The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  “Yes, I am—very angry. Because I have condescended to feel an interest in your welfare, and have asked you a question which I thought that our intimacy justified, you tell me that that is a kind of thing that you will not talk about to—everybody. I beg you to understand that I will not be your everybody. Mr. Eames, there is the door.”

  Things had now become very serious. Hitherto Johnny had been seated comfortably in the corner of a sofa, and had not found himself bound to move, though Miss Demolines was standing before him. But now it was absolutely necessary that he should do something. He must either go, or else he must make entreaty to be allowed to remain. Would it not be expedient that he should take the lady at her word and escape? She was still pointing to the door, and the way was open to him. If he were to walk out now of course he would never return, and there would be the end of the Bayswater romance. If he remained it might be that the romance would become troublesome. He got up from his seat, and had almost resolved that he would go. Had she not somewhat relaxed the majesty of her anger as he rose, had the fire of her eye not been somewhat quenched and the lines of her mouth softened, I think that he would have gone. The romance would have been over, and he would have felt it had come to an inglorious end; but it would have been well for him that he should have gone. Though the fire was somewhat quenched and the lines were somewhat softened, she was still pointing to the door. “Do you mean it?” he said.

  “I do mean it—certainly.”

  “And this is to be the end of everything?”

  “I do not know what you mean by everything. It is a very little everything to you, I should say. I do not quite understand your everything and your everybody.”

  “I will go, if you wish me to go, of course.”

  “I do wish it.”

  “But before I go, you must permit me to excuse myself. I did not intend to offend you. I merely meant—”

  “You merely meant! Give me an honest answer to a downright question. Are you engaged to Miss Lilian Dale?”

  “No—I am not.”

  “Upon your honour?”

  “Do you think that I would tell you a falsehood about it? What I meant was that it is a kind of thing one doesn’t like talking about, merely because stories are bandied about. People are so fond of saying that this man is engaged to that woman, and of making up tales; and it seems so foolish to contradict such things.”

  “But you know that you used to be very fond of her.”

  He had taken up his hat when he had risen from the sofa, and was still standing with it ready in his hand. He was even now half-minded to escape; and the name of Lily Dale in Miss Demolines’ mouth was so distasteful to him that he would have done so—he would have gone in sheer disgust, had she not stood in his way, so that he could not escape without moving her, or going round behind the sofa. She did not stir to make way for him, and it may be that she understood that he was her prisoner, in spite of her late command to him to go. It may be, also, that she understood his vexation and the cause of it, and that she saw the expediency of leaving Lily Dale alone for the present. At any rate, she pressed him no more upon the matter. “Are we to be friends again?” she said.

  “I hope so,” replied Johnny.

  “There is my hand, then.” So Johnny took her hand and pressed it, and held it for a little while—just long enough to seem to give a meaning to the action. “You will get to understand me some day,” she said, “and will learn that I do not like to be reckoned among the everybodies by those for whom I really—really—really have a regard. When I am angry, I am angry.”

  “You were very angry just now, when you showed me the way to the door.”

  “And I meant it too—for the minute. Only think—supposing you had gone! We should never have seen each other again—never, never! What a change one word may make!”

  “One word often does make a change.”

  “Does it not? Just a little ‘yes’, or ‘no’. A ‘no’ is said when a ‘yes’ is meant, and then there comes no second chance, and what a change that may be from bright hopes to desolation! Or, worse again, a ‘yes’ is said when a ‘no’ should be said—when the speaker knows that it should be ‘no’. What a difference that ‘no’ makes! When one thinks of it, one wonders that a woman should ever say anything but ‘no’.”

  “They never did say anything else to me,” said Johnny.

  “I don’t believe it. I daresay the truth is, you never asked anybody.”

  “Did anybody ever ask you?”

  “What would you give to know? But I will tell you frankly—yes. And once—once I thought that my answer would not have been a ‘no’.”

  “But you changed your mind?”

  “When the moment came I could not bring myself to say the word that should rob me of my liberty for ever. I had said ‘no’ to him often enough before—poor fellow; and on this occasion, he told me that he asked for the last time. ‘I shall not give myself another chance,’ he said, ‘for I shall be on board ship within a week.’ I merely bade him good-bye. It was the only answer I gave him. He understood me, and since that day his foot has not pressed his native soil.”

  “And was it all because you are so fond of your liberty?” said Johnny.

  “Perhaps—I did not—love him,” said Miss Demolines, thoughtfully. She was now again seated in her chair, and John Eames had gone back to his corner of the sofa. “If I had really loved him I suppose it would have been otherwise. He was a gallant fellow, and had two thousand a year of his own, in India stock and other securities.”

  “Dear me! And he has not married yet?”

  “He wrote me a word to say that he would never marry till I was married—but that on the day that he should hear of my wedding, he would go to the first single woman near him and propose. It was a droll thing to say; was it not?”

  “The single woman ought to feel herself flattered.”

  “He would find plenty to accept him. Besides being so well off he was a very handsome fellow, and is connected with people of title. He had everything to recommend him.”

  “And yet you refused him so often?”

  “Yes. You think I was foolish—do you not?”

  “I don’t think you were at all foolish if you didn’t care for him.”

  “It was my destiny, I suppose; I daresay I was wrong. Other girls marry without violent love, and do very well afterwards. Look at Maria Clutterbuck.”

  The name of Maria Clutterbuck had become odious to John Eames. As long as Miss Demolines would continue to talk about herself he could listen with some amount of gratification. Conversation on that subject was the natural progress of the Bayswater romance. And if Madalina would only call her friend by her present name, he had no strong objection to an occasional mention of the lady; but the combined names of Maria Clutterbuck had come to be absolutely distasteful to him. He did not believe in the Maria Clutterbuck friendship—either in its past or present existence, as described by Madalina. Indeed, he did not put strong faith in anything that Madalina said to him. In the handsome gentleman with two thousand a year, he did not believe at all. But the handsome gentleman had only been mentioned once in the course of his acquaintance with Miss Demolines, whereas Maria Clutterbuck had come up so often! “Upon my word I must wish you good-bye,” he said. “It is going on for eleven o’clock, and I have to start to-morrow at seven.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “A fellow wants to get a little sleep, you know.”

  “Go, then—go and get your sleep. What a sleepy-headed generation it is.” Johnny longed to ask whether the last generation was less sleepy-headed, and whether the gentleman with two thousand a year had sat up talking all night before he pressed his foot for the last time on his native soil; but he did not dare. As he said to himself afterwards, “It would not do to bring the Bayswater romance too suddenly to its termination!” “But before you go,” she continued, “I must say the word to you about that picture. Did you speak to Mr. Dalrymple?�
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  “I did not. I have been so busy with different things that I have not seen him.”

  “And now you are going?”

  “Well—to tell the truth, I think I shall see him to-night, in spite of my being so sleepy-headed. I wrote him a line that I would look in and smoke a cigar with him if he chanced to be at home!”

  “And that is why you want to go. A gentleman cannot live without his cigar now.”

  “It is especially at your bidding that I am going to see him.”

  “Go then—and make your friend understand that if he continues this picture of his, he will bring himself to great trouble, and will probably ruin the woman for whom he professes, I presume, to feel something like friendship. You may tell him that Mrs. Van Siever has already heard of it.”

  “Who told her?” demanded Johnny.

  “Never mind. You need not look at me like that. It was not I. Do you suppose that secrets can be kept when so many people know them? Every servant in Maria’s house knows all about it.”

  “As for that, I don’t suppose Mrs. Broughton makes any great secret of it.”

  “Do you think she has told Mr. Broughton? I am sure she has not. I may say I know she has not. Maria Clutterbuck is infatuated. There is no other excuse to be made for her.”

  “Good-bye,” said Johnny, hurriedly.

  “And you really are going?”

  “Well—yes. I suppose so.”

  “Go then. I have nothing more to say to you.”

  “I shall come and call directly I return,” said Johnny.

  “You may do as you please about that, sir.”

  “Do you mean that you won’t be glad to see me again?”

  “I am not going to flatter you, Mr. Eames. Mamma will be well by that time, I hope, and I do not mind telling you that you are a favourite with her.” Johnny thought that this was particularly kind, as he had seen so very little of the old lady. “If you choose to call upon her,” said Madalina, “of course she will be glad to see you.”

  “But I was speaking of yourself, you know?” and Johnny permitted himself for a moment to look tenderly at her.

  “Then from myself pray understand that I will say nothing to flatter your self-love.”

  “I thought you would be kinder just when I was going away.”

  “I think I have been quite kind enough. As you observed yourself just now, it is nearly eleven o’clock, and I must ask you to go away. Bon voyage, and a happy return to you.”

  “And you will be glad to see me when I am back? Tell that you will be glad to see me.”

  “I will tell you nothing of the kind. Mr. Eames, if you do, I will be very angry with you.” And then he went.

  On his way back to his own lodgings he did call on Conway Dalrymple, and in spite of his need for early rising, sat smoking with the artist for an hour. “If you don’t take care, young man,” said his friend, “you will find yourself in a scrape with your Madalina.”

  “What sort of a scrape?”

  “As you walk away from Porchester Terrace some fine day, you will have to congratulate yourself on having made a successful overture towards matrimony.”

  “You don’t think I am such a fool as that comes to?”

  “Other men as wise as you have done the same sort of thing. Miss Demolines is very clever, and I daresay you find it amusing.”

  “It isn’t so much that she’s clever, and I can hardly say that it is amusing. One gets awfully tired of it, you know. But a fellow must have something to do, and that is as good as anything else.”

  “I suppose you have not heard that one young man levanted last year to save himself from a breach of promise case?”

  “I wonder whether he had any money in Indian securities?”

  “What makes you ask that?”

  “Nothing particular.”

  “Whatever little he had he chose to save, and I think I heard that he went to Canada. His name was Shorter; and they say that, on the eve of his going, Madalina sent him word that she had no objection to the colonies, and that, under the pressing emergency of his expatriation, she was willing to become Mrs. Shorter with more expedition than usually attends fashionable weddings. Shorter, however, escaped, and has never been seen back again.”

  Eames declared that he did not believe a word of it. Nevertheless, as he walked home he came to the conclusion that Mr. Shorter must have been the handsome gentleman with Indian securities, to whom “no” had been said once too often.

  While sitting with Conway Dalrymple, he had forgotten to say a word about Jael and Sisera.

  CHAPTER XLVII

  Dr. Tempest at the Palace

  Intimation had been sent from the palace to Dr. Tempest of Silverbridge of the bishop’s intention that a commission should be held by him, as rural dean, with other neighbouring clergymen, as assessors with him, that inquiry might be made on the part of the Church into the question of Mr. Crawley’s guilt. It must be understood that by this time the opinion had become very general that Mr. Crawley had been guilty—that he had found the cheque in his house, and that he had, after holding it for many months, succumbed to temptation, and applied it to his own purposes. But various excuses were made for him by those who so believed. In the first place it was felt by all who really knew anything of the man’s character, that the very fact of his committing such a crime proved him to be hardly responsible for his actions. He must have known, had not all judgment in such matters been taken from him, that the cheque would certainly be traced back to his hands. No attempt had been made in the disposing of it to dispose of it in such a way that the trace should be obliterated. He had simply given it to a neighbour with a direction to have it cashed, and had written his own name on the back of it. And therefore, though there could be no doubt as to the theft in the mind of those who supposed that he had found the cheque in his own house, yet the guilt of the theft seemed to be almost annihilated by the folly of the thief. And then his poverty, and his struggles, and the sufferings of his wife, were remembered; and stories were told from mouth to mouth of his industry in his profession, of his great zeal among the brickmakers of Hoggle End, of acts of charity done by him which startled the people of the district into admiration—how he had worked with his own hands for the sick poor to whom he could not give relief in money, turning a woman’s mangle for a couple of hours, and carrying a boy’s load along the lanes. Dr. Tempest and others declared that he had derogated from the dignity of his position as an English parish clergyman by such acts; but, nevertheless, the stories of these deeds acted strongly on the minds of both men and women, creating an admiration for Mr. Crawley which was much stronger than the condemnation of his guilt.

  Even Mrs. Walker and her daughter, and the Miss Prettymans, had so far given way that they had ceased to asseverate their belief in Mr. Crawley’s innocence. They contented themselves now with simply expressing a hope that he would be acquitted by a jury, and that when he should be so acquitted the thing might be allowed to rest. If he had sinned, no doubt he had repented. And then there were serious debates whether he might not have stolen the money without much sin, being mad or half-mad—touched with madness when he took it; and whether he might not, in spite of such temporary touch of madness, be well fitted for his parish duties. Sorrow had afflicted him grievously; but that sorrow, though it had incapacitated him for the management of his own affairs, had not rendered him unfit for the ministrations of his parish. Such were the arguments now used in his favour by the women around him; and the men were not keen to contradict them. The wish that he should be acquitted and allowed to remain in his parsonage was very general.

  When therefore it became known that the bishop had decided to put on foot another investigation, with the view of bringing Mr. Crawley’s conduct under ecclesiastical condemnation, almost everybody accused the bishop of persecution. The world of the diocese declared that Mrs. Proudie was at work, and that the bishop himself was no better than a puppet. It was in vain that certain clear-heade
d men among the clergy, of whom Dr. Tempest himself was one, pointed out that the bishop after all might perhaps be right—that if Mr. Crawley were guilty, and if he should be found to have been so by a jury, it might be absolutely necessary that an ecclesiastical court should take some cognizance of the crime beyond that taken by the civil law. “The jury,” said Dr. Tempest, discussing the case with Mr. Robarts and other clerical neighbours—”the jury may probably find him guilty and recommend him to mercy. The judge will have heard his character, and will have been made acquainted with his manner of life, and will deal as lightly with the case as the law will allow him. For aught I know he may be imprisoned for a month. I wish it might be for no more than a day—or an hour. But when he comes out from this month’s imprisonment—how then? Surely it should be a case for ecclesiastical inquiry, whether a clergyman who has committed a theft should be allowed to go into his pulpit directly he comes out of prison?” But the answer to this was that Mr. Crawley always had been a good clergyman, was a good clergyman at this moment, and would be a good clergyman when he did come out of prison.

  But Dr. Tempest, though he had argued in this way, was by no means eager for the commencement of the commission over which he was to be called upon to preside. In spite of such arguments as the above, which came from the man’s head when his head was brought to bear upon the matter, there was a thorough desire within his heart to oppose the bishop. He had no strong sympathy with Mr. Crawley, as had others. He would have had Mr. Crawley silenced without regret, presuming Mr. Crawley to have been guilty. But he had a much stronger feeling with regard to the bishop. Had there been any question of silencing the bishop—could it have been possible to take any steps in that direction—he would have been very active. It may therefore be understood that in spite of his defence of the bishop’s present proceedings as to the commission, he was anxious that the bishop should fail, and anxious to put impediments in the bishop’s way, should it appear to him that he could do so with justice. Dr. Tempest was well known among his parishioners to be hard and unsympathetic, some said unfeeling also, and cruel; but it was admitted by those who disliked him the most that he was both practical and just, and that he cared for the welfare of many, though he was rarely touched by the misery of one. Such was the man who was rector of Silverbridge and rural dean in the district, and who was now called upon by the bishop to assist him in making further inquiry as to this wretched cheque for twenty pounds.