The Last Chronicle of Barset (47 page)

‘And why don't you take that other person?'

‘Because I cannot trust his love; that is why. It is not very kind of you, opening my sores afresh, when I am trying to heal yours.'

‘Oh, Lily, am I unkind – unkind to you, who have been so generous to me?'

‘I'll forgive you all that and a deal more if you will only listen to me and try to take my advice. Because this major of yours does a generous thing, which is for the good of you both – the infinite good of both of you – you are to emulate his generosity by doing a thing which will be for the good of neither of you. That is about it. Yes, it is, Grace. You cannot doubt that he has been meaning this for some time past: and of course, if he looks upon you as his own – and I daresay, if the whole truth is to be told, he does –'

‘But I am not his own.'

‘Yes, you are, in one sense; you have just said so with a great deal of energy. And if it is so – let me see, where was I?'

‘Oh, Lily, you need not mind where you were.'

‘But I do mind, and I hate to be interrupted in my arguments. Yes, just that. If he saw his cow sick, he'd try to doctor the cow in her
sickness. He sees that you are sick, and of course he comes to your relief.'

‘I am not Major Grantly's cow.'

‘Yes, you are.'

‘Nor his dog, nor his ox, nor his ass,
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nor anything that is his, except – except, Lily, the dearest friend that he has on the face of the earth. He cannot have a friend that will go further for him than I will. He will never know how far I will go to serve him. You don't know his people. Nor do I know them. But I know what they are. His sister is married to a marquis.'

‘What has that to do with it?' said Lily, sharply. ‘If she were married to an archduke, what difference would that make?'

‘And they are proud people – all of them – and rich; and they live with high persons in the world.'

‘I didn't care though they lived with the royal family, and had the Prince of Wales for their bosom friend. It only shows how much better he is than they are.'

‘But think what my family is – how we are situated. When my father was simply poor I did not care about it, because he has been born and bred a gentleman. But now he is disgraced. Yes, Lily, he is. I am bound to say so, at any rate to myself, when I am thinking of Major Grantly; and I will not carry that disgrace into a family which would feel it so keenly as they would do.' Lily, however, went on with her arguments, and was still arguing when they turned the corner of the lane, and came upon Lily's uncle and the major himself.

In going down from the church to the Small House Lily Dale had all the conversation to herself. During some portion of the way the path was only broad enough for two persons, and here Major Grantly walked by Lily's side, while Grace followed them. Then they found their way into the house, and Lily made her little speech to her mother about catching the major. ‘Yes, my dear, I have seen Major Grantly before,' said Mrs Dale. ‘I suppose he has met you on the road. But I did not expect that any of you would have returned so soon.' Some little explanation followed as to the squire, and as to Major Grantly's walk, and after that the great thing was to leave the two lovers alone. ‘You will dine here, of course, Major Grantly,' Mrs Dale said. But this he declined. He had learned, he said, that there was a night-train up to London, and he thought that he would return to town by that. He had intended, when he left London, to get back as soon as possible. Then Mrs Dale, having hesitated for two or three seconds, got up and left the room, and Lily followed. ‘It seems very odd and abrupt,' said Mrs Dale to her daughter, ‘but I suppose it is best.' ‘Of course it is best, mamma. Do as one would be done by – that's the only rule. It will be much better for her that she should have it over.'

Grace was seated on a sofa, and Major Grantly got up from his chair, and came and stood opposite to her. ‘Grace,' he said, ‘I hope you are not angry with me for coming down to see you here.'

‘No, I am not angry,' she said.

‘I have thought a great deal about it, and your friend, Miss Pretty-man, knew that I was coming. She quite approves of my coming.'

‘She has written to me, but did not tell me of it,' said Grace, not knowing what other answer to make.

‘No – she could not have done that. She had no authority. I only mention her name because it will have weight with you, and because
I have not done that which, under other circumstances, perhaps, I should have been bound to do. I have not seen your father.'

‘Poor papa,' said Grace.

‘I have felt that at the present moment I could not do so with any success. It had not come of any want of respect either for him or for you. Of course, Grace, you know why I am here?' He paused, and then, remembering that he had no right to expect an answer to such a question, he continued, ‘I have come here, dearest Grace, to ask you to be my wife, and to be a mother to Edith. I know that you love Edith.'

‘I do indeed.'

‘And I have hoped sometimes – though I suppose I ought not to say so – but I have hoped and almost thought sometimes, that you have been willing to – to love me, too. It is better to tell the truth simply, is it not?'

‘I suppose so,' said Grace.

‘And therefore, and because I love you dearly myself, I have come to ask you to be my wife.' Saying which he opened out his hand, and held it to her. But she did not take it. ‘There is my hand, Grace. If your heart is as I would have it you can give me yours, and I shall want nothing else to make me happy.' But still she made no motion towards granting him his request. ‘If I have been too sudden,' he said, ‘you must forgive me for that. I have been sudden and abrupt, but as things are, no other way has been open to me. Can you not bring yourself to give me some answer, Grace?' His hand had now fallen again to his side, but he was still standing before her.

She had said no word to him as yet, except that one in which she had acknowledged her love for his child, and had expressed no surprise, even in her countenance, at his proposal. And yet the idea that he should do such a thing, since the idea that he certainly would do it had become clear to her, had filled her with a world of surprise. No girl ever lived with any beauty belonging to her who had a smaller knowledge of her own possession than Grace Crawley. Nor had she the slightest pride in her own acquirements. That she had been taught in many things more than had been taught to other girls, had come
of her poverty and of the desolation of her home. She had learned to read Greek and Italian because there had been nothing else for her to do in that sad house. And, subsequently, accuracy of knowledge had been necessary for the earning of her bread. I think that Grace had at times been weak enough to envy the idleness and almost to envy the ignorance of other girls. Her figure was light, perfect in symmetry, full of grace at all points; but she had thought nothing of her figure, remembering only the poverty of her dress, but remembering also with a brave resolution that she would never be ashamed of it. And as her acquaintance with Major Grantly had begun and had grown, and as she had learned to feel unconsciously that his company was pleasanter to her than that of any other person she knew, she had still told herself that anything like love must be out of the question. But then words had been spoken, and there had been glances in his eye, and a tone in his voice, and a touch upon his fingers, of which she could not altogether refuse to accept the meaning. And others had spoken to her of it, the two Miss Prettymans and her friend Lily. Yet she would not admit to herself that it could be so, and she would not allow herself to confess to herself that she loved him. Then had come the last killing misery to which her father had been subjected. He had been accused of stealing money, and had been committed to be tried for the theft. From that moment, at any rate, any hope, if there had been a hope, must be crushed. But she swore to herself bravely that there had been no such hope. And she assured herself also that nothing had passed which had entitled her to expect anything beyond ordinary friendship from the man of whom she certainly had thought much. Even if those touches and those tones and those glances had meant anything, all such meaning must be annihilated by this disgrace which had come upon her. She might know that her father was innocent; she might be sure, at any rate, that he had been innocent in intention; but the world thought differently, and she, her brothers and sister, and her mother and her poor father, must bend to the world's opinion. If those dangerous joys had meant anything, they must be taken as meaning nothing more.

Thus she had argued with herself, and, fortified by such self-
teachings, she had come down to Allington. Since she had been with her friends there had come upon her from day to day a clear conviction that her arguments had been undoubtedly true – a clear conviction which had been very cold to her heart in spite of all her courage. She had expected nothing, hoped for nothing, and yet when nothing came she was sad. She thought of one special half-hour in which he had said almost all that he might have said – more than he ought to have said – of a moment during which her hand had remained in his; of a certain pressure with which he had put her shawl upon her shoulders. If he had only written to her one word to tell her that he believed her father was innocent! But no; she had no right to expect anything from him. And then Lily had ceased to talk of him, and she did expect nothing. Now he was there before her, asking her to come to him and be his wife. Yes; she would kiss his shoebuckles, only that the kissing of his shoebuckles would bring upon him that injury which he should never suffer from her hands! He had been generous, and her self-pride was satisfied. But her other pride was touched, and she also would be generous. ‘Can you not bring yourself to give me some answer?' he had said to her. Of course she must give him an answer, but how should she give it?

‘You are very kind,' she said.

‘I would be more than kind.'

‘So you are. Kind is a cold word when used to such a friend at such a time.'

‘I would be everything on earth to you that a man can be to a woman.'

‘I know I ought to thank you if I knew how. My heart is full of thanks; it is, indeed.'

‘And is there no room for love there?'

‘There is no room for love in our house, Major Grantly. You have not seen papa.'

‘No; but, if you wish it, I will do so at once.'

‘It would do no good – none. I only asked you because you can hardly know how sad is our state at home.'

‘But I cannot see that that need deter you, if you can love me.'

‘Can you not? If you saw him, and the house, and my mother, you
would not say so. In the Bible it is said of some season that it is not a time for marrying, or for giving in marriage.
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And so it is with us.'

‘I am not pressing you as to a day. I only ask you to say that you will be engaged to me – so that I may tell my own people, and let it be known.'

‘I understand all that. I know how good you are. But, Major Grantly, you must understand me also when I assure you that it cannot be so.'

‘Do you mean that you refuse me altogether?'

‘Yes; altogether.'

‘And why?'

‘Must I answer that question? Ought I to be made to answer it? But I will tell you fairly, without touching on anything else, that I feel that we are all disgraced, and that I will not take disgrace into another family.'

‘Grace, do you love me?'

‘I love no one now – that is, as you mean. I can love no one. I have no room for any feeling except for my father and mother, and for us all. I should not be here now but that I save my mother the bread that I should eat at home.'

‘Is it as bad as that?'

‘Yes, it is as bad as that. It is much worse than that, if you knew it all. You cannot conceive how low we have fallen. And now they tell me that my father will be found guilty, and will be sent to prison. Putting ourselves out of the question, what would you think of a girl who could engage herself to any man under such circumstances? What would you think of a girl who would allow herself to be in love in such a position? Had I been ten times engaged to you I would have broken it off.' Then she got up to leave him.

But he stopped her, holding her by the arm. ‘What you have said will make me say what I certainly should never have said without it. I declare that we are engaged.'

‘No, we are not,' said Grace.

‘You have told me that you loved me.'

‘I never told you so.'

‘There are other ways of speaking than the voice; and I will boast to you, though to no one else, that you have told me so. I believe you
love me. I shall hold myself as engaged to you, and I shall think you false if I hear that you listen to another man. Now, good-bye, Grace – my own Grace.'

‘No, I am not your own,' she said, through her tears.

‘You are my own, my very own. God bless you, dear, dear, dearest Grace. You shall hear from me in a day or two, and shall see me as soon as this horrid trial is over.' Then he took her in his arms before she could escape from him, and kissed her forehead and her lips, while she struggled in his arms. After that he left the room and the house as quickly as he could, and was seen no more of the Dales upon that occasion.

Grace, when she was left alone, threw herself upon the sofa, and hid her face in her hands. She was weeping almost hysterically, and had been utterly dismayed and frightened by her lover's impetuosity. Things had gone after a fashion which her imagination had not painted to her as possible. Surely she had the power to refuse the man if she pleased. And yet she felt as she lay there weeping that she did in truth belong to him as part of his goods, and that her generosity had been foiled. She had especially resolved that she would not confess to any love for him. She had made no such confession. She had guarded herself against doing so with all the care which she knew how to use. But he had assumed the fact, and she had been unable to deny it. Could she have lied to him, and have sworn that she did not love him? Could she have so perjured herself, even in support of her generosity? Yes, she would have done so – so she told herself – if a moment had been given to her for thought. She ought to have done so, and she blamed herself for being so little prepared for the occasion. The lie would be useless now. Indeed, she would have no opportunity
for telling it; for of course she would not answer – would not even read his letter. Though he might know that she loved him, yet she would not be his wife. He had forced her secret from her, but he could not force her to marry him. She did love him, but he should never be disgraced by her love.