The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  “You can come in if you like; only be quiet, you know.”

  “Ain’t I ollays quiet, miss? Did anybody ever hear me rampage? If you please, ma’am, the squire’s come home.”

  “What, home from Guestwick? Has he brought Miss Bell?”

  “He ain’t brought none but hisself, ‘cause he come on horseback; and it’s my belief he’s going back almost immediate. But he wants you to come to him, Mrs. Dale.”

  “Oh, yes, I’ll come at once.”

  “He bade me say with his kind love. I don’t know whether that makes any difference.”

  “At any rate, I’ll come, Hopkins.”

  “And I ain’t to say nothing about the headache?”

  “About what?” said Mrs. Dale.

  “No, no, no,” said Lily. “Mamma will be there at once. Go and tell my uncle, there’s a good man,” and she put up her hand and backed him out of the room.

  “I don’t believe she’s got no headache at all,” said Hopkins, grumbling, as he returned through the back premises. “What lies gentlefolks do tell! If I said I’d a headache when I ought to be out among the things, what would they say to me? But a poor man mustn’t never lie, nor yet drink, nor yet do nothing.” And so he went back with his message.

  “What can have brought your uncle home?” said Mrs. Dale.

  “Just to look after the cattle, and to see that the pigs are not all dead. My wonder is that he should ever have gone away.”

  “I must go up to him at once.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.”

  “And what shall I say about the house?”

  “It’s not about that—at least I think not. I don’t think he’ll speak about that again till you speak to him.”

  “But if he does?”

  “You must put your trust in Providence. Declare you’ve got a bad headache, as I told Hopkins just now; only you would throw me over by not understanding. I’ll walk with you down to the bridge.” So they went off together across the lawn.

  But Lily was soon left alone, and continued her walk, waiting for her mother’s return. As she went round and round the gravel paths, she thought of the words that she had said to her mother. She had declared that she also was widowed. “And so it should be,” she said, debating the matter with herself. “What can a heart be worth if it can be transferred hither and thither as circumstances and convenience and comfort may require? When he held me here in his arms”—and, as the thoughts ran through her brain, she remembered the very spot on which they had stood—”oh, my love!” she had said to him then as she returned his kisses—”oh, my love, my love, my love!” “When he held me here in his arms, I told myself that it was right, because he was my husband. He has changed, but I have not. It might be that I should have ceased to love him, and then I should have told him so. I should have done as he did.” But, as she came to this, she shuddered, thinking of the Lady Alexandrina. “It was very quick,” she said, still speaking to herself; “very, very. But then men are not the same as women.” And she walked on eagerly, hardly remembering where she was, thinking over it all, as she did daily; remembering every little thought and word of those few eventful months in which she had learned to regard Crosbie as her husband and master. She had declared that she had conquered her unhappiness; but there were moments in which she was almost wild with misery. “Tell me to forget him!” she said. “It is the one thing which will never be forgotten.”

  At last she heard her mother’s step coming down across the squire’s garden, and she took up her post at the bridge.

  “Stand and deliver,” she said, as her mother put her foot upon the plank. “That is, if you’ve got anything worth delivering. Is anything settled?”

  “Come up to the house,” said Mrs. Dale, “and I’ll tell you all.”

  CHAPTER LVIII

  The Fate of the Small House

  There was something in the tone of Mrs. Dale’s voice, as she desired her daughter to come up to the house, and declared that her budget of news should be opened there, which at once silenced Lily’s assumed pleasantry. Her mother had been away fully two hours, during which Lily had still continued her walk round the garden, till at last she had become impatient for her mother’s footstep. Something serious must have been said between her uncle and her mother during those long two hours. The interviews to which Mrs. Dale was occasionally summoned at the Great House did not usually exceed twenty minutes, and the upshot would be communicated to the girls in a turn or two round the garden; but in the present instance Mrs. Dale positively declined to speak till she was seated within the house.

  “Did he come over on purpose to see you, mamma?”

  “Yes, my dear, I believe so. He wished to see you, too; but I asked his permission to postpone that till after I had talked to you.”

  “To see me, mamma? About what?”

  “To kiss you, and bid you love him; solely for that. He has not a word to say to you that will vex you.”

  “Then I will kiss him, and love him, too.”

  “Yes, you will when I have told you all. I have promised him solemnly to give up all idea of going to Guestwick. So that is over.”

  “Oh, oh! And we may begin to unpack at once? What an episode in one’s life!”

  “We may certainly unpack, for I have pledged myself to him; and he is to go into Guestwick himself and arrange about the lodgings.”

  “Does Hopkins know it?”

  “I should think not yet.”

  “Nor Mrs. Boyce! Mamma, I don’t believe I shall be able to survive this next week. We shall look such fools! I’ll tell you what we’ll do—it will be the only comfort I can have—we’ll go to work and get everything back into its place before Bell comes home, so as to surprise her.”

  “What! in two days?”

  “Why not? I’ll make Hopkins come and help, and then he’ll not be so bad. I’ll begin at once and go to the blankets and beds, because I can undo them myself.”

  “But I haven’t half told you all; and, indeed, I don’t know how to make you understand what passed between us. He is very unhappy about Bernard; Bernard has determined to go abroad, and may be away for years.”

  “One can hardly blame a man for following up his profession.”

  “There was no blaming. He only said that it was very sad for him that, in his old age, he should be left alone. This was before there was any talk about our remaining. Indeed he seemed determined not to ask that again as a favour. I could see that in his eye, and I understood it from his tone. He went on to speak of you and Bell, saying how well he loved you both; but that, unfortunately, his hopes regarding you had not been fulfilled.”

  “Ah, but he shouldn’t have had hopes of that sort.”

  “Listen, my dear, and I think that you will not feel angry with him. He said that he felt his house had never been pleasant to you. Then there followed words which I could not repeat, even if I could remember them. He said much about myself, regretting that the feeling between us had not been more kindly. ‘But my heart,’ he said, ‘has ever been kinder than my words.’ Then I got up from where I was seated, and going over to him, I told him that we would remain here.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “I don’t know what he said. I know that I was crying, and that he kissed me. It was the first time in his life. I know that he was pleased—beyond measure pleased. After a while he became animated, and talked of doing ever so many things. He promised that very painting of which you spoke.”

  “Ah, yes, I knew it; and Hopkins will be here with the peas before dinner-time to-morrow, and Dingles with his shoulders smothered with rabbits. And then Mrs. Boyce! Mamma, he didn’t think of Mrs. Boyce; or, in very charity of heart, he would still have maintained his sadness.”

  “Then he did not think of her; for when I left him he was not at all sad. But I haven’t told you half yet.”

  “Dear me, mamma; was there more than that?”

  “And I’ve told it all wrong; for what I’ve got
to tell now was said before a word was spoken about the house. He brought it in just after what he said about Bernard. He said that Bernard would, of course, be his heir.”

  “Of course he will.”

  “And that he should think it wrong to encumber the property with any charges for you girls.”

  “Mamma, did anyone ever—”

  “Stop, Lily, stop; and make your heart kinder towards him if you can.”

  “It is kind; only I hate to be told that I’m not to have a lot of money, as though I had ever shown a desire for it. I have never envied Bernard his man-servant, or his maid-servant, or his ox, or his ass, or anything that is his. To tell the truth I didn’t even wish it to be Bell’s, because I knew well that there was somebody she would like a great deal better than ever she could like Bernard.”

  “I shall never get to the end of my story.”

  “Yes, you will, mamma, if you persevere.”

  “The long and the short of it is this, that he has given Bell three thousand pounds, and has given you three thousand also.”

  “But why me, mamma?” said Lily, and the colour of her cheeks became red as she spoke. There should if possible be nothing more said about John Eames; but whatever might or might not be the necessity of speaking, at any rate, let there be no mistake. “But why me, mamma?”

  “Because, as he explained to me, he thinks it right to do the same by each of you. The money is yours at this moment—to buy hairpins with, if you please. I had no idea that he could command so large a sum.”

  “Three thousand pounds! The last money he gave me was half-a-crown, and I thought that he was so stingy! I particularly wanted ten shillings. I should have liked it so much better now if he had given me a nice new five-pound note.”

  “You’d better tell him so.”

  “No; because then he’d give me that too. But with five pounds I should have the feeling that I might do what I liked with it—buy a dressing-case, and a thing for a squirrel to run round in. But nobody ever gives girls money like that, so that they can enjoy it.”

  “Oh, Lily; you ungrateful child!”

  “No, I deny it. I’m not ungrateful. I’m very grateful, because his heart was softened—and because he cried and kissed you. I’ll be ever so good to him! But how I’m to thank him for giving me three thousand pounds, I cannot think. It’s a sort of thing altogether beyond my line of life. It sounds like something that’s to come to me in another world, but which I don’t want quite yet. I am grateful, but with a misty, hazy sort of gratitude. Can you tell me how soon I shall have a new pair of Balmoral boots because of this money? If that were brought home to me I think it would enliven my gratitude.”

  The squire, as he rode back to Guestwick, fell again from that animation, which Mrs. Dale had described, into his natural sombre mood. He thought much of his past life, declaring to himself the truth of those words in which he had told his sister-in-law that his heart had ever been kinder than his words. But the world, and all those nearest to him in the world, had judged him always by his words rather than by his heart. They had taken the appearance, which he could not command or alter, rather than the facts, of which he had been the master. Had he not been good to all his relations?—and yet was there one among them that cared for him? “I’m almost sorry that they are going to stay,” he said to himself—”I know that I shall disappoint them.” Yet when he met Bell at the Manor House he accosted her cheerily, telling her with much appearance of satisfaction that that flitting into Guestwick was not to be accomplished.

  “I am so glad,” said she. “It is long since I wished it.”

  “And I do not think your mother wishes it now.”

  “I am sure she does not. It was all a misunderstanding from the first. When some of us could not do all that you wished, we thought it better—” Then Bell paused, finding that she would get herself into a mess if she persevered.

  “We will not say any more about it,” said the squire. “The thing is over, and I am very glad that it should be so pleasantly settled. I was talking to Dr. Crofts yesterday.”

  “Were you, uncle?”

  “Yes; and he is to come and stay with me the day before he is married. We have arranged it all. And we’ll have the breakfast up at the Great House. Only you must fix the day. I should say some time in May. And, my dear, you’ll want to make yourself fine; here’s a little money for you. You are to spend that before your marriage, you know.” Then he shambled away, and as soon as he was alone, again became sad and despondent. He was a man for whom we may predicate some gentle sadness and continued despondency to the end of his life’s chapter.

  We left John Eames in the custody of Lady Julia, who had overtaken him in the act of erasing Lily’s name from the railing which ran across the brook. He had been premeditating an escape home to his mother’s house in Guestwick, and thence hack to London, without making any further appearance at the Manor House. But as soon as he heard Lady Julia’s step, and saw her figure close upon him, he knew that his retreat was cut off from him. So he allowed himself to be led away quietly up to the house. With Lady Julia herself he openly discussed the whole matter—telling her that his hopes were over, his happiness gone, and his heart half-broken. Though he would perhaps have cared but little for her congratulations in success, he could make himself more amenable to consolation and sympathy from her than from any other inmate in the earl’s house. “I don’t know what I shall say to your brother,” he whispered to her, as they approached the side door at which she intended to enter.

  “Will you let me break it to him? After that he will say a few words to you of course, but you need not be afraid of him.”

  “And Mr. Dale?” said Johnny. “Everybody has heard about it. Everybody will know what a fool I have made myself.” She suggested that the earl should speak to the squire, assured him that nobody would think him at all foolish, and then left him to make his way up to his own bedroom. When there he found a letter from Cradell, which had been delivered in his absence; but the contents of that letter may best be deferred to the next chapter. They were not of a nature to give him comfort or to add to his sorrow.

  About an hour before dinner there was a knock at his door, and the earl himself, when summoned, made his appearance in the room. He was dressed in his usual farming attire, having been caught by Lady Julia on his first approach to the house, and had come away direct to his young friend, after having been duly trained in what he ought to say by his kind-hearted sister. I am not, however, prepared to declare that he strictly followed his sister’s teaching in all that he said upon the occasion.

  “Well, my boy,” he began, “so the young lady has been perverse.”

  “Yes, my lord. That is, I don’t know about being perverse. It is all over.”

  “That’s as may be, Johnny. As far as I know, not half of them accept their lovers the first time of asking.”

  “I shall not ask her again.”

  “Oh, yes, you will. You don’t mean to say you are angry with her for refusing you.”

  “Not in the least. I have no right to be angry. I am only angry with myself for being such a fool, Lord De Guest. I wish I had been dead before I came down here on this errand. Now I think of it, I know there are so many things which ought to have made me sure how it would be.”

  “I don’t see that at all. You come down again—let me see—it’s May now. Say you come when the shooting begins in September. If we can’t get you leave of absence in any other way, we’ll make old Buffle come too. Only, by George, I believe he’d shoot us all. But never mind; we’ll manage that. You keep up your spirits till September, and then we’ll fight the battle in another way. The squire shall get up a little party for the bride, and my lady Lily must go then. You shall meet her so; and then we’ll shoot over the squire’s land. We’ll bring you together so; you see if we don’t. Lord bless me! Refused once! My belief is, that in these days a girl thinks nothing of a man till she has refused him half-a-dozen times.”

&nbs
p; “I don’t think Lily is at all like that.”

  “Look here, Johnny. I have not a word to say against Miss Lily. I like her very much, and think her one of the nicest girls I know. When she’s your wife, I’ll love her dearly, if she’ll let me. But she’s made of the same stuff as other girls, and will act in the same way. Things have gone a little astray among you, and they won’t right themselves all in a minute. She knows now what your feelings are, and she’ll go on thinking of it, till at last you’ll be in her thoughts more than that other fellow. Don’t tell me about her becoming an old maid, because at her time of life she has been so unfortunate as to come across a false-hearted man like that. It may take a little time; but if you’ll carry on and not be down-hearted, you’ll find it will all come right in the end. Everybody doesn’t get all that they want in a minute. How I shall quiz you about all this when you have been two or three years married!”

  “I don’t think I shall ever be able to ask her again; and I feel sure, if I do, that her answer will be the same. She told me in so many words; but never mind, I cannot repeat her words.”

  “I don’t want you to repeat them; nor yet to heed them beyond their worth. Lily Dale is a very pretty girl; clever, too, I believe, and good, I’m sure; but her words are not more sacred than those of other men or women. What she has said to you now, she means, no doubt; but the minds of men and women are prone to change, especially when such changes are conducive to their own happiness.”

  “At any rate I’ll never forget your kindness, Lord De Guest.”

  “And there is one other thing I want to say to you, Johnny. A man should never allow himself to be cast down by anything—not outwardly, to the eyes of other men.”

  “But how is he to help it?”

  “His pluck should prevent him. You were not afraid of a roaring bull, nor yet of that man when you thrashed him at the railway station. You’ve pluck enough of that kind. You must now show that you’ve that other kind of pluck. You know the story of the boy who would not cry though the wolf was gnawing him underneath his frock. Most of us have some wolf to gnaw us somewhere; but we are generally gnawed beneath our clothes, so that the world doesn’t see; and it behoves us so to bear it that the world shall not suspect. The man who goes about declaring himself to be miserable will be not only miserable, but contemptible as well.”