The Chronicles of Barsetshire (310 page)

“But is she not awfully rich?” said Lily.

“Frightfully rich,” said Bernard; “but really you would hardly find it out if nobody told you. Of course she lives in a big house, and has a heap of servants; but she can’t help that.”

“I hate a heap of servants,” said Lily.

Then there came another knock at the door, and who should enter the room but John Eames. Lily for a moment was taken aback, but it was only for a moment. She had been thinking so much of him that his presence disturbed her for an instant. “He probably will not know that I am here,” she had said to herself; but she had not yet been three hours in London, and he was already with her! At first he hardly spoke to her, addressing himself to the squire. “Lady Julia told me you were to be here, and as I start for the Continent early to-morrow morning, I thought you would let me come and see you before I went.”

“I’m always glad to see you, John,” said the squire—”very glad. And so you are going abroad, are you?”

Then Johnny congratulated his old acquaintance, Bernard Dale, as to his coming marriage, and explained to them how Lady Julia in one of her letters had told him all about it, and had even given him the number in Sackville Street. “I suppose she learned it from you, Lily,” said the squire. “Yes uncle, she did.” And then there came questions as to John’s projected journey to the Continent, and he explained that he was going on law-business, on behalf of Mr. Crawley, to catch the dean and Mrs. Arabin, if it might be possible. “You see, sir, Mr. Toogood, who is Mr. Crawley’s cousin, and also his lawyer, is my cousin, too; and that’s why I’m going.” And still there had been hardly a word spoken between him and Lily.

“But you’re not a lawyer, John; are you?” said the squire.

“No. I’m not a lawyer myself.”

“Nor a lawyer’s clerk?”

“Certainly not a lawyer’s clerk,” said Johnny, laughing.

“Then why should you go?” asked Bernard Dale.

Then Johnny had to explain, and in doing so he became very eloquent as to the hardships of Mr. Crawley’s case. “You see, sir, nobody can possibly believe that such a man as that stole twenty pounds.”

“I do not for one,” said Lily.

“God forbid that I should say he did,” said the squire.

“I’m quite sure he didn’t,” said Johnny, warming to his subject. “It couldn’t be that such a man as that should become a thief all at once. It’s not human nature, sir; is it?”

“It is very hard to know what is human nature,” said the squire.

“It’s the general opinion down in Barsetshire that he did steal it,” said Bernard. “Dr. Thorne was one of the magistrates who committed him, and I know he thinks so.”

“I don’t blame the magistrates in the least,” said Johnny.

“That’s kind of you,” said the squire.

“Of course you’ll laugh at me, sir; but you’ll see that we shall come out right. There’s some mystery in it of which we haven’t got at the bottom as yet; and if there is anybody that can help us it’s the dean.”

“If the dean knows anything, why has he not written and told what he knows?” said the squire.

“That’s what I can’t say. The dean has not had an opportunity of writing since he heard—even if he has yet heard—that Mr. Crawley is to be tried. And then he and Mrs. Arabin are not together. It’s a long story, and I will not trouble you with it all; but at any rate I’m going off to-morrow. Lily, can I do anything for you in Florence?”

“In Florence?” said Lily; “and are you really going to Florence? How I envy you.”

“And who pays your expenses?” said the squire.

“Well—as to my expenses, they are to be paid by a person who won’t raise any unpleasant questions about the amount.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said the squire.

“He means himself,” said Lily.

“Is he going to do it out of his own pocket?”

“He is,” said Lily, looking at her lover.

“I’m going to have a trip for my own fun,” said Johnny, “and I shall pick up evidence on the road, as I’m going—that’s all.”

Then Lily began to take an active part in the conversation, and a great deal was said about Mr. Crawley, and about Grace, and Lily declared that she would be very anxious to hear any news which John Eames might be able to send. “You know, John, how fond we are of your cousin Grace, at Allington? Are we not, uncle?”

“Yes, indeed,” said the squire. “I thought her a very nice girl.”

“If you should be able to learn anything that may be of use, John, how happy you will be.”

“Yes, I shall,” said Johnny.

“And I think it is so good of you to go, John. But it is just like you. You were always generous.” Soon after that he got up and went. It was very clear to him that he would have no moment in which to say a word alone to Lily; and if he could find such a moment, what good would such a word do him? It was as yet but a few weeks since she had positively refused him. And he too remembered very well those two words which she had told him she would write in her book. As he had been coming to the house he had told himself that his coming would be—could be of no use. And yet he was disappointed with the result of his visit, although she had spoken to him so sweetly.

“I suppose you’ll be gone when I come back?” he said.

“We shall be here a month,” said the squire.

“I shall be back long before that, I hope,” said Johnny. “Good-bye, sir. Good-bye, Dale. Good-bye, Lily.” And he put out his hand to her.

“Good-bye, John.” And then she added, almost in a whisper. “I think you are very, very right to go.” How could he fail after that to hope as he walked home that she might still relent. And she also thought much of him, but her thoughts of him made her cling more firmly than ever to the two words. She could not bring herself to marry him; but, at least, she would not break his heart by becoming the wife of anyone else. Soon after this Bernard Dale went also. I am not sure that he had been well pleased at seeing John Eames become suddenly the hero of the hour. When a young man is going to perform so important an act as that of marriage he is apt to think that he ought to be the hero of the hour himself—at any rate among his own family.

Early on the next morning Lily was taken by her uncle to call upon Mrs. Thorne, and to see Emily Dunstable. Bernard was to meet them there, but it had been arranged that they should reach the house first. “There is nothing so absurd as these introductions,” Bernard had said. “You go and look at her, and when you’ve had time to look at her, then I’ll come!” So the squire and Lily went off to look at Emily Dunstable.

“You don’t mean to say that she lives in that house?” said Lily, when the cab was stopped before an enormous mansion in one of the most fashionable of the London squares.

“I believe she does,” said the squire.

“I never shall be able to speak to anybody living in such a house as that,” said Lily. “A duke couldn’t have anything grander.”

“Mrs. Thorne is richer than half the dukes,” said the squire. Then the door was opened by a porter, and Lily found herself within the hall. Everything was very great, and very magnificent, and, as she thought, very uncomfortable. Presently she heard a loud jovial voice on the stairs. “Mr. Dale, I’m delighted to see you. And this is your niece Lily. Come up, my dear. There is a young woman upstairs, dying to embrace you. Never mind the umbrella. Put it down anywhere. I want to have a look at you, because Bernard swears that you’re so pretty.” This was Mrs. Thorne, once Miss Dunstable, the richest woman in England, and the aunt of Bernard’s bride. The reader may perhaps remember the advice which she once gave to Major Grantly, and her enthusiasm on that occasion. “There she is, Mr. Dale; what do you think of her?” said Mrs. Thorne, as she opened the door of a small sitting-room wedged in between two large saloons, in which Emily Dunstable was sitting.

“Aunt Martha, how can you be so ridiculous?” said the young lady.

“I suppose it is ridiculous to ask the question to which one really wants to have an answer,” said Mrs. Thorne. “But Mr. Dale has, in truth, come to inspect you, and to form an opinion; and, in honest truth, I shall be very anxious to know what he thinks—though, of course, he won’t tell me.”

The old man took the girl in his arms, and kissed her on both cheeks. “I have no doubt you’ll find out what I think,” he said, “though I should never tell you.”

“I generally do find out what people think,” she said. “And so you’re Lily Dale?”

“Yes, I’m Lily Dale.”

“I have so often heard of you, particularly of late; for you must know that a certain Major Grantly is a friend of mine. We must take care that that affair comes off all right, must we not?”

“I hope it will.” Then Lily turned to Emily Dunstable, and, taking her hand, went up and sat beside her, while Mrs. Thorne and the squire talked of the coming marriage. “How long have you been engaged?” said Lily.

“Really engaged, about three weeks. I think it is not more than three weeks ago.”

“How very discreet Bernard has been. He never told us a word about it while it was going on.”

“Men never do tell, I suppose,” said Emily Dunstable.

“Of course you love him very dearly?” said Lily, not knowing what else to say.

“Of course I do.”

“So do we. You know he’s almost a brother to us; that is, to me and my sister. We never had a brother of our own.” And so the morning was passed till Lily was told by her uncle to come away, and was told also by Mrs. Thorne that she was to dine with them in the square on that day. “You must not be surprised that my husband is not here,” she said. “He is a very odd sort of man, and he never comes to London if he can help it.”

CHAPTER XLVI

The Bayswater Romance

Eames had by no means done his work for that evening when he left Mr. Dale and Lily at their lodgings. He had other business in hand to which he had promised to give attention, and another person to see who would welcome his coming quite as warmly, though by no means as pleasantly, as Lily Dale. It was then just nine o’clock, and as he had told Miss Demolines—Madalina we may as well call her now—that he would be in Porchester Terrace by nine at the latest, it was incumbent on him to make haste. He got into a cab, and bid the cabman drive hard, and lighting a cigar, began to inquire of himself whether it was well for him to hurry away from the presence of Lily Dale to that of Madalina Demolines. He felt that he was half-ashamed of what he was doing. Though he declared to himself over and over again that he never had said a word, and never intended to say a word, to Madalina, which all the world might not hear, yet he knew that he was doing amiss. He was doing amiss, and half repented it, and yet he was half proud of it. He was most anxious to be able to give himself credit for his constancy to Lily Dale; to be able to feel that he was steadfast in his passion; and yet he liked the idea of amusing himself with his Bayswater romance, as he would call it, and was not without something of conceit as he thought of the progress he had made in it. “Love is one thing and amusement is another,” he said to himself as he puffed the cigar smoke out of his mouth; and in his heart he was proud of his own capacity for enjoyment. He thought it a fine thing, although at the same moment he knew it to be an evil thing—this hurrying away from the young lady whom he really loved to another as to whom he thought it very likely that he should be called upon to pretend to love her. And he sang a little song as he went, “If she be not fair to me, what care I how fair she be? That was intended to apply to Lily, and was used as an excuse for his fickleness in going to Miss Demolines. And he was, perhaps, too, a little conceited as to his mission to the Continent. Lily had told him that she was very glad that he was going; that she thought him very right to go. The words had been pleasant to his ears, and Lily had never looked prettier in his eyes than when she had spoken them. Johnny, therefore, was rather proud of himself as he sat in the cab smoking his cigar. He had, moreover, beaten his old enemy Sir Raffle Buffle in another contest, and he felt that the world was smiling on him—that the world was smiling on him in spite of his cruel fate in the matter of his real lovesuit.

There was a mystery about the Bayswater romance which was not without its allurement, and a portion of the mystery was connected with Madalina’s mother. Lady Demolines was very rarely seen, and John Eames could not quite understand what was the manner of life of that unfortunate lady. Her daughter usually spoke of her with affectionate regret as being unable to appear on that particular occasion on account of some passing malady. She was suffering from a nervous headache, or was afflicted with bronchitis, or had been touched with rheumatism, so that she was seldom on the scene when Johnny was passing his time at Porchester Terrace. And yet he heard of her dining out, and going to plays and operas; and when he did chance to see her, he found that she was a sprightly old woman enough. I will not venture to say that he much regretted the absence of Lady Demolines, or that he was keenly alive to the impropriety of being left alone with the gentle Madalina; but the customary absence of the elder lady was an incident in the romance which did not fail to strike him.

Madalina was alone when he was shown up into the drawing-room on the evening of which we are speaking.

“Mr. Eames,” she said, “will you kindly look at that watch which is lying on the table.” She looked full at him with her great eyes wide open, and the tone of her voice was intended to show him that she was aggrieved.

“Yes, I see it,” said John, looking down on Miss Demolines’ little gold Geneva watch, with which he had already made sufficient acquaintance to know that it was worth nothing. “Shall I give it you?”

“No, Mr. Eames; let it remain there, that it may remind me, if it does not remind you, by how long a time you have broken your word.”

“Upon my word I couldn’t help it—upon my honour I couldn’t.”

“Upon your honour, Mr. Eames!”

“I was obliged to go and see a friend who has just come to town from my part of the country.”

“That is the friend, I suppose, of whom I have heard from Maria.” It is to be feared that Conway Dalrymple had not been so guarded as he should have been in some of his conversations with Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, and that a word or two had escaped from him as to the love of John Eames for Lily Dale.

“I don’t know what you may have heard,” said Johnny, “but I was obliged to see these people before I left town. There is going to be a marriage and all that sort of thing.”

“Who is going to be married?”

“One Captain Dale is going to be married to one Miss Dunstable.”

“Oh! And as to one Miss Lily Dale—is she to be married to anybody?”

“Not that I have heard of,” said Johnny.

“She is not going to become the wife of one Mr. John Eames?”

He did not wish to talk to Miss Demolines about Lily Dale. He did not choose to disown the imputation, or to acknowledge its truth.

“Silence gives consent,” she said. “If it be so, I congratulate you. I have no doubt she is a most charming young woman. It is about seven years, I believe, since that little affair with Mr. Crosbie, and therefore that, I suppose, may be considered as forgotten.”

“It is only three years,” said Johnny, angrily. “Besides, I don’t know what that has to do with it.”

“You need not be ashamed,” said Madalina. “I have heard how well you behaved on that occasion. You were quite the preux chevalier; and if any gentleman ever deserved well of a lady you deserved well of her. I wonder how Mr. Crosbie felt when he met you the other day at Maria’s. I had not heard anything about it then, or I should have been much more interested in watching your meeting.”

“I really can’t say how he felt.”

“I daresay not; but I saw him shake hands with you. And so Lily Dale has come to town.”

“Yes—Miss Dale is here with her uncle.”

“And you are going away to-morrow?”

“Yes—and I am going away to-morrow.”

After that there was a pause in the conversation. Eames was sick of it, and was very anxious to change the conversation. Miss Demolines was sitting in the shadow, away from the light, with her face half hidden by her hands. At last she jumped up, and came round and stood opposite to him. “I charge you to tell me truly, John Eames,” she said, “whether Miss Lilian Dale is engaged to you as your future wife?” He looked up into her face, but made no immediate answer. Then she repeated her demand. “I ask you whether you are engaged to marry Miss Lilian Dale, and I expect a reply.”

“What makes you ask me such a question as that?”

“What makes me ask you? Do you deny my right to feel so much interest in you as to desire to know whether you are about to married? Of course you can decline to tell me if you choose.”

“And if I were to decline?”

“I should know then that it was true, and I should think that you were a coward.”

“I don’t see any cowardice in the matter. One does not talk about that kind of thing to everybody.”

“Upon my word, Mr. Eames, you are complimentary—indeed you are. To everybody! I am everybody—am I? That is your idea of—friendship! You may be sure that after that I shall ask no further questions.”

“I didn’t mean it in the way you’ve taken it, Madalina.”

“In what way did you mean it, sir? Everybody! Mr. Eames, you must excuse me if I say that I am not well enough this evening to bear the company of—everybody. I think you had better leave me. I think that you had better go.”

“Are you angry with me?”

“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.”