The Chronicles of Barsetshire (227 page)

It had been understood from the first that he was to spend his Christmas at Courcy Castle. From this undertaking it was quite out of his power to enfranchise himself: but he resolved that his visit should be as short as possible. Christmas Day unfortunately came on a Monday, and it was known to the De Courcy world that Saturday was almost a
dies non
at the General Committee Office. As to those three days there was no escape for him; but he made Alexandrina understand that the three Commissioners were men of iron as to any extension of those three days. “I must be absent again in February, of course,” he said, almost making his wail audible in the words he used, “and therefore it is quite impossible that I should stay now beyond the Monday.” Had there been attractions for him at Courcy Castle I think he might have arranged with Mr. Optimist for a week or ten days. “We shall be all alone,” the countess wrote to him, “and I hope you will have an opportunity of learning more of our ways than you have ever really been able to do as yet.” This was bitter as gall to him. But in this world all valuable commodities have their price; and when men such as Crosbie aspire to obtain for themselves an alliance with noble families, they must pay the market price for the article which they purchase.

“You’ll all come up and dine with us on Monday,” the squire said to Mrs. Dale, about the middle of the previous week.

“Well, I think not,” said Mrs. Dale, “we are better, perhaps, as we are.”

At this moment the squire and his sister-in-law were on much more friendly terms than had been usual with them, and he took her reply in good part, understanding her feeling. Therefore, he pressed his request, and succeeded.

“I think you’re wrong,” he said, “I don’t suppose that we shall have a very merry Christmas. You and the girls will hardly have that whether you eat your pudding here or at the Great House. But it will be better for us all to make the attempt. It’s the right thing to do. That’s the way I look at it.”

“I’ll ask Lily,” said Mrs. Dale.

“Do, do. Give her my love, and tell her from me that, in spite of all that has come and gone, Christmas Day should still be to her a day of rejoicing. We’ll dine about three, so that the servants can have the afternoon.”

“Of course we’ll go,” said Lily; “why not? We always do. And we’ll have blind-man’s-buff with all the Boyces, as we had last year, if uncle will ask them up.” But the Boyces were not asked up for that occasion.

But Lily, though she put on it all so brave a face, had much to suffer, and did in truth suffer greatly. If you, my reader, ever chanced to slip into the gutter on a wet day, did you not find that the sympathy of the bystanders was by far the severest part of your misfortune? Did you not declare to yourself that all might yet be well, if the people would only walk on and not look at you? And yet you cannot blame those who stood and pitied you; or, perhaps, essayed to rub you down, and assist you in the recovery of your bedaubed hat. You, yourself, if you see a man fall, cannot walk by as though nothing uncommon had happened to him. It was so with Lily. The people of Allington could not regard her with their ordinary eyes. They would look at her tenderly, knowing that she was a wounded fawn, and thus they aggravated the soreness of her wound. Old Mrs. Hearn condoled with her, telling her that very likely she would be better off as she was. Lily would not lie about it in any way. “Mrs. Hearn,” she said, “the subject is painful to me.” Mrs. Hearn said no more about it, but on every meeting between them she looked the things she did not say. “Miss Lily!” said Hopkins, one day, “Miss Lily!”—and as he looked up into her face a tear had almost formed itself in his old eye—”I knew what he was from the first. Oh, dear! oh, dear! if I could have had him killed!” “Hopkins, how dare you?” said Lily. “If you speak to me again in such a way, I will tell my uncle.” She turned away from him but immediately turned back again, and put out her little hand to him. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I know how kind you are, and I love you for it.” And then she went away. “I’ll go after him yet, and break the dirty neck of him,” said Hopkins to himself, as he walked down the path.

Shortly before Christmas Day she called with her sister at the vicarage. Bell, in the course of the visit, left the room with one of the Boyce girls, to look at the last chrysanthemums of the year. Then Mrs. Boyce took advantage of the occasion to make her little speech. “My dear Lily,” she said, “you will think me cold if I do not say one word to you.” “No, I shall not,” said Lily, almost sharply, shrinking from the finger that threatened to touch her sore. “There are things which should never be talked about.” “Well, well; perhaps so,” said Mrs. Boyce. But for a minute or two she was unable to fall back upon any other topic, and sat looking at Lily with painful tenderness. I need hardly say what were Lily’s sufferings under such a gaze; but she bore it, acknowledging to herself in her misery that the fault did not lie with Mrs. Boyce. How could Mrs. Boyce have looked at her otherwise than tenderly?

It was settled, then, that Lily was to dine up at the Great House on Christmas Day, and thus show to the Allington world that she was not to be regarded as a person shut out from the world by the depth of her misfortune. That she was right there can, I think, be no doubt; but as she walked across the little bridge, with her mother and sister, after returning from church, she would have given much to be able to have turned round, and have gone to bed instead of to her uncle’s dinner.

CHAPTER XXXII

Pawkins’s in Jermyn Street

The show of fat beasts in London took place this year on the twentieth day of December, and I have always understood that a certain bullock exhibited by Lord De Guest was declared by the metropolitan butchers to have realised all the possible excellences of breeding, feeding, and condition. No doubt the butchers of the next half-century will have learned much better, and the Guestwick beast, could it be embalmed and then produced, would excite only ridicule at the agricultural ignorance of the present age; but Lord De Guest took the praise that was offered to him, and found himself in a seventh heaven of delight. He was never so happy as when surrounded by butchers, graziers, and salesmen who were able to appreciate the work of his life, and who regarded him as a model nobleman. “Look at that fellow,” he said to Eames, pointing to the prize bullock. Eames had joined his patron at the show after his office hours, looking on upon the living beef by gaslight. “Isn’t he like his sire? He was got by Lambkin, you know.”

“Lambkin,” said Johnny, who had not as yet been able to learn much about the Guestwick stock.

“Yes, Lambkin. The bull that we had the trouble with. He has just got his sire’s back and fore-quarters. Don’t you see?”

“I daresay,” said Johnny, who looked very hard, but could not see.

“It’s very odd,” exclaimed the earl, “but do you know, that bull has been as quiet since that day—as quiet as—as anything. I think it must have been my pocket-handkerchief.”

“I daresay it was,” said Johnny—”Or perhaps the flies.”

“Flies!” said the earl, angrily. “Do you suppose he isn’t used to flies? Come away. I ordered dinner at seven, and it’s past six now. My brother-in-law, Colonel Dale, is up in town, and he dines with us.” So he took Johnny’s arm, and led him off through the show, calling his attention as he went to several beasts which were inferior to his own.

And then they walked down through Portman Square and Grosvenor Square, and across Piccadilly to Jermyn Street. John Eames acknowledged to himself that it was odd that he should have an earl leaning on his arm as he passed along through the streets. At home, in his own life, his daily companions were Cradell and Amelia Roper, Mrs. Lupex and Mrs. Roper. The difference was very great, and yet he found it quite as easy to talk to the earl as to Mrs. Lupex.

“You know the Dales down at Allington, of course,” said the earl.

“Oh, yes, I know them.”

“But, perhaps, you never met the colonel.”

“I don’t think I ever did.”

“He’s a queer sort of fellow—very well in his way, but he never does anything. He and my sister live at Torquay, and as far as I can find out, they neither of them have any occupation of any sort. He’s come up to town now because we both had to meet our family lawyers and sign some papers, but he looks on the journey as a great hardship. As for me, I’m a year older than he is, but I wouldn’t mind going up and down from Guestwick every day.”

“It’s looking after the bull that does it,” said Eames.

“By George! you’re right, Master Johnny. My sister and Crofts may tell me what they like, but when a man’s out in the open air for eight or nine hours every day, it doesn’t much matter where he goes to sleep after that. This is Pawkins’s—capital good house, but not so good as it used to be while old Pawkins was alive. Show Mr. Eames up into a bedroom to wash his hands.”

Colonel Dale was much like his brother in face, but was taller, even thinner, and apparently older. When Eames went into the sitting-room, the colonel was there alone, and had to take upon himself the trouble of introducing himself. He did not get up from his arm-chair, but nodded gently at the young man. “Mr. Eames, I believe? I knew your father at Guestwick, a great many years ago;” then he turned his face back towards the fire and sighed.

“It’s got very cold this afternoon,” said Johnny, trying to make conversation.

“It’s always cold in London,” said the colonel.

“If you had to be here in August you wouldn’t say so.”

“God forbid,” said the colonel, and he sighed again, with his eyes fixed upon the fire. Eames had heard of the very gallant way in which Orlando Dale had persisted in running away with Lord De Guest’s sister, in opposition to very terrible obstacles, and as he now looked at the intrepid lover, he thought that there must have been a great change since those days. After that nothing more was said till the earl came down.

Pawkins’s house was thoroughly old-fashioned in all things, and the Pawkins of that day himself stood behind the earl’s elbow when the dinner began, and himself removed the cover from the soup tureen. Lord De Guest did not require much personal attention, but he would have felt annoyed if this hadn’t been done. As it was he had a civil word to say to Pawkins about the fat cattle, thereby showing that he did not mistake Pawkins for one of the waiters. Pawkins then took his lordship’s orders about the wine and retired.

“He keeps up the old house pretty well,” said the earl to his brother-in-law. “It isn’t like what it was thirty years ago, but then everything of that sort has got worse and worse.”

“I suppose it has,” said the colonel.

“I remember when old Pawkins had as good a glass of port as I’ve got at home—or nearly. They can’t get it now, you know.”

“I never drink port,” said the colonel. “I seldom take anything after dinner, except a little negus.”

His brother-in-law said nothing, but made a most eloquent grimace as he turned his face towards his soup-plate. Eames saw it, and could hardly refrain from laughing. When, at half-past nine o’clock, the colonel retired from the room, the earl, as the door was closed, threw up his hands, and uttered the one word “negus!” Then Eames took heart of grace and had his laughter out.

The dinner was very dull, and before the colonel went to bed Johnny regretted that he had been induced to dine at Pawkins’s. It might be a very fine thing to be asked to dinner with an earl; and John Eames had perhaps received at his office some little accession of dignity from the circumstance, of which he had been not unpleasantly aware; but, as he sat at the table, on which there were four or five apples and a plate of dried nuts, looking at the earl, as he endeavoured to keep his eyes open, and at the colonel, to whom it seemed absolutely a matter of indifference whether his companions were asleep or awake, he confessed to himself that the price he was paying was almost too dear. Mrs. Roper’s tea-table was not pleasant to him, but even that would have been preferable to the black dinginess of Pawkins’s mahogany, with the company of two tired old men, with whom he seemed to have no mutual subject of conversation. Once or twice he tried a word with the colonel, for the colonel sat with his eyes open looking at the fire. But he was answered with monosyllables, and it was evident to him that the colonel did not wish to talk. To sit still, with his hands closed over each other on his lap, was work enough for Colonel Dale during his after-dinner hours.

But the earl knew what was going on. During that terrible conflict between him and his slumber, in which the drowsy god fairly vanquished him for some twenty minutes, his conscience was always accusing him of treating his guests badly. He was very angry with himself, and tried to arouse himself and talk. But his brother-in-law would not help him in his efforts; and even Eames was not bright in rendering him assistance. Then for twenty minutes he slept soundly, and at the end of that he woke himself with one of his own snorts. “By George!” he said, jumping up and standing on the rug, “we’ll have some coffee”; and after that he did not sleep any more.

“Dale,” said he, “won’t you take some more wine?”

“Nothing more,” said the colonel, still looking at the fire, and shaking his head very slowly.

“Come, Johnny, fill your glass.” He had already got into the way of calling his young friend Johnny, having found that Mrs. Eames generally spoke of her son by that name.

“I have been filling my glass all the time,” said Eames, taking the decanter again in his hand as he spoke.

“I’m glad you’ve found something to amuse you, for it has seemed to me that you and Dale haven’t had much to say to each other. I’ve been listening all the time.”

“You’ve been asleep,” said the colonel.

“Then there’s been some excuse for my holding my tongue,” said the earl. “By-the-by, Dale, what do you think of that fellow Crosbie?”

Eames’s ears were instantly on the alert, and the spirit of dullness vanished from him.

“Think of him?” said the colonel.

“He ought to have every bone in his skin broken,” said the earl.

“So he ought,” said Eames, getting up from his chair in his eagerness, and speaking in a tone somewhat louder than was perhaps becoming in the presence of his seniors. “So he ought, my lord. He is the most abominable rascal that ever I met in my life. I wish I was Lily Dale’s brother.” Then he sat down again, remembering that he was speaking in the presence of Lily’s uncle, and of the father of Bernard Dale, who might be supposed to occupy the place of Lily’s brother.

The colonel turned his head round, and looked at the young man with surprise. “I beg your pardon, sir,” said Eames, “but I have known Mrs. Dale and your nieces all my life.”

“Oh, have you?” said the colonel. “Nevertheless it is, perhaps, as well not to make too free with a young lady’s name. Not that I blame you in the least, Mr. Eames.”

“I should think not,” said the earl. “I honour him for his feeling. Johnny, my boy, if ever I am unfortunate enough to meet that man, I shall tell him my mind, and I believe you will do the same.” On hearing this John Eames winked at the earl, and made a motion with his head towards the colonel, whose back was turned to him. And then the earl winked back at Eames.

“De Guest,” said the colonel, “I think I’ll go upstairs; I always have a little arrowroot in my own room.”

“I’ll ring the bell for a candle,” said the host. Then the colonel went, and as the door was closed behind him, the earl raised his two hands and uttered that single word, “negus!” Whereupon Johnny burst out laughing, and coming round to the fire, sat himself down in the arm-chair which the colonel had left.

“I’ve no doubt it’s all right,” said the earl; “but I shouldn’t like to drink negus myself, nor yet to have arrowroot up in my bedroom.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any harm in it.”

“Oh dear, no; I wonder what Pawkins says about him. But I suppose they have them of all sorts in an hotel.”

“The waiter didn’t seem to think much of it when he brought it.”

“No, no. If he’d asked for senna and salts, the waiter wouldn’t have showed any surprise. By-the-by, you touched him up about that poor girl.”

“Did I, my lord? I didn’t mean it.”

“You see he’s Bernard Dale’s father, and the question is, whether Bernard shouldn’t punish the fellow for what he has done. Somebody ought to do it. It isn’t right that he should escape. Somebody ought to let Mr. Crosbie know what a scoundrel he has made himself.”

“I’d do it to-morrow, only I’m afraid—”

“No, no, no,” said the earl; “you are not the right person at all. What have you got to do with it? You’ve merely known them as family friends, but that’s not enough.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Eames, sadly.

“Perhaps it’s best as it is,” said the earl. “I don’t know that any good would be got by knocking him over the head. And if we are to be Christians, I suppose we ought to be Christians.”

“What sort of a Christian has he been?”

“That’s true enough; and if I was Bernard, I should be very apt to forget my Bible lessons about meekness.”

“Do you know, my lord, I should think it the most Christian thing in the world to pitch into him; I should, indeed. There are some things for which a man ought to be beaten black and blue.”

“So that he shouldn’t do them again?”

“Exactly. You might say it isn’t Christian to hang a man.”

“I’d always hang a murderer. It wasn’t right to hang men for stealing sheep.”

“Much better hang such a fellow as Crosbie,” said Eames.

“Well, I believe so. If any fellow wanted now to curry favour with the young lady, what an opportunity he’d have.”

Johnny remained silent for a moment or two before he answered. “I’m not so sure of that,” he said; mournfully, as though grieving at the thought that there was no chance of currying favour with Lily by thrashing her late lover.

“I don’t pretend to know much about girls,” said Lord De Guest; “but I should think it would be so. I should fancy that nothing would please her so much as hearing that he had caught it, and that all the world knew that he’d caught it.” The earl had declared that he didn’t know much about girls, and in so saving, he was no doubt right.

“If I thought so,” said Eames, “I’d find him out to-morrow.”

“Why so? what difference does it make to you?” Then there was another pause, during which Johnny looked very sheepish.

“You don’t mean to say that you’re in love with Miss Lily Dale?”

“I don’t know much about being in love with her,” said Johnny, turning very red as he spoke. And then he made up his mind, in a wild sort of way, to tell all the truth to his friend. Pawkins’s port wine may, perhaps, have had something to do with the resolution. “But I’d go through fire and water for her, my lord. I knew her years before he had ever seen her, and have loved her a great deal better than he will ever love anyone. When I heard that she had accepted him, I had half a mind to cut my own throat—or else his.”

“Highty tighty,” said the earl.

“It’s very ridiculous, I know,” said Johnny, “and, of course, she would never have accepted me.”

“I don’t see that at all.”

“I haven’t a shilling in the world.”

“Girls don’t care much for that.”

“And then a clerk in the Income-tax Office! It’s such a poor thing.”

“The other fellow was only a clerk in another office.”

The earl living down at Guestwick did not understand that the Income-tax Office in the city, and the General Committee Office at Whitehall, were as far apart as Dives and Lazarus and separated by as impassable a gulf.