“Unless he flatters himself, there is no one belonging to you who would not wish that he should be nearer and dearer still.”
“It may be so. I do not say that it is not so. Mamma and my uncle are both fond of him.”
“And does that not go a long way?” said Mrs. Arabin.
“It ought not to do so,” said Lily. “It ought not to go any way at all.”
“Ought it not? It seems to me that I could never have brought myself to marry anyone whom my friends had not liked.”
“Ah! that is another thing.”
“But is it not a recommendation to a man that he has been so successful with your friends as to make them all feel that you might trust yourself to him with perfect safety?” To this Lily made no answer, and Mrs. Arabin went on to plead her friend’s cause with all the eloquence she could use, insisting on all his virtues, his good temper, his kindness, his constancy—and not forgetting the fact that the world was inclined to use him very well. Still Lily made no answer. She had promised Mrs. Arabin that she would not regard her interference as impertinent, and therefore she refrained from any word that might seem to show offence. Nor did she feel offence. It was something gained by John Eames in Lily’s estimation that he should have such a friend as Mrs. Arabin to take an interest in his welfare. But there was a self-dependence, perhaps one may call it an obstinacy about Lily Dale, which made her determined that she would not be driven hither or thither by any pressure from without. Why had John Eames, at the very moment when he should have been doing his best to drive from her breast the memory of past follies—when he would have striven to do so had he really been earnest in his suit—why at such a moment had he allowed himself to correspond in terms of affection with such a woman as this M. D.? While Mrs. Arabin was pleading for John Eames, Lily was repeating to herself certain words which John had written to the woman—”Ever and always yours unalterably”. Such were not the exact words, but such was the form in which Lily, dishonestly, chose to repeat them to herself. And why was it so with her? In the old days she would have forgiven Crosbie any offence at a word or a look—any possible letter to any M. D., let her have been ever so abominable! Nay—had she not even forgiven him the offence of deserting herself altogether on behalf of a woman as detestable as could be any M. D. of Johnny’s choosing—a woman whose only recommendation had been her title? And yet she would not forgive John Eames, though the evidence against him was of so flimsy a nature—but rather strove to turn the flimsiness of that evidence into strength! Why was it so? Unheroic as he might be, John Eames was surely a better man and a bigger man than Adolphus Crosbie. It was simply this—she had fallen in love with the one, and had never fallen in love with the other! She had fallen in love with the one man, though in her simple way she had made a struggle against such feeling; and she had not come to love the other man, though she had told herself that it would be well that she should do so if it were possible. Again and again she had half declared to herself that she would take him as her husband and leave the love to come afterwards; but when the moment came for doing so, she could not do it.
“May I not say a word of comfort to him?” said Mrs. Arabin.
“He will be very comfortable without any such word,” said Lily, laughing.
“But he is not comfortable; of that you may be very sure.” “Yours ever and unalterably, J. E.,” said Lily to herself. “You do not doubt his affection?” continued Mrs. Arabin.
“I neither doubt it nor credit it.”
“Then I think you wrong him. And the reason why I have ventured to come to you is that you may know the impression which he has made upon one who was but the other day a stranger to him. I am sure that he loves you.”
“I think he is light of heart.”
“Oh, no, Miss Dale.”
“And how am I to become his wife unless I love him well enough myself? Mrs. Arabin, I have made up my mind about it. I shall never become any man’s wife. Mamma and I are all in all together, and we shall remain together.” And as soon as these words were out of her mouth, she hated herself for having spoken them. There was a maudlin, missish, namby-pamby sentimentality about them which disgusted her. She specially desired to be straightforward, resolute of purpose, honest-spoken, and free from all touch of affectation. And yet she had excused herself from marrying John Eames after the fashion of a sick schoolgirl. “It is no good talking about it any more,” she said, getting up from her chair quickly.
“You are not angry with me—or at any rate you will forgive me?”
“I’m quite sure you have meant to be very good, and I am not a bit angry.”
“And you will see him before you go?”
“Oh, yes; that is if he likes to come to-day, or early to-morrow. I go home to-morrow. I cannot refuse him, because he is such an old friend—almost like a brother. But it is of no use, Mrs. Arabin.” Then Mrs. Arabin kissed her and left her, telling her that Mr. Eames would come to her that afternoon at half-past five. Lily promised that she would be at home to receive him.
“Won’t you ride with us for the last time?” said Emily Dunstable when Lily gave notice that she would not want the horse on that afternoon.
“No; not to-day.”
“You’ll never have another opportunity of riding with Emily Dunstable,” said the bride elect—”at least I hope not.”
“Even under those circumstances I must refuse, though I would give a guinea to be with you. John Eames is coming here to say good-bye.”
“Oh; then indeed you must not come with us. Lily, what will you say to him?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh, Lily, think of it.”
“I have thought of it. I have thought of nothing else. I am tired of thinking of it. It is no good to think of anything so much. What does it matter?”
“It is very good to have some one to love better than all the world besides.”
“I have someone,” said Lily, thinking of her mother, but not caring to descend again to the mawkish weakness of talking about her.
“Yes; but someone to be always with you, to do everything for you; to be your very own.”
“It is all very well for you,” said Lily, “and I think that Bernard is the luckiest fellow in the world; but it will not do for me. I know in what college I’ll take my degree, and I wish they’d let me write the letters after my name as the men do.”
“What letters, Lily?”
“O. M., for Old Maid. I don’t see why it shouldn’t be as good as B. A. for Bachelor of Arts. It would mean a great deal more.”
CHAPTER LXXVII
The Shattered Tree
When Mrs. Arabin saw Johnny in the middle of the 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 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-bye, 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 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 the 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 bedroom, 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 to 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 woke 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 this, 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 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 about 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 to 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 fe
el 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.
The Chronicles of Barsetshire Page 368
