The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  “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 a while 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 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 not do anything of that kind. He must know the circumstances as well as you and I do.”

  “At present they tell me 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, I feel that I cannot again go up into my pulpit till he shall have authorised me to do so. For a time, Arabin, I combatted 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 of 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 of it 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 be 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 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 th
at you would go in 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 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 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 aloud 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 by 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 him 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 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 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.”