The Last Chronicle of Barset (70 page)

‘She was the woman who had millions upon millions,' said Lily, ‘all got by selling ointment.'

‘Never mind how it was got,' said the squire angrily. ‘Miss Dun-stable married most respectably, and has always made a most excellent use of her money.'

‘And will Bernard's wife have all her fortune?' asked Lily.

‘She will have twenty thousand pounds the day she marries, and I suppose that will be all.'

‘And quite enough, too,' said Mrs Dale.

‘It seems that old Mr Dunstable, as he was called, who, as Lily says,
sold the ointment, quarrelled with his son or with his son's widow, and left nothing either to her or her child. The mother is dead, and the aunt, Dr Thorne's wife, has always provided for the child. That's how it is, and Bernard is going to marry her. They are to be married at Chaldicotes in May.'

‘I am delighted to hear it,' said Mrs Dale.

‘I've known Dr Thorne for the last forty years'; and the squire now spoke in a low melancholy tone. ‘I've written to him to say that the young people shall have the old place up there to themselves if they like it.'

‘What! and turn you out?' said Mrs Dale.

‘That would not matter,' said the squire.

‘You'd have to come and live with us,' said Lily, taking him by the hand.

‘It doesn't matter much now where I live,' said the squire.

‘Bernard will never consent to that,' said Mrs Dale.

‘I wonder whether she will ask me to be a bridesmaid?' said Lily. ‘They say that Chaldicotes is such a pretty place, and I should see all the Barsetshire people that I've been hearing about from Grace. Poor Grace! I know that the Grantlys and the Thornes are very intimate. Fancy Bernard having twenty thousand pounds from the making of ointment!'

‘What does it matter to you where it comes from?' said the squire, half in anger.

‘Not in the least; only it sounds so odd. I do hope she's a nice girl.'

Then the squire produced a photograph of Emily Dunstable which his nephew had sent to him, and they all pronounced her to be very pretty, to be very much like a lady, and to be very good-humoured. The squire was evidently pleased with the match and therefore the ladies were pleased also. Bernard Dale was the heir to the estate, and his marriage was of course a matter of moment; and as on such properties as that of Allington money is always wanted, the squire may be forgiven for the great importance which he attached to the young lady's fortune. ‘Bernard could hardly have married prudently without any money,' he said – ‘unless he had chosen to wait till I am gone.'

‘And then he would have been too old to marry at all,' said Lily.

But the squire's budget of news had not yet been emptied. He told them soon afterwards that he himself had been summoned up to London. Bernard had written to him, begging him to come and see the young lady; and the family lawyer had written also, saying that his presence in town would be very desirable. ‘It is very troublesome, of course; but I shall go,' said the squire. ‘It will do you all the good in the world,' said Mrs Dale; ‘and of course you ought to know her personally before the marriage.' And then the squire made a clean breast of it and declared his full purpose. ‘I was thinking that, perhaps, Lily would not object to go up to London with me.'

‘Oh, uncle Christopher, I should so like it,' said Lily.

‘If your mamma does not object.'

‘Mamma never objects to anything. I should like to see her objecting to that!' And Lily shook her head at her mother.

‘Bernard says that Miss Dunstable particularly wants to see you.'

‘Does she, indeed. And I particularly want to see Miss Dunstable. How nice! Mamma, I don't think I've ever been in London since I wore short frocks. Do you remember taking us to the pantomime? Only think how many years ago that is. I'm quite sure it's time that Bernard should get married. Uncle, I hope you're prepared to take me to the play.'

‘We must see about that!'

‘And the opera, and Madame Tussaud, and the Horticultural Gardens, and the new conjuror who makes a woman lie upon nothing. The idea of my going to London! And then I suppose I shall be one of the bridesmaids. I declare a new vista of life is opening out to me! Mamma, you mustn't be dull while I'm away. It won't be very long, I suppose, uncle?'

‘About a month, probably,' said the squire.

‘Oh, mamma; what will you do?'

‘Never mind me, Lily.'

‘You must get Bell and the children to come. But I cannot imagine living away from home a month. I was never away from home a month in my life.'

And Lily did go up to town with her uncle, two days only having been allowed to her for her preparations. There was very much for her to think of in such a journey. It was not only that she would see Emily Dunstable who was to be her cousin's wife, and that she would go to the play and visit the new conjuror's entertainment, but that she would be in the same city both with Adolphus Crosbie and with John Eames. Not having personal experience of the wideness of London, and of the wilderness which it is – of the distance which is set there between persons who are not purposely brought together – it seemed to her fancy as though for this month of her absence from home she would be brought into close contiguity with both her lovers. She had hitherto felt herself to be at any rate safe in her fortress at Allington. When Crosbie had written to her mother, making a renewed offer which had been rejected, Lily had felt that she certainly need not see him unless it pleased her to do so. He could hardly force himself upon her at Allington. And as to John Eames, though he would, of course, be welcome at Allington as often as he pleased to show himself, still there was a security in the place. She was so much at home there that she could always be the mistress of the occasion. She knew that she could talk to him at Allington as though from ground higher than that on which he stood himself; but she felt that this would hardly be the case if she should chance to meet him in London. Crosbie probably would not come in her way. Crosbie she thought – and she blushed for the man she loved, as the idea came across her mind – would be afraid of meeting her uncle. But John Eames would certainly find her; and she was led by the experience of latter days to imagine that John would never cross her path without renewing his attempts.

But she said no word of all this, even to her mother. She was contented to confine her outspoken expectations to Emily Dunstable, and the play, and the conjuror. ‘The chances are ten to one against my liking her, mamma,' she said.

‘I don't see that, my dear.'

‘I feel to be too old to think that I shall ever like any more new people. Three years ago I should have been quite sure that I should love a new cousin. It would have been like having a new dress. But
I've come to think that an old dress is the most comfortable, and an old cousin certainly the best.'

The squire had taken for them a gloomy lodging in Sackville Street. Lodgings in London are always gloomy. Gloomy colours wear better than bright ones for curtains and carpets, and the keepers of lodgings in London seem to think that a certain dinginess of appearance is respectable. I never saw a London lodging in which any attempt at cheerfulness had been made, and I do not think that any such attempt, if made, would pay. The lodging-seeker would be frightened and dismayed, and would unconsciously be led to fancy that something was wrong. Ideas of burglars and improper persons would present themselves. This is so certainly the case that I doubt whether any well-conditioned lodging-house matron could be induced to show rooms that were prettily draped or pleasantly coloured. The big drawing-room and two large bedrooms which the squire took were all that was proper, and were as brown, and as gloomy, and as ill-suited for the comforts of ordinary life as though they had been prepared for two prisoners. But Lily was not so ignorant as to expect cheerful lodgings in London, and was satisfied. ‘And what are we to do now?' said Lily, as soon as they found themselves settled. It was still March, and whatever may have been the nature of the weather at Allington, it was very cold in London. They reached Sackville Street about five in the evening, and an hour was taken up in unpacking their trunks and making themselves as comfortable as their circumstances allowed. ‘And now what are we to do?' said Lily.

‘I told them to have dinner for us at half-past six.'

‘And what after that? Won't Bernard come to us tonight? I expected him to be standing on the door-steps waiting for us with his bride in his hand.'

‘I don't suppose Bernard will be here tonight,' said the squire. ‘He did not say that he would, and as for Miss Dunstable, I promised to take you to her aunt's house tomorrow.'

‘But I wanted to see her tonight. Well – of course bridesmaids must wait upon brides. And ladies with twenty thousand pounds can't be expected to run about like common people. As for Bernard – but Bernard never was in a hurry.' Then they dined, and when the squire
had very nearly fallen asleep over a bottle of port wine which had been sent in for him from some neighbouring public-house, Lily began to feel that it was very dull. And she looked round the room, and she thought that it was very ugly. And she calculated that thirty evenings so spent would seem to be very long. And she reflected that the hours were probably going much more quickly with Emily Dunstable, who, no doubt, at this moment had Bernard Dale by her side. And then she told herself that the hours were not tedious with her at home, while sitting with her mother, with all her daily occupations within her reach. But in so telling herself she took herself to task, inquiring of herself whether such an assurance was altogether true. Were not the hours sometimes tedious even at home? And in this way her mind wandered off to thoughts upon life in general, and she repeated to herself over and over again the two words which she had told John Eames that she would write in her journal. The reader will remember those two words – Old Maid. And she had written them in her book, making each letter a capital, and round them she had drawn a scroll, ornamented after her own fashion, and she had added the date in quaintly formed figures – for in such matters Lily had some little skill and a dash of fun to direct it; and she had inscribed below it an Italian motto – ‘Who goes softly, goes safely'; and about her work of art she had put a heading – ‘As arranged by Fate for L. D.' Now she thought of all this, and reflected whether Emily Dunstable was in truth very happy. Presently the tears came into her eyes, and she got up and went to the window, as though she was afraid that her uncle might wake and see them. And as she looked out on the blank street, she muttered a word or two – ‘Dear mother! Dearest mother!' Then the door was opened, and her cousin Bernard announced himself. She had not heard his knock at the door as she had been thinking of the two words in her book.

‘What; Bernard! – ah, yes, of course,' said the squire, rubbing his eyes as he strove to wake himself. ‘I wasn't sure you would come, but I'm delighted to see you. I wish you joy with all my heart – with all my heart.'

‘Of course, I should come,' said Bernard. ‘Dear Lily, this is so good of you. Emily is so delighted.' Then Lily spoke her congratulations
warmly, and there was no trace of a tear in her eyes, and she was thoroughly happy as she sat by her cousin's side and listened to his raptures about Emily Dunstable. ‘And you will be so fond of her aunt,' he said.

‘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 tomorrow 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're 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?'