The Chronicles of Barsetshire (284 page)

“Yes—they were gentlemen.”

“Such a creature as that old woman at the palace couldn’t have held his head up among us. That’s what has come from Reform. A reformed House of Commons makes Lord Brock Prime Minister, and then your Prime Minister makes Dr. Proudie a bishop! Well—it will last my time, I suppose.”

“It has lasted mine—like the wine,” said Mr. Harding.

“There’s one glass more, and you shall have it, sir.” Then Mr. Harding drank the last glass of the 1820 port, and they went into the drawing-room.

On the next morning after breakfast the major went out for a walk by himself. His father had suggested to him that he should go over to shoot at Framley, and had offered him the use of everything the archdeacon possessed in the way of horses, dogs, guns and carriages. But the major would have none of these things. He would go out and walk by himself. “He’s not thinking of her; is he?” said the archdeacon to his wife, in a whisper. “I don’t know. I think he is,” said Mrs. Grantly. “It will be so much the better for Charles, if he does,” said the archdeacon grimly; and the look of his face as he spoke was by no means pleasant. “You will do nothing unjust, archdeacon,” said his wife. “I will do as I like with my own,” said he. And then he also went out and took a walk by himself.

That evening after dinner, there was no 1820 port, and no recollections of old days. They were rather dull, the three of them, as they sat together—and dullness is always more endurable than sadness. Old Mr. Harding went to sleep and the archdeacon was cross. “Henry,” he said, “you haven’t a word to throw to a dog.” “I’ve got rather a headache this evening, sir,” said the major. The archdeacon drank two glasses of wine, one after another, quickly. Then he woke his father-in-law gently, and went off. “Is there anything the matter?” asked the old man. “Nothing particular. My father seems a little cross.” “Ah! I’ve been to sleep, and I oughtn’t. It’s my fault. We’ll go in and smooth him down.” But the archdeacon wouldn’t be smoothed down on that occasion. He would let his son see the difference between a father pleased, and a father displeased—or rather between a father pleasant, and a father unpleasant. “He hasn’t said anything to you, has he?” said the archdeacon that night to his wife. “Not a word—as yet.” “If he does it without the courage to tell us, I shall think him a cur,” said the archdeacon. “But he did tell you,” said Mrs. Grantly, standing up for her favourite son; “and, for the matter of that, he has courage enough for anything. If he does it, I shall always say that he has been driven to it by your threats.”

“That’s sheer nonsense,” said the archdeacon.

“It’s not nonsense at all,” said Mrs. Grantly.

“Then I suppose I was to hold my tongue and say nothing?” said the archdeacon; and as he spoke he banged the door between his dressing-room and Mrs. Grantly’s bedroom.

On the first day of the new year Major Grantly spoke his mind to his mother. The archdeacon had gone into Barchester, having in vain attempted to induce his son to go with him. Mr. Harding was in the library reading a little and sleeping a little, and dreaming of old days and old friends, and perhaps, sometimes, of the old wine. Mrs. Grantly was alone in a small sitting-room which she frequented upstairs, when suddenly her son entered the room. “Mother,” he said, “I think it better to tell you that I am going to Allington.”

“To Allington, Henry?” She knew very well who was at Allington, and what must be the business which would take him there.

“Yes, mother. Miss Crawley is there, and there are circumstances which make it incumbent on me to see her without delay.”

“What circumstances, Henry?”

“As I intend to ask her to be my wife, I think it best to do so now. I owe it to her and to myself that she should not think that I am deterred by her father’s position.”

“But would it not be reasonable that you should be deterred by her father’s position?”

“No, I think not. I think it would be dishonest as well as ungenerous. I cannot bring myself to brook such delay. Of course I am alive to the misfortune which has fallen upon her—upon her and me, too, should she ever become my wife. But it is one of those burdens which a man should have shoulders broad enough to bear.”

“Quite so, if she were your wife, or even if you were engaged to her. Then honour would require it of you, as well as affection. As it is, your honour does not require it, and I think you should hesitate, for all our sakes, and especially for Edith’s.”

“It will do Edith no harm; and, mother, if you alone were concerned, I think you would feel that it would not hurt you.”

“I was not thinking of myself, Henry.”

“As for my father, the very threats which he has used make me conscious that I have only to measure the price. He has told me that he will stop my allowance.”

“But that may not be the worst. Think how you are situated. You are the younger son of a man who will be held to be justified in making an elder son, if he thinks fit to do so.”

“I can only hope that he will be fair to Edith. If you will tell him that from me, it is all that I will ask you to do.”

“But you will see him yourself?”

“No, mother; not till I have been to Allington. Then I will see him again or not, just as he pleases. I shall stop at Guestwick, and will write to you a line from thence. If my father decides on doing anything, let me know at once, as it will be necessary that I should get rid of the lease of my house.”

“Oh, Henry!”

“I have thought a great deal about it, mother, and I believe I am right. Whether I am right or wrong, I shall do it. I will not ask you now for any promise or pledge; but should Miss Crawley become my wife, I hope that you at least will not refuse to see her as your daughter.” Having so spoken, he kissed his mother, and was about to leave the room; but she held him by his arm, and he saw that her eyes were full of tears. “Dearest mother, if I grieve you I am sorry indeed.”

“Not me, not me, not me,” she said.

“For my father, I cannot help it. Had he not threatened me I should have told him also. As he has done so, you must tell him. But give him my kindest love.”

“Oh, Henry; you will be ruined. You will, indeed. Can you not wait? Remember how headstrong your father is, and yet how good—and how he loves you! Think of all that he has done for you. When did he refuse you anything?”

“He has been good to me, but in this I cannot obey him. He should not ask me.”

“You are wrong. You are indeed. He has a right to expect that you will not bring disgrace upon the family.”

“Nor will I—except such disgrace as may attend upon poverty. Good-bye, mother. I wish you could have said one kind word to me.”

“Have I not said a kind word?”

“Not as yet, mother.”

“I would not for worlds speak unkindly to you. If it were not for your father I would bid you bring whom you pleased home to me as your wife; and I would be as a mother to her. And if this girl should become your wife—”

“It shall not be my fault if she does not.”

“I will try to love her—some day.”

Then the major went, leaving Edith at the rectory, as requested by his mother. His own dog-cart and servant were at Plumstead, and he drove himself home to Cosby Lodge.

When the archdeacon returned the news was told to him at once. “Henry has gone to Allington to propose to Miss Crawley,” said Mrs. Grantly.

“Gone—without speaking to me!”

“He left his love, and said that it was useless his remaining, as he knew he should only offend you.”

“He has made his bed, and he must lie upon it,” said the archdeacon. And then there was not another word said about Grace Crawley on that occasion.

CHAPTER XXIII

Miss Lily Dale’s Resolution

The ladies at the Small House at Allington breakfasted always at nine—a liberal nine; and the postman whose duty it was to deliver letters in that village at half-past eight, being also liberal in his ideas as to time, always arrived punctually in the middle of breakfast, so that Mrs. Dale expected her letters, and Lily hers, just before their second cup of tea, as though the letters formed a part of the morning meal. Jane, the maidservant, always brought them in, and handed them to Mrs. Dale—for Lily had in these days come to preside at the breakfast table; and then there would be an examination of the outsides before the envelopes were violated, and as each knew pretty well all the circumstances of the correspondence of the other, there would be some guessing as to what this or that epistle might contain; and after that a reading out loud of passages, and not unfrequently of the entire letter. But now, at the time of which I am speaking, Grace Crawley was at the Small House, and therefore the common practice was somewhat in abeyance.

On one of the first days of the new year Jane brought in the letters as usual, and handed them to Mrs. Dale. Lily was at the time occupied with the teapot, but still she saw the letters, and had not her hands so full as to be debarred from the expression of her usual anxiety. “Mamma, I’m sure I see two there for me,” she said. “Only one for you, Lily,” said Mrs. Dale. Lily instantly knew from the tone of the voice that some letter had come, which by the very aspect of the handwriting had disturbed her mother. “There is one for you, my dear,” said Mrs. Dale, throwing a letter across the table to Grace. “And one for you, Lily, from Bell. The others are for me.” “And whom are you yours from, mamma?” asked Lily. “One is from Mrs. Jones; the other, I think, is a letter on business.” Then Lily said nothing further, but she observed that her mother only opened one of her letters at the breakfast-table. Lily was very patient—not by nature, I think, but by exercise and practice. She had, once in her life, been too much in a hurry; and having then burned herself grievously, she now feared the fire. She did not therefore follow her mother after breakfast, but sat with Grace over the fire, hemming diligently at certain articles of clothing which were intended for use in the Hogglestock parsonage. The two girls were making a set of new shirts for Mr. Crawley. “But I know he will ask where they come from,” said Grace; “and then mamma will be scolded.” “But I hope he’ll wear them,” said Lily. “Sooner of later he will,” said Grace; “because mamma manages generally to have her way at last.” Then they went on for an hour or so, talking about the home affairs at Hogglestock. But during the whole time Lily’s mind was intent upon her mother’s letter.

Nothing was said about it at lunch, and nothing when they walked out after lunch, for Lily was very patient. But during the walk Mrs. Dale became aware that her daughter was uneasy. These two watched each other unconsciously with a closeness which hardly allowed a glance of the eye, certainly not a tone of the voice, to pass unobserved. To Mrs. Dale it was everything in the world that her daughter should be, if not happy at heart, at least tranquil; and to Lily, who knew that her mother was always thinking of her, and of her alone, her mother was the only human divinity now worthy of adoration. But nothing was said about the letter during the walk.

When they came home it was nearly dusk, and it was their habit to sit up for a while without candles, talking, till the evening had in truth set in and the unmistakable and enforced idleness of remaining without candles was apparent. During this time, Lily, demanding patience of herself all the while, was thinking what she would do, or rather what she would say, about the letter. That nothing would be done or said in the presence of Grace Crawley was a matter of course, nor would she do or say anything to get rid of Grace. She would be very patient; but she would, at last, ask her mother about the letter.

And then, as luck would have it, Grace Crawley got up and left the room. Lily still waited for a few minutes, and, in order that her patience might be thoroughly exercised, she said a word or two about her sister Bell; how the eldest child’s whooping-cough was nearly well, and how the baby was doing wonderful things with its first tooth. But as Mrs. Dale had already seen Bell’s letter, all this was not intensely interesting. At last Lily came to the point and asked her question. “Mamma, from whom was that other letter which you got this morning?”

Our story will perhaps be best told by communicating the letter to the reader before it was discussed with Lily. The letter was as follows—

General Committee Office — January, 186—

I should have said that Mrs. Dale had not opened the letter till she had found herself in the solitude of her own bedroom; and that then, before doing so, she had examined the handwriting with anxious eyes. When she first received it she thought she knew the writer, but was not sure. Then she had glanced at the impression over the fastening, and had known at once from whom the letter had come. It was from Mr. Crosbie, the man who had brought so much trouble into her house, who had jilted her daughter; the only man in the world whom she had a right to regard as a positive enemy to herself. She had no doubt about it, as she tore the envelope open; and yet, when the address given made her quite sure, a new feeling of shivering came upon her, and she asked herself whether it might not be better that she should send his letter back to him without reading it. But she read it.

MADAM [the letter began]—

You will be very much surprised to hear from me, and I am quite aware that I am not entitled to the ordinary courtesy of an acknowledgement from you, should you be pleased to throw my letter on one side as unworthy of your notice. But I cannot refrain from addressing you, and must leave it to you to reply or not, as you may think fit.

I will only refer to that episode of my life with which you are acquainted, for the sake of acknowledging my great fault and of assuring you that I did not go unpunished. It would be useless for me now to attempt to explain to you the circumstances which led me into that difficulty which ended in so great a blunder; but I will ask you to believe that my folly was greater than my sin.

But I will come to my point at once. You are, no doubt, aware that I married a daughter of Lord De Courcy, and that I was separated from my wife a few weeks after our unfortunate marriage. It is now something over twelve months since she died at Baden-Baden in her mother’s house. I never saw her since the day we first parted. I have not a word to say against her. The fault was mine in marrying a woman whom I did not love and had never loved. When I married Lady Alexandrina I loved, not her, but your daughter.

I believe I may venture to say to you that your daughter once loved me. From the day on which I last wrote to you that terrible letter which told you of my fate, I have never mentioned the name of Lily Dale to human ears. It has been too sacred for my mouth—too sacred for the intercourse of any friendship with which I have been blessed. I now use it for the first time to you, in order that I may ask whether it be possible that her old love should ever live again. Mine has lived always—has never faded for an hour, making me miserable during the years that have passed since I saw her, but capable of making me very happy, if I may be allowed to see her again.

You will understand my purpose now as well as though I were to write pages. I have no scheme formed in my head for seeing your daughter again. How can I dare to form a scheme, when I am aware that the chance of success must be so strong against me? But if you will tell me that there can be a gleam of hope, I will obey any commands that you can put upon me in any way that you may point out. I am free again—and she is free. I love her with all my heart, and seem to long for nothing in the world but that she should become my wife. Whether any of her old love may still abide with her, you will know. If it do, it may even yet prompt her to forgive one who, in spite of falseness of conduct, has yet been true to her in heart.

I have the honour to be, Madam,

Your most obedient servant,

ADOLPHUS CROSBIE.

This was the letter which Mrs. Dale had received, and as to which she had not as yet said a word to Lily, or even made up her mind whether she would say a word or not. Dearly as the mother and daughter loved each other, thorough as was the confidence between them, yet the name of Adolphus Crosbie had not been mentioned between them oftener, perhaps, than half-a-dozen times since the blow had been struck. Mrs. Dale knew that their feelings about the man were altogether different. She, herself, not only condemned him for what he had done, believing it to be impossible that any shadow of excuse could be urged for his offence, thinking that the fault had shown the man to be mean beyond redemption—but she had allowed herself actually to hate him. He had in one sense murdered her daughter, and she believed that she could never forgive him. But, Lily, as her mother well knew, had forgiven this man altogether, had made excuses for him which cleansed his sin of all its blackness in her own eyes, and was to this day anxious as ever for his welfare and his happiness. Mrs. Dale feared that Lily did in truth love him still. If it was so, was she not bound to show her this letter? Lily was old enough to judge for herself—old enough, and wise enough too. Mrs. Dale told herself half-a-score of times that morning that she could not be justified in keeping the letter from her daughter.

But yet much she much wished that the letter had never been written, and would have given very much to be able to put it out of the way without injustice to Lily. To her thinking it would be impossible that Lily should be happy marrying such a man. Such a marriage now would be, as Mrs. Dale thought, a degradation to her daughter. A terrible injury had been done to her; but such reparation as this would, in Mrs. Dale’s eyes, only make the injury deeper. And yet Lily loved the man; and, loving him, how could she resist the temptation of his offer? “Mamma, from whom was that letter which you got this morning?” Lily asked. For a few moments Mrs. Dale remained silent. “Mamma,” continued Lily, “I think I know whom it was from. If you tell me to ask nothing further, of course I will not.”

“No, Lily; I cannot tell you that.”

“Then, mamma, out with it at once. What is the use of shivering on the brink?”

“It was from Mr. Crosbie.”

“I knew it. I cannot tell you why, but I knew it. And now, mamma—am I to read it?”

“You shall do as you please, Lily.”

“Then I please to read it.”

“Listen to me a moment first. For myself, I wish that the letter had never been written. It tells badly for the man, as I think of it. I cannot understand how any man could have brought himself to address either you or me, after having acted as he acted.”

“But, mamma, we differ about all that, you know.”

“Now he has written, and there is the letter—if you choose to read it.”

Lily had it in her hand, but she still sat motionless, holding it. “You think, mamma, I ought not to read it?”

“You must judge for yourself, dearest.”

“And if I do not read it, what shall you do, mamma?”

“I shall do nothing—or, perhaps, I should in such a case acknowledge it, and tell him that we have nothing more to say to him.”

“That would be very stern.”

“He has done that which makes some sternness necessary.”

Then Lily was again silent, and still she sat motionless, with the letter in her hand. “Mamma,” she said at last, “if you tell me not to read it, I will give it back unread. If you bid me exercise my own judgment, I shall take it upstairs and read it.”

“You must exercise your own judgment,” said Mrs. Dale. Then Lily got up from her chair and walked slowly out of the room, and went to her mother’s chamber. The thoughts which passed through Mrs. Dale’s mind while her daughter was reading the letter were very sad. She could find no comfort anywhere. Lily, she had told herself, would surely give way to this man’s renewed expressions of affection, and she, Mrs. Dale herself, would be called upon to give her child to a man whom she could neither love nor respect—who, for aught she knew, she could never cease to hate. And she could not bring herself to believe that Lily would be happy with such a man. As for her own life, desolate as it would be—she cared little for that. Mothers know that their daughters will leave them. Even widowed mothers, mothers with but one child left—such a one as was this mother—are aware that they will be left alone, and they can bring themselves to welcome the sacrifice of themselves with something of satisfaction. Mrs. Dale and Lily had, indeed, of late become bound together especially, so that the mother had been justified in regarding the link which joined them as being firmer than that by which most daughters are bound to their mothers—but in all that she would have found no regret. Even now, in these very days, she was hoping that Lily might yet be brought to give herself to John Eames. But she could not, after all that was come and gone, be happy in thinking that Lily should be given to Adolphus Crosbie.

When Mrs. Dale went upstairs to her own room before dinner Lily was not there; nor were they alone together again that evening except for a moment, when Lily, as usual, went into her mother’s room when she was undressing. But neither of them then said a word about the letter. Lily during dinner and throughout the evening had borne herself well, giving no sign of special emotion, keeping to herself entirely her own thoughts about the proposition made to her. And afterwards she had progressed diligently with the fabrication of Mr. Crawley’s shirts, as though she had no such letter in her pocket. And yet there was not a moment in which she was not thinking of it. To Grace, just before she went to bed, she did say one word. “I wonder whether it can ever come to a person to be so placed that there can be no doing right, let what will be done—that, do or not do, as you may, it must be wrong?”

“I hope you are not in such a condition,” said Grace.

“I am something near it,” said Lily, “but perhaps if I look long enough I shall see the light.”