The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  “At any rate not with the earl,” said Lady Clandidlem. “Ha, ha, ha! Well, we are all very good-natured, are we not? The best is that it means nothing.”

  Thus by degrees all the guests went, and the family of the De Courcys was left to the bliss of their own domestic circle. This, we may presume, was not without its charms, seeing that there were so many feelings in common between the mother and her children. There were drawbacks to it, no doubt, arising perhaps chiefly from the earl’s bodily infirmities. “When your father speaks to me,” said Mrs. George to her husband, “he puts me in such a shiver that I cannot open my mouth to answer him.”

  “You should stand up to him,” said George. “He can’t hurt you, you know. Your money’s your own; and if I’m ever to be the heir, it won’t be by his doing.”

  “But he gnashes his teeth at me.”

  “You shouldn’t care for that, if he don’t bite. He used to gnash them at me; and when I had to ask him for money I didn’t like it; but now I don’t mind him a bit. He threw the peerage at me one day, but it didn’t go within a yard of my head.”

  “If he throws anything at me, George, I shall drop upon the spot.”

  But the countess had a worse time with the earl than any of her children. It was necessary that she should see him daily, and necessary also that she should say much that he did not like to hear, and make many petitions that caused him to gnash his teeth. The earl was one of those men who could not endure to live otherwise than expensively, and yet was made miserable by every recurring expense. He ought to have known by this time that butchers, and bakers, and corn-chandlers, and coal-merchants will not supply their goods for nothing; and yet it always seemed as though he had expected that at this special period they would do so. He was an embarrassed man, no doubt, and had not been fortunate in his speculations at Newmarket or Homburg; but, nevertheless, he had still the means of living without daily torment; and it must be supposed that his self-imposed sufferings, with regard to money, rose rather from his disposition than his necessities. His wife never knew whether he were really ruined, or simply pretending it. She had now become so used to her position in this respect, that she did not allow fiscal considerations to mar her happiness. Food and clothing had always come to her—including velvet gowns, new trinkets, and a man-cook—and she presumed that they would continue to come. But that daily conference with her husband was almost too much for her. She struggled to avoid it; and, as far as the ways and means were concerned, would have allowed them to arrange themselves, if he would only have permitted it. But he insisted on seeing her daily in his own sitting-room; and she had acknowledged to her favourite daughter, Margaretta, that those half-hours would soon be the death of her. “I sometimes feel,” she said, “that I am going mad before I can get out.” And she reproached herself, probably without reason, in that she had brought much of this upon herself. In former days the earl had been constantly away from home, and the countess had complained. Like many other women, she had not known when she was well off. She had complained, urging upon her lord that he should devote more of his time to his own hearth. It is probable that her ladyship’s remonstrances had been less efficacious than the state of his own health in producing that domestic constancy which he now practised; but it is certain that she looked back with bitter regret to the happy days when she was deserted, jealous, and querulous. “Don’t you wish we could get Sir Omicron to order him to the German Spas?” she had said to Margaretta. Now Sir Omicron was the great London physician, and might, no doubt, do much in that way.

  But no such happy order had as yet been given; and, as far as the family could foresee, paterfamilias intended to pass the winter with them at Courcy. The guests, as I have said, were all gone, and none but the family were in the house when her ladyship waited upon her lord one morning at twelve o’clock, a few days after Mr. Dale’s visit to the castle. He always breakfasted alone, and after breakfast found in a French novel and a cigar what solace those innocent recreations were still able to afford him. When the novel no longer excited him and when he was saturated with smoke, he would send for his wife. After that, his valet would dress him. “She gets it worse than I do,” the man declared in the servants’ hall, “and minds it a deal more. I can give warning, and she can’t.”

  “Better? No, I ain’t better,” the husband said, in answer to his wife’s inquiries. “I never shall be better while you keep that cook in the kitchen.”

  “But where are we to get another if we send him away?”

  “It’s not my business to find cooks. I don’t know where you’re to get one. It’s my belief you won’t have a cook at all before long. It seems you have got two extra men into the house without telling me.”

  “We must have servants, you know, when there is company. It wouldn’t do to have Lady Dumbello here, and no one to wait on her.”

  “Who asked Lady Dumbello? I didn’t.”

  “I’m sure, my dear, you liked having her here.”

  “D—— Lady Dumbello!” and then there was a pause. The countess had no objection whatsoever to the above proposition, and was rejoiced that that question of the servants was allowed to slip aside, through the aid of her ladyship.

  “Look at that letter from Porlock,” said the earl; and he pushed over to the unhappy mother a letter from her eldest son. Of all her children he was the one she loved the best; but him she was never allowed to see under her own roof. “I sometimes think that he is the greatest rascal with whom I ever had occasion to concern myself,” said the earl.

  She took the letter and read it. The epistle was certainly not one which a father could receive with pleasure from his son; but the disagreeable nature of its contents was the fault rather of the parent than of the child. The writer intimated that certain money due to him had not been paid with necessary punctuality, and that unless he received it, he should instruct his lawyer to take some authorised legal proceedings. Lord de Courcy had raised certain moneys on the family property, which he could not have raised without the co-operation of his heir, and had bound himself, in return for that co-operation, to pay a certain fixed income to his eldest son. This he regarded as an allowance from himself; but Lord Porlock regarded it as his own, by lawful claim. The son had not worded his letter with any affectionate phraseology. “Lord Porlock begs to inform Lord de Courcy—” Such had been the commencement.

  “I suppose he must have his money; else how can he live?” said the countess, trembling.

  “Live!” shouted the earl. “And so you think it proper that he should write such a letter as that to his father!”

  “It is all very unfortunate,” she replied.

  “I don’t know where the money’s to come from. As for him, if he were starving, it would serve him right. He’s a disgrace to the name and the family. From all I hear, he won’t live long.”

  “Oh, De Courcy, don’t talk of it in that way!”

  “What way am I to talk of it? If I say that he’s my greatest comfort, and living as becomes a nobleman, and is a fine healthy man of his age, with a good wife and a lot of legitimate children, will that make you believe it? Women are such fools. Nothing that I say will make him worse than he is.”

  “But he may reform.”

  “Reform! He’s over forty, and when I last saw him he looked nearly sixty. There—you may answer his letter; I won’t.”

  “And about the money?”

  “Why doesn’t he write to Gazebee about his dirty money? Why does he trouble me? I haven’t got his money. Ask Gazebee about his money. I won’t trouble myself about it.” Then there was another pause, during which the countess folded the letter, and put it in her pocket.

  “How long is George going to remain here with that woman?” he asked.

  “I’m sure she is very harmless,” pleaded the countess.

  “I always think when I see her that I’m sitting down to dinner with my own housemaid. I never saw such a woman. How he can put up with it! But I don’t suppose he cares for
anything.”

  “It has made him very steady.”

  “Steady!”

  “And as she will be confined before long it may be as well that she should remain here. If Porlock doesn’t marry, you know—”

  “And so he means to live here altogether, does he? I’ll tell you what it is—I won’t have it. He’s better able to keep a house over his own head and his wife’s than I am to do it for them, and so you may tell them. I won’t have it. D’ye hear?” Then there was another short pause. “D’ye hear?” he shouted at her.

  “Yes; of course I hear. I was only thinking you wouldn’t wish me to turn them out, just as her confinement is coming on.”

  “I know what that means. Then they’d never go. I won’t have it; and if you don’t tell them I will.” In answer to this Lady de Courcy promised that she would tell them, thinking perhaps that the earl’s mode of telling might not be beneficial in that particular epoch which was now coming in the life of Mrs. George.

  “Did you know,” said he, breaking out on a new subject, “that a man had been here named Dale, calling on somebody in this house?” In answer to which the countess acknowledged that she had known it.

  “Then why did you keep it from me?” And that gnashing of the teeth took place which was so specially objectionable to Mrs. George.

  “It was a matter of no moment. He came to see Lady Julia De Guest.”

  “Yes; but he came about that man Crosbie.”

  “I suppose he did.”

  “Why have you let that girl be such a fool? You’ll find he’ll play her some knave’s trick.”

  “Oh dear, no.”

  “And why should she want to marry such a man as that?”

  “He’s quite a gentleman, you know, and very much thought of in the world. It won’t be at all bad for her, poor thing. It is so very hard for a girl to get married nowadays without money.”

  “And so they’re to take up with anybody. As far as I can see, this is a worse affair than that of Amelia.”

  “Amelia has done very well, my dear.”

  “Oh, if you call it doing well for your girls; I don’t. I call it doing uncommon badly; about as bad as they well can do. But it’s your affair. I have never meddled with them, and don’t intend to do it now.”

  “I really think she’ll be happy, and she is devotedly attached to the young man.”

  “Devotedly attached to the young man!” The tone and manner in which the earl repeated these words were such as to warrant an opinion that his lordship might have done very well on the stage had his attention been called to that profession. “It makes me sick to hear people talk in that way. She wants to get married, and she’s a fool for her pains—I can’t help that; only remember that I’ll have no nonsense here about that other girl. If he gives me trouble of that sort, by ——, I’ll be the death of him. When is the marriage to be?”

  “They talk of February.”

  “I won’t have any tomfoolery and expense. If she chooses to marry a clerk in an office, she shall marry him as clerks are married.”

  “He’ll be the secretary before that, De Courcy.”

  “What difference does that make? Secretary, indeed! What sort of men do you suppose secretaries are? A beggar that came from nobody knows where! I won’t have any tomfoolery—d’ye hear?” Whereupon the countess said that she did hear, and soon afterwards managed to escape. The valet then took his turn; and repeated, after his hour of service, that “Old Nick” in his tantrums had been more like the Prince of Darkness than ever.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  “On My Honour, I Do Not Understand It”

  In the meantime Lady Alexandrina endeavoured to realise to herself all the advantages and disadvantages of her own position. She was not possessed of strong affections, nor of depth of character, nor of high purpose; but she was no fool, nor was she devoid of principle. She had asked herself many times whether her present life was so happy as to make her think that a permanent continuance in it would suffice for her desires, and she had always replied to herself that she would fain change to some other life if it were possible. She had also questioned herself as to her rank, of which she was quite sufficiently proud, and had told herself that she could not degrade herself in the world without a heavy pang. But she had at last taught herself to believe that she had more to gain by becoming the wife of such a man as Crosbie than by remaining as an unmarried daughter of her father’s house. There was much in her sister Amelia’s position which she did not envy, but there was less to envy in that of her sister Rosina. The Gazebee house in St. John’s Wood Road was not so magnificent as Courcy Castle; but then it was less dull, less embittered by torment, and was moreover her sister’s own.

  “Very many do marry commoners,” she had said to Margaretta.

  “Oh, yes, of course. It makes a difference, you know, when a man has a fortune.”

  Of course it did make a difference. Crosbie had no fortune, was not even so rich as Mr. Gazebee, could keep no carriage, and would have no country house. But then he was a man of fashion, was more thought of in the world than Mr. Gazebee, might probably rise in his own profession—and was at any rate thoroughly presentable. She would have preferred a gentleman with £5,000 a year; but then as no gentleman with £5,000 a year came that way, would she not be happier with Mr. Crosbie than she would be with no husband at all? She was not very much in love with Mr. Crosbie, but she thought that she could live with him comfortably, and that on the whole it would be a good thing to be married.

  And she made certain resolves as to the manner in which she would do her duty by her husband. Her sister Amelia was paramount in her own house, ruling indeed with a moderate, endurable dominion, and ruling much to her husband’s advantage. Alexandrina feared that she would not be allowed to rule, but she could at any rate try; She would do all in her power to make him comfortable, and would be specially careful not to irritate him by any insistence on her own higher rank. She would be very meek in this respect; and if children should come she would be as painstaking about them as though her own father had been merely a clergyman or a lawyer. She thought also much about poor Lilian Dale, asking herself sundry questions, with an idea of being high-principled as to her duty in that respect. Was she wrong in taking Mr. Crosbie away from Lilian Dale? In answer to these questions she was able to assure herself comfortably that she was not wrong. Mr. Crosbie would not, under any circumstances, marry Lilian Dale. He had told her so more than once, and that in a solemn way. She could therefore be doing no harm to Lilian Dale. If she entertained any inner feeling that Crosbie’s fault in jilting Lilian Dale was less than it would have been had she herself not been an earl’s daughter—that her own rank did in some degree extenuate her lover’s falseness—she did not express it in words even to herself.

  She did not get very much sympathy from her own family. “I’m afraid he does not think much of his religious duties. I’m told that young men of that sort seldom do,” said Rosina. “I don’t say you’re wrong,” said Margaretta. “By no means. Indeed I think less of it now than I did when Amelia did the same thing. I shouldn’t do it myself, that’s all.” Her father told her that he supposed she knew her own mind. Her mother, who endeavoured to comfort and in some sort to congratulate her, nevertheless, harped constantly on the fact that she was marrying a man without rank and without a fortune. Her congratulations were apologetic, and her comfortings took the guise of consolation. “Of course you won’t be rich, my dear; but I really think you’ll do very well. Mr. Crosbie may be received anywhere, and you never need be ashamed of him.” By which the countess implied that her elder married daughter was occasionally called on to be ashamed of her husband. “I wish he could keep a carriage for you, but perhaps that will come some day.” Upon the whole Alexandrina did not repent, and stoutly told her father that she did know her own mind.

  During all this time Lily Dale was as yet perfect in her happiness. That delay of a day or two in the receipt of the expected letter fro
m her lover had not disquieted her. She had promised him that she would not distrust him, and she was firmly minded to keep her promises. Indeed no idea of breaking it came to her at this time. She was disappointed when the postman would come and bring no letter for her—disappointed, as the husbandman when the longed-for rain does not come to refresh the parched earth; but she was in no degree angry. “He will explain it,” she said to herself. And she assured Bell that men never recognised the hunger and thirst after letters which women feel when away from those whom they love.

  Then they heard at the Small House that the squire had gone away from Allington. During the last few days Bernard had not been much with them, and now they heard the news, not through their cousin, but from Hopkins. “I really can’t undertake to say, Miss Bell, where the master’s gone to. It’s not likely the master’d tell me where he was going to; not unless it was about seeds, or the likes of that.”

  “He has gone very suddenly,” said Bell.

  “Well, miss, I’ve nothing to say to that. And why shouldn’t he go sudden if he likes? I only know he had his gig, and went to the station. If you was to bury me alive I couldn’t tell you more.”

  “I should like to try,” said Lily as they walked away. “He is such a cross old thing. I wonder whether Bernard has gone with my uncle.” And then they thought no more about it.

  On the day after that Bernard came down to the Small House, but he said nothing by way of accounting for the squire’s absence. “He is in London, I know,” said Bernard.

  “I hope he’ll call on Mr. Crosbie,” said Lily. But on this subject Bernard said not a word. He did ask Lily whether she had heard from Adolphus, in answer to which she replied, with as indifferent a voice as she could assume, that she had not had a letter that morning.

  “I shall be angry with him if he’s not a good correspondent,” said Mrs. Dale, when she and Lily were alone together.

  “No, mamma, you mustn’t be angry with him. I won’t let you be angry with him. Please to remember he’s my lover and not yours.”