be a hundred and fifty,
would still be expressing his horror of Mrs. Proudie,--even on his
deathbed.
As soon as the letter from Mrs. Arabin had reached Plumstead, the
archdeacon and his wife arranged that they would both go together to
the deanery. There were the double tidings to be told,--those of Mr.
Crawley's assured innocence, and those also of Mrs. Arabin's instant
return. And as they went together various ideas were passing through
their minds in reference to the marriage of their son with Grace
Crawley. They were both now reconciled to it. Mrs. Grantly had long
ceased to feel any opposition to it, even though she had not seen
Grace; and the archdeacon was prepared to give way. Had he not
promised that in a certain case he would give way, and had not that
case now come to pass? He had no wish to go back from his word. But
he had a difficulty in this,--that he liked to make all the affairs
of his life matter for enjoyment, almost for triumph; but how was
he to be triumphant over this marriage, or how even was he to enjoy
it, seeing that he had opposed it so bitterly? Those posters, though
they were now pulled down, had been up on all barn ends and walls,
patent--alas, too patent--to all the world of Barsetshire! "What will
Mr. Crawley do now, do you suppose?" said Mrs. Grantly.
"What will he do?"
"Yes; must he go on at Hogglestock?"
"What else?" said the archdeacon.
"It is a pity something could not be done for him after all he has
undergone. How on earth can he be expected to live there with a
wife and family, and no private means?" To this the archdeacon made
no answer. Mrs. Grantly had spoken almost immediately upon their
quitting Plumstead, and the silence was continued till the carriage
had entered the suburbs of the city. Then Mrs. Grantly spoke again,
asking a question, with some internal trepidation, which, however,
she managed to hide from her husband. "When poor papa does go, what
shall you do about St. Ewold's?" Now, St. Ewold's was a rural parish
lying about two miles out of Barchester, the living of which was in
the gift of the archdeacon, and to which the archdeacon had presented
his father-in-law, under certain circumstances, which need not be
repeated in this last chronicle of Barsetshire. Have they not been
written in other chronicles? "When poor papa does go, what will you
do about St. Ewold's?" said Mrs. Grantly, trembling inwardly. A word
too much might, as she well knew, settle the question against Mr.
Crawley for ever. But were she to postpone the word till too late,
the question would be settled as fatally.
"I haven't thought about it," he said sharply. "I don't like thinking
of such things while the incumbent is still living." Oh, archdeacon,
archdeacon! unless that other chronicle be a false chronicle, how
hast thou forgotten thyself and thy past life! "Particularly not,
when that incumbent is your father," said the archdeacon. Mrs.
Grantly said nothing more about St. Ewold's. She would have said as
much as she had intended to say if she had succeeded in making the
archdeacon understand that St. Ewold's would be a very nice refuge
for Mr. Crawley after all the miseries which he had endured at
Hogglestock.
They learned as they entered the deanery that Mrs. Baxter had already
heard of Mrs. Arabin's return. "O yes, ma'am. Mr. Harding got a
letter hisself, and I got another,--separate; both from Venice,
ma'am. But when master is to come, nobody seems to know." Mrs. Baxter
knew that the dean had gone to Jerusalem, and was inclined to think
that from such distant bournes there was no return for any traveller.
The east is always further than the west in the estimation of the
Mrs. Baxters of the world. Had the dean gone to Canada, she would
have thought that he might come back to-morrow. But still there was
the news to be told of Mr. Crawley, and there was also joy to be
expressed at the sudden coming back of the much-wished-for mistress
of the deanery.
"It's so good of you to come both together," said Mr. Harding.
"We thought we should be too many for you," said the archdeacon.
"Too many! O dear, no. I like to have people by me; and as for
voices, and noise, and all that, the more the better. But I am weak.
I'm weak in my legs. I don't think I shall ever stand again."
"Yes, you will," said the archdeacon.
"We have brought you good news," said Mrs. Grantly.
"Is it not good news that Nelly will be home this week? You can't
understand what a joy it is to me. I used to think sometimes, at
night, that I should never see her again. That she would come back
in time was all I have had to wish for." He was lying on his back,
and as he spoke he pressed his withered hands together above the
bedclothes. They could not begin immediately to tell him of Mr.
Crawley, but as soon as his mind had turned itself away from the
thoughts of his absent daughter, Mrs. Grantly again reverted to her
news.
"We have come to tell you about Mr. Crawley, papa."
"What about him?"
"He is quite innocent."
"I knew it, my dear. I always said so. Did I not always say so,
archdeacon?"
"Indeed you did. I'll give you that credit."
"And is it all found out?" asked Mr. Harding.
"As far as he is concerned, everything is found out," said Mrs.
Grantly. "Eleanor gave him the cheque herself."
"Nelly gave it to him?"
"Yes, papa. The dean meant her to give him fifty pounds. But it seems
she got to be soft of heart and made it seventy. She had the cheque
by her, and put it into the envelope with the notes."
"Some of Stringer's people seem to have stolen the cheque from Mr.
Soames," said the archdeacon.
"O dear; I hope not."
"Somebody must have stolen it, papa."
"I had hoped not, Susan," said Mr. Harding. Both the archdeacon and
Mrs. Grantly knew that it was useless to argue with him on such a
point, and so they let that go.
Then they came to discuss Mr. Crawley's present position, and Mr.
Harding ventured to ask a question or two as to Grace's chance of
marriage. He did not often interfere in the family arrangements of
his son-in-law,--and never did so when those family arrangements
were concerned with high matters. He had hardly opened his mouth
in reference to the marriage of that August lady who was now the
Marchioness of Hartletop. And of the Lady Anne, the wife of the Rev.
Charles Grantly, who was always prodigiously civil to him, speaking
to him very loud, as though he were deaf because he was old, and
bringing him cheap presents from London of which he did not take much
heed,--of her he rarely said a word, or of her children, to either
of his daughters. But now his grandson, Henry Grantly, was going to
marry a girl of whom he felt that he might speak without impropriety.
"I suppose it will be a match; won't it, my dears?"
"Not a doubt about it," said Mrs. Grantly. Mr. Harding looked at his
son-in-law, but his son-in-law said nothing. The archdeacon did not
even frown,--but only moved himself a little uneasily in his chair.
"Dear, dear! What a comfort that must be," said the old man.
"I have not seen her yet," said Mrs. Grantly; "but the archdeacon
declares that she is all the graces rolled into one."
"I never said anything half so absurd," replied the archdeacon.
"But he really is quite in love with her, papa," said Mrs. Grantly.
"He confessed to me that he gave her a kiss, and he only saw her once
for five minutes."
"I should like to give her a kiss," said Mr. Harding.
"So you shall, papa, and I'll bring her here on purpose. As soon as
ever the thing is settled, we mean to ask her to Plumstead."
"Do you though? How nice! How happy Henry will be!"
"And if she comes--and of course she will--I'll lose no time in
bringing her over to you. Nelly must see her of course."
As they were leaving the room Mr. Harding called the archdeacon back,
and taking him by the hand, spoke one word to him in a whisper. "I
don't like to interfere," he said; "but might not Mr. Crawley have
St. Ewold's?" The archdeacon took up the old man's hand and kissed
it. Then he followed his wife out of the room, without making any
answer to Mr. Harding's question.
Three days after this Mrs. Arabin reached the deanery, and the joy at
her return was very great. "My dear, I have been sick for you," said
Mr. Harding.
"Oh, papa, I ought not to have gone."
"Nay, my dear; do not say that. Would it make me happy that you
should be a prisoner here for ever? It was only when I seemed to get
so weak that I thought about it. I felt that it must be near when
they bade me not to go to the cathedral any more."
"If I had been here, I could have gone with you, papa."
"It is better as it is. I know now that I was not fit for it. When
your sister came to me, I never thought of remonstrating. I knew then
that I had seen it for the last time."
"We need not say that yet, papa."
"I did think that when you came home we might crawl there together
some warm morning. I did think of that for a time. But it will never
be so, dear. I shall never see anything now that I do not see from
here,--and not that for long. Do not cry, Nelly. I have nothing to
regret, nothing to make me unhappy. I know how poor and weak has been
my life; but I know how rich and strong is that other life. Do not
cry, Nelly,--not till I am gone; and then not beyond measure. Why
should any one weep for those who go away full of years,--and full of
hope?"
On the day but one following the dean also reached his home. The
final arrangements of his tour, as well as those of his wife, had
been made to depend on Mr. Crawley's trial; for he also had been
hurried back by John Eames's visit to Florence. "I should have come
at once," he said to his wife, "when they wrote to ask me whether
Crawley had taken the cheque from me, had anybody then told me that
he was in actual trouble; but I had no idea then that they were
charging him with theft."
"As far as I can learn, they never really suspected him until after
your answer had come. They had been quite sure that your answer would
be in the affirmative."
"What he must have endured it is impossible to conceive. I shall go
out to him to-morrow."
"Would he not come to us?" said Mrs. Arabin.
"I doubt it. I will ask him, of course. I will ask them all here.
This about Henry and the girl may make a difference. He has resigned
the living, and some of the palace people are doing the duty."
"But he can have it again?"
"Oh, yes; he can have it again. For the matter of that, I need simply
give him back his letter. Only he is so odd,--so unlike other people!
And he has tried to live there, and has failed; and is now in debt. I
wonder whether Grantly would give him St. Ewold's?"
"I wish he would. But you must ask him. I should not dare."
As to the matter of the cheque, the dean acknowledged to his wife at
last that he had some recollection of her having told him that she
had made the sum of money up to seventy pounds. "I don't feel certain
of it now; but I think you may have done so." "I am quite sure I
could not have done it without telling you," she replied. "At any
rate you said nothing of the cheque," pleaded the dean. "I don't
suppose I did," said Mrs. Arabin. "I thought that cheques were like
any other money; but I shall know better for the future."
On the following morning the dean rode over to Hogglestock, and as he
drew near to the house of his old friend, his spirits flagged,--for
to tell the truth, he dreaded the meeting. Since the day on which he
had brought Mr. Crawley from a curacy in Cornwall into the diocese of
Barchester, his friend had been a trouble to him rather than a joy.
The trouble had been a trouble of spirit altogether,--not at all of
pocket. He would willingly have picked the Crawleys out from the
pecuniary mud into which they were ever falling, time after time,
had it been possible. For, though the dean was hardly to be called a
rich man, his lines had fallen to him not only in pleasant places,
but in easy circumstances;--and Mr. Crawley's embarrassments, though
overwhelming to him, were not so great as to have been heavy to
the dean. But in striving to do this he had always failed, had
always suffered, and had generally been rebuked. Crawley would
attempt to argue with him as to the improper allotment of Church
endowments,--declaring that he did not do so with any reference
to his own circumstances, but simply because the subject was one
naturally interesting to clergymen. And this he would do, as he was
waving off with his hand offers of immediate assistance which were
indispensable. Then there had been scenes between the dean and Mrs.
Crawley,--terribly painful,--and which had taken place in direct
disobedience to the husband's positive injunctions. "Sir," he had
once said to the dean, "I request that nothing may pass from your
hands to the hands of my wife." "Tush, tush," the dean had answered.
"I will have no tushing or pshawing on such a matter. A man's wife is
his very own, the breath of his nostril, the blood of his heart, the
rib from his body. It is for me to rule my wife, and I tell you that
I will not have it." After that the gifts had come from the hands of
Mrs. Arabin;--and then again, after that, in the direst hour of his
need, Crawley had himself come and taken money from the dean's hands!
The interview had been so painful that Arabin would hardly have been
able to count the money or to know of what it had consisted, had he
taken the notes and cheque out of the envelope in which his wife had
put them. Since that day the two had not met each other, and since
that day these new troubles had come. Arabin as yet knew but little
of the manner in which they had been borne, except that Crawley had
felt himself compelled to resign the living of Hogglestock. He knew
nothing of Mrs. Proudie's persecution, except what he gathered from
the fact of the clerical commission of which he had been informed;
but he could imagine that Mrs. Proudie would not lie easy on her
bed while a clergyman was doing duty almost under her nose, who was
guilty of the double offence of being accused of a theft, and of
having been put into his living by the dean. The dean, therefore,
as he rode on, pictured to himself his old friend in a terrible
condition. And it might be that even now that condition would hardly
have been improved. He was no longer suspected of being a thief; but
he could have no money in his pocket; and it might well be that his
sufferings would have made him almost mad.
The dean also got down and left his horse at a farm-yard,--as Grantly
had done with his carriage; and walked on first to the school. He
heard voices inside, but could not distinguish from them whether Mr.
Crawley was there or not. Slowly he opened the door, and looking
round saw that Jane Crawley was in the ascendant. Jane did not know
him at once, but told him when he had introduced himself that her
father had gone down to Hoggle End. He had started two hours ago, but
it was impossible to say when he might be back. "He sometimes stays
all day long with the brickmakers," said Jane. Her mother was at
home, and she would take the dean into the house. As she said this
she told him that her father was sometimes better and sometimes
worse. "But he has never been so very, very bad, since Henry Grantly
and mamma's cousin came and told us about the cheque." That word
Henry Grantly made the dean understand that there might yet be a ray
of sunshine among the Crawleys.
"There is papa," said Jane, as they got to the gate. Then they waited
for a few minutes till Mr. Crawley came up, very hot, wiping the
sweat from his forehead.
"Crawley," said the dean, "I cannot tell you how glad I am to see
you, and how rejoiced I am that this accusation has fallen off from
you."
"Verily the news came in time, Arabin," said the other; "but it was a
narrow pinch--a narrow pinch. Will you not enter, and see my wife?"
CHAPTER LXXIX.
MR. CRAWLEY SPEAKS OF HIS COAT.
[Illustration]
At this time Grace had returned home from Framley. As long as the
terrible tragedy of the forthcoming trial was dragging itself on she
had been content to stay away, at her mother's bidding. It has not
been possible in these pages to tell of all the advice that had been
given to the ladies of the Crawley family in their great difficulty,
and of all the assistance that had been offered. The elder Lady
Lufton and the younger, and Mrs. Robarts had continually been in
consultation on the subject; Mrs. Grantly's opinion had been asked
and given; and even the Miss Prettymans and Mrs. Walker had found
means of expressing themselves. The communications to Mrs. Crawley
had been very frequent,--though they had not of course been allowed
to reach the ears of Mr. Crawley. What was to be done when the living
should be gone and Mr. Crawley should be in prison? Some said that he
might be there for six weeks, and some for two years. Old Lady Lufton
made anxious inquiries about Judge Medlicote, before whom it was
said that the trial would be taken. Judge Medlicote was a Dissenter,
and old Lady Lufton was in despair. When she was assured by
some liberally-disposed friend that this would certainly make no
difference, she shook her head woefully. "I don't know why we are
to have Dissenters at all," she said, "to try people who belong to
the Established Church." When she heard that Judge Medlicote would
certainly be the judge, she made up her mind that two years would be
the least of it. She would not have minded it, she said, if he had
been a Roman Catholic. And whether the punishment might be for six
weeks or for two years, what should be done with the family? Where
should they be housed? how should they be fed? What should be done
with the poor man when he came out of prison? It was a case in which
the generous, soft-hearted old Lady Lufton was almost beside herself.
"As for Grace," said young Lady Lufton, "it will be a great deal
better that we should keep her amongst us. Of course she will become
Mrs. Grantly, and it will be nicer for her that it should be so." In
those days the posters had been seen, and the flitting to Pau had
been talked of, and the Framley opinion was that Grace had better
remain at Framley till she should be carried off to Pau. There were
schemes, too, about Jane. But what was to be done for the wife? And
what was to be done for Mr. Crawley? Then came the news from Mrs.
Arabin, and all interest in Judge Medlicote was at an end.
But even now, after this great escape, what was to be done? As to
Grace, she had felt the absolute necessity of being obedient to her
friends,--with the consent of course of her mother,--during the
great tribulation of her family. Things were so bad that she had
not the heart to make them worse by giving any unnecessary trouble
as to herself. Having resolved,--and having made her mother so
understand,--that on one point she would guide herself by her own
feelings, she was contented to go hither and thither as she was
told, and to do as she was bid. Her hope was that Miss Prettyman
would allow her to go back to her teaching, but it had come to be
understood among them all that nothing was to be said on that subject
till the trial should be over. Till that time she would be passive.
But then, as I have said, had come the news from Mrs. Arabin, and
Grace, with all the others, understood that there would be no trial.
When this was known and acknowledged, she declared her purpose of
going back to Hogglestock. She would go back at once. When asked both
by Lady Lufton and by Mrs. Robarts why she was in so great a haste,
she merely said that it must be so. She was, as it were, absolved
from her passive obedience to Framley authorities by the diminution
of the family misfortunes.
Mrs. Robarts understood the feeling by which Grace was hurried away.
"Do you know why she is so obstinate?" Lady Lufton asked.
"I think I do," said Mrs. Robarts.
"And what is it?"
"Should Major Grantly renew his offer to her she is under a pledge to
accept him now."
"Of course he will renew it, and of course she will accept him."
"Just so. But she prefers that he should come for her to her own
house,--because of its poverty. If he chooses to seek her there, I
don't think she will make much difficulty." Lady Lufton demurred to
this, not however with anger, and expressed a certain amount of mild
displeasure. She did not quite see why Major Grantly should not be
allowed to come and do his love-making comfortably, where there was
a decent dinner for him to eat, and chairs and tables and sofas and
carpets. She said that she thought that something was due to Major
Grantly. She was in truth a little disappointed that she was not
allowed to have her own way, and to arrange the marriage at Framley
under her own eye. But, through it all, she appreciated Grace; and
they who knew her well and heard what she said upon the occasion,
understood that her favour was not to be withdrawn. All young women
were divided by old Lady Lufton into sheep and goats,--very white
sheep and very black goats;--and Grace was to be a sheep. Thus it
came to pass that Grace Crawley was at home when the dean visited
Hogglestock. "Mamma," she said, looking out of the window, "there is
the dean with papa at the gate."
"It was a narrow squeak--a very narrow squeak," Mr. Crawley had said
when his friend congratulated him on his escape. The dean felt at
the moment that not for many years had he heard the incumbent of
Hogglestock speak either of himself or of anything else with so
manifest an attempt at jocularity. Arabin had expected to find the
man broken down by the weight of his sorrows, and lo! at the first
moment of their first interview he himself began to ridicule them!
Crawley having thus alluded to the narrow squeak had asked his
visitor to enter the house and see his wife.
"Of course I will," said Arabin, "but I will speak just a word to you
first." Jane, who had accompanied the dean from the school, now left
them, and went into the house to her mother. "My wife cannot forgive
herself about the cheque," continued he.
"There is nothing to be forgiven," said Mr. Crawley; "nothing."
"She feels that what she did was awkward and foolish. She ought never
to have paid a cheque away in such a manner. She knows that now."
"It was given,--not paid," said Crawley; and as he spoke something
of the black cloud came back upon his face. "And I am well aware
how hard Mrs. Arabin strove to take away from the alms she bestowed
the bitterness of the sting of eleemosynary aid. If you please,
Arabin, we will not talk any more of that. I can never forget that
I have been a beggar, but I need not make my beggary the matter of
conversation. I hope the Holy Land has fulfilled your expectation?"
"It has more than done so," said the dean, bewildered by the sudden
change.
"For myself, it is, of course, impossible that I should ever
visit any scenes except those to which my immediate work may call
me,--never in this world. The new Jerusalem is still within my
reach,--if it be not forfeited by pride and obstinacy; but the old
Jerusalem I can never behold. Methinks, because it is so, I would
sooner stand with my foot on Mount Olivet, or drink a cup of water
in the village of Bethany, than visit any other spot within the
traveller's compass. The sources of the Nile, of which men now talk
so much,--I see it in the papers and reviews which the ladies at
Framley are so good as to send to my wife,--do not interest me much.
I have no ambition to climb Mont Blanc or the Matterhorn; Rome makes
my mouth water but little, nor even Athens much. I can realize
without seeing all that Athens could show me, and can fancy that the
existing truth would destroy more than it would build up. But to have
stood on Calvary!"
"We don't know where Calvary was," said the dean.
"I fancy that I should know,--should know enough," said the illogical
and unreasonable Mr. Crawley. "Is it true that you can look over
from the spot on which He stood as He came across the brow of the
hill, and see the huge stones of the Temple placed there by Solomon's
men,--as He saw them;--right across the brook Cedron, is it not?"
"It is all there, Crawley,--just as your knowledge of it tells you."
"In the privilege of seeing those places I can almost envy a man
his--money." The last word he uttered after a pause. He had been
about to say that under such temptation he could almost envy a man
his promotion; but he bethought himself that on such an occasion as
this it would be better that he should spare the dean. "And now, if
you wish it, we will go in. I fancy that I see my wife at the window,
as though she were waiting for us." So saying, he strode on along the
little path, and the dean was fain to follow him, even though he had
said so little of all that he had intended to say.
As soon as he was with Mrs. Crawley he repeated his apology about
the cheque, and found himself better able to explain himself than he
could do when alone with her husband. "Of course, it has been our
fault," he said.
"Oh, no," said Mrs. Crawley, "how can you have been in fault when
your only object was to do us good?" But, nevertheless, the dean took
the blame upon his own shoulders, or, rather upon those of his wife,
and declared himself to be responsible for all the trouble about the
cheque.
"Let it go," said Crawley, after sitting for awhile in silence; "let
it pass."
"You cannot wonder, Crawley," said the dean, "that I should have felt
myself obliged to speak of it."
"For the future it will be well that it should be forgotten," said
Crawley; "or, if not forgotten, treated as though forgotten. And now,
dean, what must I do about the living?"
"Just resume it, as though nothing had happened."
"But that may hardly be done without the bishop's authority. I speak,
of course, with deference to your higher and better information on
such subjects. My experience in the taking up and laying down of
livings has not been extended. But it seemeth to me that though it
may certainly be in your power to nominate me again to the perpetual
curacy of this parish,--presuming your patronage to be unlimited and
not to reach you in rotation only,--yet the bishop may demand to
institute again, and must so demand, unless he pleases to permit that
my letter to him shall be revoked and cancelled."
"Of course he will do anything of that kind. He must know the
circumstances as well as you and I do."
"At present they tell me that he is much afflicted by the death of
his wife, and, therefore, can hardly be expected to take immediate
action. There came here on the last Sunday one Mr. Snapper, his
lordship's chaplain."
"We all know Snapper," said the dean. "Snapper is not a bad little
fellow."
"I say nothing of his being bad, my friend, but merely mention the
fact that on Sunday morning last he performed the service in our
church. On the Sunday previous, one Mr. Thumble was here."
"We all know Thumble, too," said the dean; "or, at least, know
something about him."
"He has been a thorn in our sides," said Mrs. Crawley, unable to
restrain the expression of her dislike when Mr. Thumble's name was
mentioned.
"Nay, my dear, nay;--do not allow yourself the use of language so
strong against a brother. Our flesh at that time was somewhat prone
to fester, and little thorns made us very sore."
"He is a horrible man," said Jane, almost in a whisper; but the words
were distinctly audible by the dean.
"They need not come any more," said Arabin.
"That is where I fear we differ. I think they must come,--or some
others in their place,--till the bishop shall have expressed his
pleasure to the contrary. I have submitted myself to his lordship,
and, having done so, feel that I cannot again go up into my pulpit
till he shall have authorized me to do so. For a time, Arabin, I
combated the bishop, believing,--then and now,--that he put forth his
hand against me after a fashion which the law had not sanctioned. And
I made bold to stand in his presence and to tell him that I would not
obey him, except in things legal. But afterwards, when he proceeded
formally, through the action of a commission, I submitted myself. And
I regard myself still as being under submission."
It was impossible to shake him. Arabin remained there for more than
an hour, trying to pass on to another subject, but being constantly
brought back by Mr. Crawley himself to the fact of his own dependent
position. Nor would he condescend to supplicate the bishop. It was,
he surmised, the duty of Dr. Tempest, together with the other four
clergymen, to report to the bishop on the question of the alleged
theft; and then doubtless the bishop, when he had duly considered
the report, and,--as Mr. Crawley seemed to think was essentially
necessary,--had sufficiently recovered from the grief at his wife's
death, would, at his leisure, communicate his decision to Mr.
Crawley. Nothing could be more complete than Mr. Crawley's humility
in reference to the bishop; and he never seemed to be tired of
declaring that he had submitted himself!
And then the dean, finding it to be vain to expect to be left alone
with Mr. Crawley for a moment,--in vain also to wait for a proper
opening for that which he had to say,--rushed violently at his other
subject. "And now, Mrs. Crawley," he said, "Mrs. Arabin wishes you
all to come over to the deanery for a while and stay with us."
"Mrs. Arabin is too kind," said Mrs. Crawley, looking across at her
husband.
"We should like it of all things," said the dean, with perhaps more
of good nature than of truth. "Of course you must have been knocked
about a good deal."
"Indeed we have," said Mrs. Crawley.
"And till you are somewhat settled again, I think that the change of
scene would be good for all of you. Come, Crawley, I'll talk to you
every evening about Jerusalem for as long as you please;--and then
there will perhaps come back to us something of the pleasantness
of old days." As she heard this Mrs. Crawley's eyes became full of
tears, and she could not altogether hide them. What she had endured
during the last four months had almost broken her spirit. The burden
had at last been too heavy for her strength. "You cannot fancy,
Crawley, how often I have thought of the old days and wished that
they might return. I have found it very hard to get an opportunity of
saying so much to you; but I will say it now."
"It may hardly be as you say," said Crawley, grimly.
"You mean that the old days can never be brought back?"
"Assuredly they cannot. But it was not that that I meant. It may not
be that I and mine should transfer ourselves to your roof and sojourn
there."
"Why should you not?"
"The reasons are many, and on the face of things. The reason,
perhaps, the most on the face is to be found in my wife's gown, and
in my coat." This Mr. Crawley said very gravely, looking neither to
the right nor to the left, nor at the face of any of them, nor at his
own garment, nor at hers, but straight before him; and when he had
so spoken he said not a word further,--not going on to dilate on his
poverty as the dean expected that he would do.
"At such a time such reasons should stand for nothing," said the
dean.
"And why not now as they always do, and always must till the power
of tailors shall have waned, and the daughters of Eve shall toil and
spin no more? Like to like is true, and should be held to be true, of
all societies and of all compacts for co-operation and mutual living.
Here, where, if I may venture to say so, you and I are like to
like;--for the new gloss of your coat,"--the dean, as it happened,
had on at the moment a very old coat, his oldest coat, selected
perhaps with some view to this special visit,--"does not obtrude
itself in my household, as would the threadbare texture of mine in
yours;--I can open my mouth to you and converse with you at my ease;
you are now to me that Frank Arabin who has so often comforted me
and so often confuted me; whom I may perhaps on an occasion have
confuted--and perhaps have comforted. But were I sitting with you in
your library in Barchester, my threadbare coat would be too much for
me. I should be silent, if not sullen. I should feel the weight of
all my poverty, and the greater weight of all your wealth. For my
children, let them go. I have come to know that they will be better
away from me."
"Papa!" said Jane.
"Papa does not mean it," said Grace, coming up to him and standing
close to him.
There was silence amongst them for a few moments, and then the master
of the house shook himself,--literally shook himself, till he had
shaken off the cloud. He had taken Grace by the hand, and thrusting
out the other arm had got it round Jane's waist. "When a man has
girls, Arabin," he said, "as you have, but not big girls yet like
Grace here, of course he knows that they will fly away."
"I shall not fly away," said Jane.
"I don't know what papa means," said Grace.
Upon the whole the dean thought it the pleasantest visit he had ever
made to Hogglestock, and when he got home he told his wife that he
believed that the accusation made against Mr. Crawley had done him
good. "I could not say a word in private to her," he said, "but I
did promise that you would go and see her." On the very next day Mrs.
Arabin went over, and I think that the visit was a comfort to Mrs.
Crawley.
CHAPTER LXXX.
MISS DEMOLINES DESIRES TO BECOME A FINGER-POST.
John Eames had passed Mrs. Thorne in the hall of her own house almost
without noticing her as he took his departure from Lily Dale. She had
told him as plainly as words could speak that she could not bring
herself to be his wife,--and he had believed her. He had sworn to
himself that if he did not succeed now he would never ask her again.
"It would be foolish and unmanly to do so," he said to himself as he
rushed along the street towards his club. No! That romance was over.
At last there had come an end to it! "It has taken a good bit out of
me," he said, arresting his steps suddenly that he might stand still
and think of it all. "By George, yes! A man doesn't go through that
kind of thing without losing some of the caloric. I couldn't do it
again if an angel came in my way." He went to his club, and tried to
be jolly. He ordered a good dinner, and got some man to come and dine
with him. For an hour or so he held himself up, and did appear to be
jolly. But as he walked home at night, and gave himself time to think
over what had taken place with deliberation, he stopped in the gloom
of a deserted street and leaning against the rails burst into tears.
He had really loved her and she was never to be his. He had wanted
her,--and it is so painful a thing to miss what you want when you
have done your very best to obtain it! To struggle in vain always
hurts the pride; but the wound made by the vain struggle for a woman
is sorer than any other wound so made. He gnashed his teeth, and
struck the iron railings with his stick;--and then he hurried home,
swearing that he would never give another thought to Lily Dale. In
the dead of the night, thinking of it still, he asked himself whether
it would not be a fine thing to wait another ten years, and then go
to her again. In such a way would he not make himself immortal as a
lover beyond any Jacob or any Leander?
The next day he went to his office and was very grave. When Sir
Raffle complimented him on being back before his time, he simply said
that when he had accomplished that for which he had gone, he had, of
course, come back. Sir Raffle could not get a word out from him about
Mr. Crawley. He was very grave, and intent upon his work. Indeed
he was so serious that he quite afflicted Sir Raffle,--whose mock
activity felt itself to be confounded by the official zeal of his
private secretary. During the whole of that day Johnny was resolving
that there could be no cure for his malady but hard work. He would
not only work hard at the office if he remained there, but he would
take to heavy reading. He rather thought that he would go deep into
Greek and do a translation, or take up the exact sciences and make
a name for himself that way. But as he had enough for the life of a
secluded literary man without his salary, he rather thought that he
would give up his office altogether. He had a mutton chop at home
that evening, and spent his time in endeavouring to read out loud to
himself certain passages from the Iliad;--for he had bought a Homer
as he returned from his office. At nine o'clock he went, half-price,
to the Strand Theatre. How he met there his old friend Boulger and
went afterwards to "The Cock" and had a supper need not here be told
with more accurate detail.
On the evening of the next day he was bound by his appointment to go
to Porchester Terrace. In the moments of his enthusiasm about Homer
he had declared to himself that he would never go near Miss Demolines
again. Why should he? All that kind of thing was nothing to him
now. He would simply send her his compliments and say that he was
prevented by business from keeping his engagement. She, of course,
would go on writing to him for a time, but he would simply leave
her letters unanswered, and the thing, of course, would come to an
end at last. He afterwards said something to Boulger about Miss
Demolines,--but that was during the jollity of their supper,--and he
then declared that he would follow out that little game. "I don't see
why a fellow isn't to amuse himself, eh, Boulger, old boy?" Boulger
winked and grinned, and said that some amusements were dangerous. "I
don't think that there is any danger there," said Johnny. "I don't
believe she is thinking of that kind of thing herself;--not with me
at least. What she likes is the pretence of a mystery; and as it is
amusing I don't see why a fellow shouldn't indulge her." But that
determination was pronounced after two mutton chops at "The Cock,"
between one and two o'clock in the morning. On the next day he was
cooler and wiser. Greek he thought might be tedious as he discovered
that he would have to begin again from the very alphabet. He would
therefore abandon that idea. Greek was not the thing for him, but
he would take up the sanitary condition of the poor in London. A
fellow could be of some use in that way. In the meantime he would
keep his appointment with Miss Demolines, simply because it was an
appointment. A gentleman should always keep his word to a lady!
He did keep his appointment with Miss Demolines, and was with her
almost precisely at the hour she had named. She received him with a
mysterious tranquillity which almost perplexed him. He remembered,
however, that the way to enjoy the society of Miss Demolines was to
take her in all her moods with perfect seriousness, and was therefore
very tranquil himself. On the present occasion she did not rise as he
entered the room, and hardly spoke as she tendered to him the tips
of her fingers to be touched. As she said almost nothing, he said
nothing at all, but sank into a chair and stretched his legs out
comfortably before him. It had been always understood between them
that she was to bear the burden of the conversation.
"You'll have a cup of tea?" she said.
"Yes;--if you do." Then the page brought the tea, and John Eames
amused himself with swallowing three slices of very thin bread and
butter.
"None for me,--thanks," said Madalina. "I rarely eat after dinner,
and not often much then. I fancy that I should best like a world in
which there was no eating."
"A good dinner is a very good thing," said John. And then there was
again silence. He was aware that some great secret was to be told to
him during this evening, but he was much too discreet to show any
curiosity upon that subject. He sipped his tea to the end, and then,
having got up to put his cup down, stood on the rug with his back to
the fire. "Have you been out to-day?" he asked.
"Indeed I have."
"And you are tired?"
"Very tired!"
"Then perhaps I had better not keep you up."
"Your remaining will make no difference in that respect. I don't
suppose that I shall be in bed for the next four hours. But do as you
like about going."
"I am in no hurry," said Johnny. Then he sat down again, stretched
out his legs and made himself comfortable.
"I have been to see that woman," said Madalina after a pause.
"What woman?"
"Maria Clutterbuck,--as I must always call her; for I cannot bring
myself to pronounce the name of that poor wretch who was done to
death."
"He blew his brains out in delirium tremens," said Johnny.
"And what made him drink?" said Madalina with emphasis. "Never mind.
I decline altogether to speak of it. Such a scene as I have had! I
was driven at last to tell her what I thought of her. Anything so
callous, so heartless, so selfish, so stone-cold, and so childish,
I never saw before! That Maria was childish and selfish I always
knew;--but I thought there was some heart,--a vestige of heart. I
found to-day that there was none,--none. If you please we won't speak
of her any more."
"Certainly not," said Johnny.
"You need not wonder that I am tired and feverish."
"That sort of thing is fatiguing, I dare say. I don't know whether we
do not lose more than we gain by those strong emotions."
"I would rather die and go beneath the sod at once, than live without
them," said Madalina.
"It's a matter of taste," said Johnny.
"It is there that that poor wretch is so deficient. She is thinking
now, this moment, of nothing but her creature comforts. That tragedy
has not even stirred her pulses."
"If her pulses were stirred ever so, that would not make her happy."
"Happy! Who is happy? Are you happy?"
Johnny thought of Lily Dale and paused before he answered. No;
certainly he was not happy. But he was not going to talk about his
unhappiness to Miss Demolines! "Of course I am;--as jolly as a
sandboy," he said.
"Mr. Eames," said Madalina raising herself on her sofa, "if you can
not express yourself in language more suitable to the occasion and to
the scene than that, I think that you had better--"
"Hold my tongue."
"Just so;--though I should not have chosen myself to use words so
abruptly discourteous."
"What did I say;--jolly as a sandboy? There is nothing wrong in that.
What I meant was, that I think that this world is a very good sort of
world, and that a man can get along in it very well, if he minds his
_p_'s and _q_'s."
"But suppose it's a woman?"
"Easier still."
"And suppose she does not mind her _p_'s and _q_'s?"
"Women always do."
"Do they? Your knowledge of women goes as far as that, does it? Tell
me fairly;--do you think you know anything about women?" Madalina
as she asked the question, looked full into his face, and shook her
locks and smiled. When she shook her locks and smiled, there was a
certain attraction about her of which John Eames was fully sensible.
She could throw a special brightness into her eyes, which, though it
probably betokened nothing truly beyond ill-natured mischief, seemed
to convey a promise of wit and intellect.
"I don't mean to make any boast about it," said Johnny.
"I doubt whether you know anything. The pretty simplicity of your
excellent Lily Dale has sufficed for you."
"Never mind about her," said Johnny impatiently.
"I do not mind about her in the least. But an insight into that sort
of simplicity will not teach you the character of a real woman. You
cannot learn the flavour of wines by sipping sherry and water. For
myself I do not think that I am simple. I own it fairly. If you must
have simplicity, I cannot be to your taste."
"Nobody likes partridge always," said Johnny laughing.
"I understand you, sir. And though what you say is not complimentary,
I am willing to forgive that fault for its truth. I don't consider
myself to be always partridge, I can assure you. I am as changeable
as the moon."
"And as fickle?"
"I say nothing about that, sir. I leave you to find that out. It is
a man's business to discover that for himself. If you really do know
aught of women--"
"I did not say that I did."
"But if you do, you will perhaps have discovered that a woman may be
as changeable as the moon, and yet as true as the sun;--that she may
flit from flower to flower, quite unheeding while no passion exists,
but that a passion fixes her at once. Do you believe me?" Now she
looked into his eyes again, but did not smile and did not shake her
locks.
"Oh yes;--that's true enough. And when they have a lot of children,
then they become steady as milestones."
"Children!" said Madalina, getting up and walking about the room.
"They do have them you know," said Johnny.
"Do you mean to say, sir, that I should be a milestone?"
"A finger-post," said Johnny, "to show a fellow the way he ought to
go."
She walked twice across the room without speaking. Then she came and
stood opposite to him, still without speaking,--and then she walked
about again. "What could a woman better be, than a finger-post, as
you call it, with such a purpose?"
"Nothing better, of course;--though a milestone to tell a fellow his
distances, is very good."
"Psha!"
"You don't like the idea of being a milestone."
"No!"
"Then you can make up your mind to be a finger-post."
"John, shall I be a finger-post for you?" She stood and looked at him
for a moment or two, with her eyes full of love, as though she were
going to throw herself into his arms. And she would have done so, no
doubt, instantly, had he risen to his legs. As it was, after having
gazed at him for the moment with her love-laden eyes, she flung
herself on the sofa, and hid her face among the cushions.
He had felt that it was coming for the last quarter of an hour,--and
he had felt, also, that he was quite unable to help himself. He
did not believe that he should ever be reduced to marrying Miss
Demolines, but he did see plainly enough that he was getting into
trouble; and yet, for his life, he could not help himself. The moth
who flutters round the light knows that he is being burned, and yet
he cannot fly away from it. When Madalina had begun to talk to him
about women in general, and then about herself, and had told him that
such a woman as herself,--even one so liable to the disturbance of
violent emotions,--might yet be as true and honest as the sun, he
knew that he ought to get up and make his escape. He did not exactly
know how the catastrophe would come, but he was quite sure that if he
remained there he would be called upon in some way for a declaration
of his sentiments,--and that the call would be one which all his wit
would not enable him to answer with any comfort. It was very well
jesting about milestones, but every jest brought him nearer to the
precipice. He perceived that however ludicrous might be the image
which his words produced, she was clever enough in some way to turn
that image to her own purpose. He had called a woman a finger-post,
and forthwith she had offered to come to him and be finger-post to
him for life! What was he to say to her? It was clear that he must
say something. As at this moment she was sobbing violently, he could
not pass the offer by as a joke. Women will say that his answer
should have been very simple, and his escape very easy. But men will
understand that it is not easy to reject even a Miss Demolines when
she offers herself for matrimony. And, moreover,--as Johnny bethought
himself at this crisis of his fate,--Lady Demolines was no doubt at
the other side of the drawing-room door, ready to stop him, should
he attempt to run away. In the meantime the sobs on the sofa became
violent, and still more violent. He had not even yet made up his
mind what to do, when Madalina, springing to her feet, stood before
him, with her curls wildly waving and her arms extended. "Let it be
as though it were unsaid," she exclaimed. John Eames had not the
slightest objection; but, nevertheless, there was a difficulty even
in this. Were he simply to assent to this latter proposition, it
could not be but that the feminine nature of Miss Demolines would be
outraged by so uncomplimentary an acquiescence. He felt that he ought
at least to hesitate a little,--to make some pretence at closing upon
the rich offer that had been made to him; only that were he to show
any such pretence the rich offer would, no doubt, be repeated. His
Madalina had twitted him in the earlier part of their interview with
knowing nothing of the nature of women. He did know enough to feel
assured that any false step on his part now would lead him into very
serious difficulties. "Let it be as though it were unsaid! Why, oh,
why, have I betrayed myself?" exclaimed Madalina.
John now had risen from his chair, and coming up to her took her by
the arm and spoke a word. "Compose yourself," he said. He spoke in
his most affectionate voice, and he stood very close to her.
"How easy it is to bid me do that," said Madalina. "Tell the sea to
compose itself when it rages!"
"Madalina!" said he.
"Well,--what of Madalina? Madalina has lost her own respect,--for
ever."
"Do not say that."
"Oh, John,--why did you ever come here? Why? Why did we meet at
that fatal woman's house? Or, meeting so, why did we not part as
strangers? Sir, why have you come here to my mother's house day after
day, evening after evening, if--. Oh, heavens, what am I saying? I
wonder whether you will scorn me always?"
"I will never scorn you."
"And you will pardon me?"
"Madalina, there is nothing to pardon."
"And--you will love me?" Then, without waiting for any more
encouraging reply,--unable, probably, to wait a moment longer, she
sunk upon his bosom. He caught her, of course,--and at that moment
the drawing-room door was opened, and Lady Demolines entered the
chamber. John Eames detected at a glance the skirt of the old white
dressing gown which he had seen whisking away on the occasion of his
last visit at Porchester Terrace. But on the present occasion Lady
Demolines wore over it a short red opera cloak, and the cap on her
head was ornamented with coloured ribbons. "What is this," she said,
"and why am I thus disturbed?" Madalina lay motionless in Johnny's
arms, while the old woman glowered at him from under the coloured
ribbons. "Mr. Eames, what is it that I behold?" she said.
[Illustration: "What is it that I behold?"]