The Last Chronicle of Barset (96 page)

‘I hope you are not angry with me, Lily, for having spoken.'

‘I wish, of course, that you had not spoken; but I am not angry. I have no right to be angry. I made the misfortune for myself. Do not say anything more about it, dear Bernard – that is all.'

They had walked to the picture-gallery; but, by agreement, two carriages had come to take them away – Mrs Thorne's and Mrs Harold Smith's. Mrs Thorne easily managed to send Emily Dunstable and Bernard away with her friend, and to tell Siph Dunn that he must manage for himself. In this way it was contrived that no one but Mrs Thorne should be with Lily Dale.

‘My dear,' said Mrs Thorne, ‘it seemed to me that you were a little put out, and so I thought it best to send them all away.'

‘It was very kind.'

‘He ought to have passed on and not to have stood an instant when he saw you,' said Mrs Thorne, with indignation. ‘There are moments when it is a man's duty simply to vanish, to melt into the air, or to sink into the ground – in which he is bound to overcome the difficulties of such sudden self-removal, or must ever after be accounted poor and mean.'

‘I did not want him to vanish – if only he had not spoken to me.'

‘He should have vanished. A man is sometimes bound in honour to do so, even when he himself has done nothing wrong – when the sin has been all with the woman. Her femininity has still a right to expect that so much shall be done in its behalf. But when the sin has been all his own, as it was in this case – and such damning sin too –'

‘Pray do not go on, Mrs Thorne.'

‘He ought to go out and hang himself simply for having allowed himself to be seen. I thought Bernard behaved very well, and I shall tell him so.'

‘I wish you could manage to forget it all, and say no word more about it.'

‘I won't trouble you with it, my dear; I will promise you that. But, Lily, I can hardly understand you. This man who must have been and must ever be a brute –'

‘Mrs Thorne, you promised me this instant that you would not talk of him.'

‘After this I will not; but you must let me have my way now for one moment. I have so often longed to speak to you, but have not done so from fear of offending you. Now the matter has come up by chance, and it was impossible that what has occurred should pass by without a word. I cannot conceive why the memory of that bad man should be allowed to destroy your whole life.'

‘My life is not destroyed. My life is anything but destroyed. It is a very happy life.'

‘But, my dear, if all that I hear is true, there is a most estimable young man, whom everybody likes, and particularly all your own
family, and whom you like very much yourself; and you will have nothing to say to him, though his constancy is like the constancy of an old Paladin
⁵
– and all because of this wretch who just now came in your way.'

‘Mrs Thorne, it is impossible to explain it all.'

‘I do not want you to explain it all. Of course I would not ask any young woman to marry a man whom she did not love. Such marriages are abominable to me. But I think that a young woman ought to get married if the thing fairly comes in her way, and if her friends approve, and if she is fond of the man who is fond of her. It may be that some memory of what has gone before is allowed to stand in your way, and that it should not be so allowed. It sometimes happens that a horrid morbid sentiment will destroy a life. Excuse me, then, Lily, if I say too much to you in my hope that you may not suffer after this fashion.'

‘I know how kind you are, Mrs Thorne.'

‘Here we are at home, and perhaps you would like to go in. I have some calls which I must make.' Then the conversation was ended, and Lily was alone.

As if she had not thought of it all before! As if there was anything new in this counsel which Mrs Thorne had given her! She had received the same advice from her mother, from her sister, from her uncle, and from Lady Julia, till she was sick of it. How had it come to pass that matters which with others are so private, should with her have become the public property of so large a circle? Any other girl would receive advice on such a subject from her mother alone, and there the secret would rest. But her secret had been published, as it were, by the town-crier in the High Street! Everybody knew that she had been jilted by Adolphus Crosbie, and that it was intended that she should be consoled by John Eames. And people seemed to think that they had a right to rebuke her if she expressed an unwillingness to carry out this intention which the public had so kindly arranged for her.

Morbid sentiment! Why should she be accused of morbid sentiment because she was unable to transfer her affections to the man who had been fixed on as her future husband by the large circle of acquaintances who had interested themselves in her affairs? There was nothing
morbid in either her desires or her regrets. So she assured herself, with something very much like anger at the accusation made against her. She had been contented, and was contented, to live at home as her mother lived, asking for no excitement beyond that given by the daily routine of her duties. There could be nothing morbid in that. She would go back to Allington as soon as might be, and have done with this London life, which only made her wretched. This seeing of Crosbie had been terrible to her. She did not tell herself that his image had been shattered. Her idea was that all her misery had come from the untowardness of the meeting. But there was the fact that she had seen the man and heard his voice, and that the seeing him and hearing him had made her miserable. She certainly desired that it might never be her lot either to see him or to hear him again.

And as for John Eames – in those bitter moments of her reflection she almost wished the same in regard to him. If he would only cease to be her lover, he might be very well; but he was not very well to her as long as his pretensions were dinned into her ear by everybody who knew her. And then she told herself that John would have had a better chance if he had been content to plead for himself. In this, I think, she was hard upon her lover. He had pleaded for himself as well as he knew how, and as often as the occasion had been given to him. It had hardly been his fault that his case had been taken in hand by other advocates. He had given no commission to Mrs Thorne to plead for him.

Poor Johnny. He had stood in much better favour before the lady had presented her compliments to Miss L. D. It was that odious letter, and the thoughts which it had forced upon Lily's mind, which were now most inimical to his interests. Whether Lily loved him or not, she did not love him well enough to be jealous of him. Had any such letter reached her respecting Crosbie in the happy days of her young love, she would simply have laughed at it. It would have been nothing to her. But now she was sore and unhappy, and any trifle was powerful enough to irritate her. ‘Is Miss L. D. engaged to marry Mr J. E.?' ‘No,' said Lily, out loud. ‘Lily Dale is not engaged to marry John Eames, and never will be so engaged.' She was almost tempted to sit down and write the required answer to Miss M. D. Though the letter had
been destroyed, she well remembered the number of the post-office in the Edgware Road. Poor John Eames.

That evening she told Emily Dunstable that she thought she would like to return to Allington before the day that had been appointed for her. ‘But why,' said Emily, ‘should you be worse than your word?'

‘I daresay it will seem silly, but the fact is I am homesick. I'm not accustomed to be away from mamma for so long.'

‘I hope it is not what occurred today at the picture-gallery.'

‘I won't deny that it is that in part.'

‘That was a strange accident, you know, that might never occur again.'

‘It has occurred twice already, Emily.'

‘I don't call the affair in the Park anything. Anybody may see anybody else in the Park, of course. He was not brought so near you that he could annoy you there. You ought certainly to wait till Mr Eames has come back from Italy.'

Then Lily decided that she must and would go back to Allington on the next Monday, and she actually did write a letter to her mother that night to say that such was her intention. But on the morrow her heart was less sore, and the letter was not sent.

*

There was to be one more sitting for the picture, as the reader will remember, and the day for that sitting had arrived. Conway Dalrymple had in the meantime called at Mrs Van Siever's house, hoping that he might be able to see Clara, and make his offer there. But he had failed in his attempt to reach her. He had found it impossible to say all that he had to say in the painting-room during the very short intervals which Mrs Broughton left to him. A man should be allowed
to be alone more than fifteen minutes with a young lady on the occasion in which he offers to her his hand and his heart; but hitherto he had never had more than fifteen minutes at his command; and then there had been the turban! He had also in the meantime called on Mrs Broughton, with the intention of explaining to her that if she really intended to favour his views in respect to Miss Van Siever, she ought to give him a little more liberty for expressing himself. On this occasion he had seen his friend, but had not been able to go as minutely as he wished into the matter that was so important to himself. Mrs Broughton had found it necessary during this meeting to talk almost exclusively about herself and her own affairs. ‘Conway,' she had said, directly she saw him, ‘I am so glad you have come. I think I should have gone mad if I had not seen someone who cares for me.' This was early in the morning, not much after eleven, and Mrs Broughton, hearing first his knock at the door, and then his voice, had met him in the hall and taken him into the dining-room.

‘Is anything the matter?' he asked.

‘Oh, Conway!'

‘What is it? Has anything gone wrong with Dobbs?'

‘Everything has gone wrong with him. He is ruined.'

‘Heaven and earth! What do you mean?'

‘Simply what I say. But you must not speak a word of it. I do not know it from himself.'

‘How do you know it?'

‘Wait a moment. Sit down there, will you? – and I will sit by you. No, Conway; do not take my hand. It is not right. There – so. Yesterday Mrs Van Siever was here. I need not tell you all that she said to me, even if I could. She was very harsh and cruel, saying all manner of things about Dobbs. How can I help it, if he drinks? I have not encouraged him. And as for expensive living, I have been as ignorant as a child. I have never asked for anything. When we were married somebody told me how much we should have to spend. It was either two thousand, or three thousand, or four thousand, or something like that. You know, Conway, how ignorant I am about money – that I am like a child. Is it not true?' She waited for an answer and Dalrymple was obliged to acknowledge that it was true. And yet he had known
the times in which his dear friend had been very sharp in her memory with reference to a few pounds. ‘And now she says that Dobbs owes her money which he cannot pay her, and that everything must be sold. She says that Musselboro must have the business, and that Dobbs must shift for himself elsewhere.'

‘Do you believe that she has the power to decide that things shall go this way or that – as she pleases?'

‘How am I to know? She says so, and she says it is because he drinks. He does drink. That at least is true; but how can I help it? Oh, Conway, what am I to do? Dobbs did not come home at all last night, but sent for his things – saying that he must stay in the City. What am I to do if they come and take the house, and sell the furniture, and turn me out into the street?' Then the poor creature began to cry in earnest, and Dalrymple had to console her as best he might. ‘How I wish I had known you first,' she said. To this Dalrymple was able to make no direct answer. He was wise enough to know that a direct answer might possibly lead him into terrible trouble. He was by no means anxious to find himself ‘protecting' Mrs Dobbs Broughton from the ruin which her husband had brought upon her.

Before he left her she had told him a long story, partly of matters of which he had known something before, and partly made up of that which she had heard from the old woman. It was settled, Mrs Broughton said, that Mr Musselboro was to marry Clara Van Siever. But it appeared, as far as Dalrymple could learn, that this was a settlement made simply between Mrs Van Siever and Musselboro. Clara, as he thought, was not a girl likely to fall into such a settlement without having an opinion of her own. Musselboro was to have the business, and Dobbs Broughton was to be ‘sold up,' and then look for employment in the City. From her husband the wife had not heard a word on the matter, and the above story was simply what had been told to Mrs Broughton by Mrs Van Siever. ‘For myself it seems that there can be but one fate,' said Mrs Broughton. Dalrymple, in his tenderest voice, asked what that one fate must be. ‘Never mind,' said Mrs Broughton. ‘There are some things which one cannot tell even to such a friend as you.' He was sitting near her and had all but got his arm behind her waist. He was, however, able to be prudent.
‘Maria,' he said, getting up on his feet, ‘if it should really come about that you should want anything, you will send to me. You will promise me that, at any rate?' She rubbed a tear from her eye and said that she did not know. ‘There are moments in which a man must speak plainly,' said Conway Dalrymple – ‘in which it would be unmanly not to do so, however prosaic it may seem. I need hardly tell you that my purse shall be yours if you want it.' But just at that moment she did not want his purse, nor must it be supposed that she wanted to run away with him and to leave her husband to fight the battle alone with Mrs Van Siever. The truth was that she did not know what she wanted, over and beyond an assurance from Conway Dalrymple that she was the most ill-used, the most interesting, and the most beautiful woman ever heard of, either in history or romance. Had he proposed to her to pack up a bundle and go off with him in a cab to the London, Chatham, and Dover railway station, en route for Boulogne, I do not for a moment think that she would have packed up her bundle. She would have received intense gratification from the offer – so much so that she would have been almost consoled for her husband's ruin; but she would have scolded her lover, and would have explained to him the great iniquity of which he was guilty.