e-artnow

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 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 or 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 could 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 acknowledgment 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 to me 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 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 in 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.”

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

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

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

“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.”

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

“I hope it will be a happy light at last,” said Grace, who thought that Lily was referring only to John Eames.

At noon on the next day Lily had still said nothing to her mother about the letter; and then what she said was very little. “When must you answer Mr. Crosbie, mamma?”

“Then I will talk over it with you tomorrow. It wants some thinking;—does it not, mamma?”

“But then, mamma, you are not I. Believing as I believe, feeling as I feel, it wants some thinking. That’s what I mean.”

“You shall help me,—tomorrow.” The morrow came and Lily was still very patient; but she had prepared herself, and had prepared the time also, so that in the hour of the gloaming she was alone with her mother, and sure that she might remain alone with her for an hour or so. “Mamma, sit there,” she said; “I will sit down here, and then I can lean against you and be comfortable. You can bear as much of me as that,—can’t you, mamma?” Then Mrs. Dale put her arm over Lily’s shoulder, and embraced her daughter. “And now, mamma, we will talk about this wonderful letter.”

“But you must have something to say about it, mamma. You must bring yourself to have something to say,—to have a great deal to say.”

“I don’t mean that you will hurt me, or not give me any food,—or that you will not go on caring about me more than anything else in the whole world ten times over;—” And Lily as she spoke tightened the embrace of her mother’s arm round her neck. “I’m not afraid you’ll be hard in that way. But you must soften your heart so as to be able to mention his name and talk about him, and tell me what I ought to do. You must see with my eyes, and hear with my ears, and feel with my heart;—and then, when I know that you have done that, I must judge with your judgment.”

“Yes;—because you won’t see with my eyes and hear with my ears. That’s what I call being hard. Though you should feed me with blood from your breast, I should call you a hard pelican, unless you could give me also the sympathy which I demand from you. You see, mamma, we have never allowed ourselves to speak of this man.”

“Only because we have been thinking of him. Out of the full heart the mouth speaketh;—that is, the mouth does so when the full heart is allowed to have its own way comfortably.”

“I have never blamed you, mamma; never, even in my heart. I have known how good and gracious and sweet you have been. But I have often accused myself of cowardice because I have not allowed his name to cross my lips either to you or to Bell. To talk of forgetting such an accident as that is a farce. And as for fostering the memory of it—! Do you think that I have ever spent a night from that time to this without thinking of him? Do you imagine that I have ever crossed our own lawn, or gone down through the garden-path there, without thinking of the times when he and I walked there together? There needs no fostering for such memories as those. They are weeds which will grow rank and strong though nothing be done to foster them. There is the earth and the rain, and that is enough for them. You cannot kill them if you would, and they certainly will not die because you are careful not to hoe and rake the ground.”

“I have thought it very long; but the truth is, mamma, that this non-fostering of memories, as you call it, has not been the real cause of our silence. We have not spoken of Mr. Crosbie because we have not thought alike about him. Had you spoken you would have spoken with anger, and I could not endure to hear him abused. That has been it.”

“Now you must talk of him, and you must not abuse him. We must talk of him, because something must be done about his letter. Even if it be left unanswered, it cannot be so left without discussion. And yet you must say no evil of him.”

“No, mamma; you are not to think that; but you are to look upon his fault as a fault that has been forgiven.”

“But you will go to heaven, mamma, and why should I not speak of it? You will go to heaven, and yet I suppose you have been very wicked, because we are all very wicked. But you won’t be told of your wickedness there. You won’t be hated there, because you were this or that when you were here.”

“No; I don’t think so. We ask to be forgiven just as we forgive. That is the way in which we hope to be forgiven, and therefore it is the way in which we ought to forgive. When you say that prayer at night, mamma, do you ever ask yourself whether you have forgiven him?”

“But if you and I are forgiven only after that fashion we shall never get to heaven.” Lily paused for some further answer from her mother, but as Mrs. Dale was silent she allowed that portion of the subject to pass as completed. “And now, mamma, what answer do you think we ought to send to his letter?”

“My dear, how am I to say? You know I have said already that if I could act on my own judgment, I would send none.”

“Come, Lily, say what you think yourself. We shall get on better when you have brought yourself to speak. Do you think that you wish to see him again?”

“Stop a moment, mamma. There are two persons here to be considered,—or rather, three.”

“I know you would not; but never mind, and let me go on. The three of us are concerned, at any rate; you, and he, and I. I am thinking of him now. We have all suffered, but I do believe that hitherto he has had the worst of it.”

“Mamma, how can you go back in that way? We have agreed that that should be regarded as done and gone. He has been very unhappy, and now we see what remedy he proposes to himself for his misery. Do I flatter myself if I allow myself to look at it in that way?”

As this was said Lily turned round slowly and looked up into her mother’s face. “Mamma,” she said, “that is very cruel. I did not think you could be so cruel. How can you, who believe him to be so selfish, think that?”

“It is very hard to judge of men’s motives. I have never supposed him to be so black that he would not wish to make atonement for the evil he has done.”

“Who can look into a man’s heart and judge all the sources of his actions? There are mixed feelings there, no doubt. Remorse for what he has done; regret for what he has lost;—something, perhaps, of the purity of love.”

“But when a horse kicks and bites, you know his nature and do not go near him. When a man has cheated you once, you think he will cheat you again, and you do not deal with him. You do not look to gather grapes from thistles, after you have found that they are thistles.”

“I still go for the roses though I have often torn my hand with thorns in looking for them.”

“Now, mamma, see how different we are; or, rather, how different it is when one judges for oneself or for another. If it were simply myself, and my own future fate in life, I would trust him with it all tomorrow, without a word. I should go to him as a gambler goes to the gambling-table, knowing that if I lost everything I could hardly be poorer than I was before. But I should have a better hope than the gambler is justified in having. That, however, is not my difficulty. And when I think of him I can see a prospect of success for the gambler. I think so well of myself that, loving him, as I do;—yes, mamma, do not be uneasy;—loving him, as I do, I believe I could be a comfort to him. I think that he might be better with me than without me. That is, he would be so, if he could teach himself to look back upon the past as I can do, and to judge of me as I can judge of him.”

“But he would have, were I to marry him now. He would condemn me because I had forgiven him. He would condemn me because I had borne what he had done to me, and had still loved him—loved him through it all. He would feel and know the weakness;—and there is weakness. I have been weak in not being able to rid myself of him altogether. He would recognize this after awhile, and would despise me for it. But he would not see what there is of devotion to him in my being able to bear the taunts of the world in going back to him, and your taunts, and my own taunts. I should have to bear his also,—not spoken aloud, but to be seen in his face and heard in his voice,—and that I could not endure. If he despised me, and he would, that would make us both unhappy. Therefore, mamma, tell him not to come; tell him that he can never come; but, if it be possible, tell him this tenderly.” Then she got up and walked away, as though she were going out of the room; but her mother had caught her before the door was opened.

“Lily,” she said, “if you think you can be happy with him, he shall come.”

“No, mamma, no. I have been looking for the light ever since I read his letter, and I think I see it. And now, mamma, I will make a clean breast of it. From the moment in which I heard that that poor woman was dead, I have been in a state of flutter. It has been weak of me, and silly, and contemptible. But I could not help it. I kept on asking myself whether he would ever think of me now. Well; he has answered the question; and has so done it that he has forced upon me the necessity of a resolution. I have resolved, and I believe that I shall be the better for it.”

“Mrs. Dale presents her compliments to Mr. Crosbie, and begs to assure him that it will not now be possible that he should renew the relations which were broken off three years ago, between him and Mrs. Dale’s family.” It was very short, certainly, and it did not by any means satisfy Mrs. Dale. But she did not know how to say more without saying too much. The object of her letter was to save him the trouble of a futile perseverance, and them from the annoyance of persecution; and this she wished to do without mentioning her daughter’s name. And she was determined that no word should escape her in which there was any touch of severity, any hint of an accusation. So much she owed to Lily in return for all that Lily was prepared to abandon. “There is my note,” she said at last, offering it to her daughter. “I did not mean to see it,” said Lily, “and, mamma, I will not read it now. Let it go. I know you have been good and have not scolded him.” “I have not scolded him, certainly,” said Mrs. Dale. And then the letter was sent.

Chapter XXIV.
Mrs. Dobbs Broughton’s Dinner-Party

Mr. John Eames, of the Income-tax Office, had in these days risen so high in the world that people in the west-end of town, and very respectable people too,—people living in South Kensington, in neighbourhoods not far from Belgravia, and in very handsome houses round Bayswater,—were glad to ask him out to dinner. Money had been left to him by an earl, and rumour had of course magnified that money. He was a private secretary, which is in itself a great advance on being a mere clerk. And he had become the particularly intimate friend of an artist who had pushed himself into high fashion during the last year or two,—one Conway Dalrymple, whom the rich English world was beginning to pet and pelt with gilt sugarplums, and who seemed to take very kindly to petting and gilt sugarplums. I don’t know whether the friendship of Conway Dalrymple had not done as much to secure John Eames his position at the Bayswater dinner-tables, as had either the private secretaryship, or the earl’s money; and yet, when they had first known each other, now only two or three years ago, Conway Dalrymple had been the poorer man of the two. Some chance had brought them together, and they had lived in the same rooms for nearly two years. This arrangement had been broken up, and the Conway Dalrymple of these days had a studio of his own, somewhere near Kensington Palace, where he painted portraits of young countesses, and in which he had even painted a young duchess. It was the peculiar merit of his pictures,—so at least said the art-loving world,—that though the likeness was always good, the stiffness of the modern portrait was never there. There was also ever some story told in Dalrymple’s pictures over and above the story of the portraiture. This countess was drawn as a fairy with wings, that countess as a goddess with a helmet. The thing took for a time, and Conway Dalrymple was picking up his gilt sugarplums with considerable rapidity.

On a certain day he and John Eames were to dine out together at a certain house in that Bayswater district. It was a large mansion, if not made of stone yet looking very stony, with thirty windows at least, all of them with cut-stone frames, requiring, let me say, at least four thousand a year for its maintenance. And its owner, Dobbs Broughton, a man very well known both in the City and over the grass in Northamptonshire, was supposed to have a good deal more than four thousand a year. Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, a very beautiful woman, who certainly was not yet thirty-five, let her worst enemies say what they might, had been painted by Conway Dalrymple as a Grace. There were, of course, three Graces in the picture, but each Grace was Mrs. Dobbs Broughton repeated. We all know how Graces stand sometimes; two Graces looking one way, and one the other. In this picture, Mrs. Dobbs Broughton as centre Grace looked you full in the face. The same lady looked away from you, displaying her left shoulder as one side Grace, and displaying her right shoulder as the other side Grace. For this pretty toy Mr. Conway Dalrymple had picked up a gilt sugarplum to the tune of six hundred pounds, and had, moreover, won the heart both of Mr. and Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. “Upon my word, Johnny,” Dalrymple had said to his friend, “he’s a deuced good fellow, has really a good glass of claret,—which is getting rarer and rarer every day,—and will mount you for a day, whenever you please, down at Market Harboro’. Come and dine with them.” Johnny Eames condescended, and did go and dine with Mr. Dobbs Broughton. I wonder whether he remembered, when Conway Dalrymple was talking of the rarity of good claret, how much beer the young painter used to drink when they were out together in the country, as they used to be occasionally, three years ago; and how the painter had then been used to complain that bitter beer cost threepence a glass, instead of twopence, which had hitherto been the recognized price of the article. In those days the sugarplums had not been gilt, and had been much rarer.

Johnny Eames and his friend went together to the house of Mr. Dobbs Broughton. As Dalrymple lived close to the Broughtons, Eames picked him up in a cab. “Filthy things, these cabs are,” said Dalrymple, as he got into the Hansom.

“I don’t know about that,” said Johnny. “They’re pretty good, I think.”

“Foul things,” said Conway. “Don’t you feel what a draught comes in here because the glass is cracked. I’d have one of my own, only I should never know what to do with it.”

“If you could always have it standing ready round the corner,” said the artist, “it would be delightful. But one would want half a dozen horses, and two or three men for that.”

They were a little late,—a little later than they should have been had they considered that Eames was to be introduced to his new acquaintances. But he had already lived long enough before the world to be quite at his ease in such circumstances, and he entered Mrs. Broughton’s drawing-room with his pleasantest smile upon his face. But as he entered he saw a sight which made him look serious in spite of his efforts to the contrary. Mr. Adolphus Crosbie, secretary to the Board at the General Committee Office, was standing on the rug before the fire.

“Who will be there?” Eames had asked of his friend, when the suggestion to go and dine with Dobbs Broughton had been made to him.

“Impossible to say,” Conway had replied. “A certain horrible fellow of the name of Musselboro, will almost certainly be there. He always is when they have anything of a swell dinner-party. He is a sort of partner of Broughton’s in the City. He wears a lot of chains, and has elaborate whiskers, and an elaborate waistcoat, which is worse; and he doesn’t wash his hands as often as he ought to do.”

“Well, yes; Musselboro is objectionable. He’s very good-humoured you know, and good-looking in a sort of way, and goes everywhere; that is among people of this sort. Of course he’s not hand-and-glove with Lord Derby; and I wish he could be made to wash his hands. They haven’t any other standing dish, and you may meet anybody. They always have a Member of Parliament; they generally manage to catch a Baronet; and I have met a Peer there. On that august occasion Musselboro was absent.”

So instructed, Eames, on entering the room, looked round at once for Mr. Musselboro. “If I don’t see the whiskers and chain,” he had said, “I shall know there’s a Peer.” Mr. Musselboro was in the room, but Eames had descried Mr. Crosbie long before he had seen Mr. Musselboro.

There was no reason for confusion on his part in meeting Crosbie. They had both loved Lily Dale. Crosbie might have been successful, but for his own fault. Eames had on one occasion been thrown into contact with him, and on that occasion had quarrelled with him and had beaten him, giving him a black eye, and in this way obtaining some mastery over him. There was no reason why he should be ashamed of meeting Crosbie; and yet, when he saw him, the blood mounted all over his face, and he forgot to make any further search for Mr. Musselboro.

“I am so much obliged to Mr. Dalrymple for bringing you,” said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton very sweetly, “only he ought to have come sooner. Naughty man! I know it was his fault. Will you take Miss Demolines down? Miss Demolines,—Mr. Eames.”

Mr. Dobbs Broughton was somewhat sulky and had not welcomed our hero very cordially. He was beginning to think that Conway Dalrymple gave himself airs and did not sufficiently understand that a man who had horses at Market Harboro’ and ‘41 Lafitte was at any rate as good as a painter who was pelted with gilt sugarplums for painting countesses. But he was a man whose ill-humour never lasted long, and he was soon pressing his wine on Johnny Eames as though he loved him dearly.

But there was yet a few minutes before they went down to dinner, and Johnny Eames, as he endeavoured to find something to say to Miss Demolines,—which was difficult, as he did not in the least know Miss Demolines’ line of conversation,—was aware that his efforts were impeded by thoughts of Mr. Crosbie. The man looked older than when he had last seen him,—so much older that Eames was astonished. He was bald, or becoming bald; and his whiskers were grey, or were becoming grey, and he was much fatter. Johnny Eames, who was always thinking of Lily Dale, could not now keep himself from thinking of Adolphus Crosbie. He saw at a glance that the man was in mourning, though there was nothing but his shirt-studs by which to tell it; and he knew that he was in mourning for his wife. “I wish she might have lived for ever,” Johnny said to himself.

He had not yet been definitely called upon by the entrance of the servant to offer his arm to Miss Demolines, when Crosbie walked across to him from the rug and addressed him.

“Mr. Eames,” said he, “it is some time since we met.” And he offered his hand to Johnny.

“Yes, it is,” said Johnny, accepting the proffered salutation. “I don’t know exactly how long, but ever so long.”

“I am very glad to have the opportunity of shaking hands with you,” said Crosbie; and then he retired, as it had become his duty to wait with his arm ready for Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. Having married an earl’s daughter he was selected for that honour. There was a barrister in the room, and Mrs. Dobbs Broughton ought to have known better. As she professed to be guided in such matters by the rules laid down by the recognized authorities, she ought to have been aware that a man takes no rank from his wife. But she was entitled I think to merciful consideration for her error. A woman situated as was Mrs. Dobbs Broughton cannot altogether ignore these terrible rules. She cannot let her guests draw lots for precedence. She must select some one for the honour of her own arm. And amidst the intricacies of rank how is it possible for a woman to learn and to remember everything? If Providence would only send Mrs. Dobbs Broughton a Peer for every dinner-party, the thing would go more easily; but what woman will tell me, offhand, which should go out of a room first: a C.B., an Admiral of the Blue, the Dean of Barchester, or the Dean of Arches? Who is to know who was everybody’s father? How am I to remember that young Thompson’s progenitor was made a baronet and not a knight when he was Lord Mayor? Perhaps Mrs. Dobbs Broughton ought to have known that Mr. Crosbie could have gained nothing by his wife’s rank, and the barrister may be considered to have been not immoderately severe when he simply spoke of her afterwards as the silliest and most ignorant old woman he had ever met in his life. Eames with the lovely Miss Demolines on his arm was the last to move before the hostess. Mr. Dobbs Broughton had led the way energetically with old Lady Demolines. There was no doubt about Lady Demolines,—as his wife had told him, because her title marked her. Her husband had been a physician in Paris, and had been knighted in consequence of some benefit supposed to have been done to some French scion of royalty,—when such scions in France were royal and not imperial. Lady Demolines’ rank was not much, certainly; but it served to mark her, and was beneficial.

As he went downstairs Eames was still thinking of his meeting with Crosbie, and had as yet hardly said a word to his neighbour, and his neighbour had not said a word to him. Now Johnny understood dinners quite well enough to know that in a party of twelve, among whom six are ladies, everything depends on your next neighbour, and generally on the next neighbour who specially belongs to you; and as he took his seat he was a little alarmed as to his prospect for the next two hours. On his other hand sat Mrs. Ponsonby, the barrister’s wife, and he did not much like the look of Mrs. Ponsonby. She was fat, heavy, and good-looking; with a broad space between her eyes, and light smooth hair;—a youthful British matron every inch of her, of whom any barrister with a young family of children might be proud. Now Miss Demolines, though she was hardly to be called beautiful, was at any rate remarkable. She had large, dark, well-shaped eyes, and very dark hair, which she wore tangled about in an extraordinary manner, and she had an expressive face,—a face made expressive by the owner’s will. Such power of expression is often attained by dint of labour,—though it never reaches to the expression of anything in particular. She was almost sufficiently good-looking to be justified in considering herself to be a beauty.

But Miss Demolines, though she had said nothing as yet, knew her game very well. A lady cannot begin conversation to any good purpose in the drawing-room, when she is seated and the man is standing;—nor can she know then how the table may subsequently arrange itself. Powder may be wasted, and often is wasted, and the spirit rebels against the necessity of commencing a second enterprise. But Miss Demolines, when she found herself seated, and perceived that on the other side of her was Mr. Ponsonby, a married man, commenced her enterprise at once, and our friend John Eames was immediately aware that he would have no difficulty as to conversation.

“Don’t you like winter dinner-parties?” began Miss Demolines. This was said just as Johnny was taking his seat, and he had time to declare that he liked dinner-parties at all periods of the year if the dinner was good and the people pleasant before the host had muttered something which was intended to be understood to be a grace. “But I mean especially in winter,” continued Miss Demolines. “I don’t think daylight should ever be admitted at a dinner-table; and though you may shut out the daylight, you can’t shut out the heat. And then there are always so many other things to go to in May and June and July. Dinners should be stopped by Act of Parliament for those three months. I don’t care what people do afterwards, because we always fly away on the first of August.”

“I’m sure what I say would be for the good of society;—but at this time of the year a dinner is warm and comfortable.”

“And people get to know each other;”—in saying which Miss Demolines looked very pleasantly up into Johnny’s face.

“There is a great deal in that,” said he. “I wonder whether you and I will get to know each other?”

“Time alone can tell. But, Mr. Eames, I see that Mr. Crosbie is a friend of yours.”

“I know very well that men are friends when they step up and shake hands with each other. It is the same as when women kiss.”

“When I see women kiss, I always think that there is deep hatred at the bottom of it.”

“And there may be deep hatred between you and Mr. Crosbie for anything I know to the contrary,” said Miss Demolines.

“Ah; then I know he is your bosom friend, and that you will tell him anything I say. What a strange history that was of his marriage!”

“So I have heard;—but he is not quite bosom friend enough with me to have told me all the particulars. I know that his wife is dead.”

“Well,—perhaps not. But it’s ever so long ago;—quite long enough for him to be married again. Did you know her?”

“I knew her,—not well indeed; but I am intimate with her sister, Lady Amelia Gazebee, and I have met her there. None of that family have married what you may call well. And now, Mr. Eames, pray look at the menu and tell me what I am to eat. Arrange for me a little dinner of my own, out of the great bill of fare provided. I always expect some gentleman to do that for me. Mr. Crosbie, you know, only lived with his wife for one month.”

“And a terrible month they had of it. I used to hear of it. He doesn’t look that sort of man, does he?”

“Why, such a regular Bluebeard! Of course you know how he treated another girl before he married Lady Alexandrina. She died of it,—with a broken heart; absolutely died; and there he is, indifferent as possible;—and would treat me in the same way tomorrow if I would let him.”

Johnny Eames, finding it impossible to talk to Miss Demolines about Lily Dale, took up the card of the dinner and went to work in earnest, recommending his neighbour what to eat and what to pass by. “But you’ve skipped the pâté,” she said, with energy.

“Allow me to ask you to choose mine for me instead. You are much more fit to do it.” And she did choose his dinner for him.

They were sitting at a round table, and in order that the ladies and gentlemen should alternate themselves properly, Mr. Musselboro was opposite to the host. Next to him on his right was old Mrs. Van Siever, the widow of a Dutch merchant, who was very rich. She was a ghastly thing to look at, as well from the quantity as from the nature of the wiggeries which she wore. She had not only a false front, but long false curls, as to which it cannot be conceived that she would suppose that any one would be ignorant as to their falseness. She was very thin, too, and very small, and putting aside her wiggeries, you would think her to be all eyes. She was a ghastly old woman to the sight, and not altogether pleasant in her mode of talking. She seemed to know Mr. Musselboro very well, for she called him by his name without any prefix. He had, indeed, begun life as a clerk in her husband’s office.

“Why doesn’t What’s-his-name have real silver forks?” she said to him. Now Mrs. What’s-his-name,—Mrs. Dobbs Broughton we will call her,—was sitting on the other side of Mr. Musselboro, between him and Mr. Crosbie; and, so placed, Mr. Musselboro found it rather hard to answer the question, more especially as he was probably aware that other questions would follow.

“What’s the use?” said Mr. Musselboro. “Everybody has these plated things now. What’s the use of a lot of capital lying dead?”

“Everybody doesn’t. I don’t. You know as well as I do, Musselboro, that the appearance of the thing goes for a great deal. Capital isn’t lying dead as long as people know that you’ve got it.”

Before answering this Mr. Musselboro was driven to reflect that Mrs. Dobbs Broughton would probably hear his reply. “You won’t find that there is any doubt on that head in the City as to Broughton,” he said.

“I shan’t ask in the City, and if I did, I should not believe what people told me. I think there are sillier folks in the City than anywhere else. What did he give for that picture upstairs which the young man painted?”

“You don’t call that a portrait, do you? I mean the one with the three naked women?” Mr. Musselboro glanced round with one eye, and felt sure that Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had heard the question. But the old woman was determined to have an answer. “How much did he give for it, Musselboro?”

“Six hundred pounds, I believe,” said Mr. Musselboro, looking straight before him as he answered, and pretending to treat the subject with perfect indifference.

“Did he indeed, now? Six hundred pounds! And yet he hasn’t got silver spoons. How things are changed! Tell me, Musselboro, who was that young man who came in with the painter?”

Mr. Musselboro turned round and asked Mrs. Broughton. “A Mr. John Eames, Mrs. Van Siever,” said Mrs. Broughton, whispering across the front of Mr. Musselboro. “He is private secretary to Lord—Lord—Lord—I forget who. Some one of the Ministers, I know. And he had a great fortune left him the other day by Lord—Lord—Lord somebody else.”

“All among the lords, I see,” said Mrs. Van Siever. Then Mrs. Dobbs Broughton drew herself back, remembering some little attack which had been made on her by Mrs. Van Siever when she herself had had the real lord to dine with her.

There was a Miss Van Siever there also, sitting between Crosbie and Conway Dalrymple. Conway Dalrymple had been specially brought there to sit next to Miss Van Siever. “There’s no knowing how much she’ll have,” said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, in the warmth of her friendship. “But it’s all real. It is, indeed. The mother is awfully rich.”

“Indeed she is, Conway.” Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had got into a way of calling her young friend by his Christian name. “All the world calls him Conway,” she had said to her husband once when her husband caught her doing so. “She is awful. Her husband made the business in the City, when things were very different from what they are now, and I can’t help having her. She has transactions of business with Dobbs. But there’s no mistake about the money.”

“But why shouldn’t she? She has nobody else. You might offer to paint her, you know. She’d make an excellent picture. So much character. You come and see her.”

Conway Dalrymple had expressed his willingness to meet Miss Van Siever, saying something, however, as to his present position being one which did not admit of any matrimonial speculation. Then Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had told him, with much seriousness, that he was altogether wrong, and that were he to forget himself, or commit himself, or misbehave himself, there must be an end to their pleasant intimacy. In answer to which, Mr. Dalrymple had said that his Grace was surely of all Graces the least gracious. And now he had come to meet Miss Van Siever, and was seated next to her at table.

Miss Van Siever, who at this time had perhaps reached her twenty-fifth year, was certainly a handsome young woman. She was fair and large, bearing no likeness whatever to her mother. Her features were regular, and her full, clear eyes had a brilliance of their own, looking at you always stedfastly and boldly, though very seldom pleasantly. Her mouth would have been beautiful had it not been too strong for feminine beauty. Her teeth were perfect,—too perfect,—looking like miniature walls of carved ivory. She knew the fault of this perfection, and shewed her teeth as little as she could. Her nose and chin were finely chiselled, and her head stood well upon her shoulders. But there was something hard about it all which repelled you. Dalrymple, when he saw her, recoiled from her, not outwardly, but inwardly. Yes, she was handsome, as may be a horse or a tiger; but there was about her nothing of feminine softness. He could not bring himself to think of taking Clara Van Siever as the model that was to sit before him for the rest of his life. He certainly could make a picture of her, as had been suggested by his friend, Mrs. Broughton, but it must be as Judith with the dissevered head, or as Jael using her hammer over the temple of Sisera. Yes,—he thought she would do as Jael; and if Mrs. Van Siever would throw him a sugarplum,—for he would want the sugarplum, seeing that any other result was out of the question,—the thing might be done. Such was the idea of Mr. Conway Dalrymple respecting Miss Van Siever,—before he led her down to dinner.

At first he found it hard to talk to her. She answered him, and not with monosyllables. But she answered him without sympathy, or apparent pleasure in talking. Now the young artist was in the habit of being flattered by ladies, and expected to have his small talk made very easy for him. He liked to give himself little airs, and was not generally disposed to labour very hard at the task of making himself agreeable.

“Were you ever painted yet?” he asked her after they had both been sitting silent for two or three minutes.

“I don’t mean rouged, or enamelled, or got up by Madame Rachel; but have you ever had your portrait taken?”

“That’s why I asked you if you had been painted,—so as to make some little distinction between the two. I am a painter by profession, and do portraits.”

“But I should have thought you would have been sure to have sat to somebody.”

“I never did. I never thought of doing so. One does those things at the instigation of one’s intimate friends,—fathers, mothers, uncles, and aunts, and the like.”

“Well, yes; my intimate friend is my mother, and she would never dream of such a thing. She hates pictures.”

“And especially portraits. And I’m afraid, Mr. Dalrymple, she hates artists.”

“Good heavens; how cruel! I suppose there is some story attached to it. There has been some fatal likeness,—some terrible picture,—something in her early days?”

“Nothing of the kind, Mr. Dalrymple. It is merely the fact that her sympathies are with ugly things, rather than with pretty things. I think she loves the mahogany dinner-table better than anything else in the house; and she likes to have everything dark, and plain, and solid.”

“I did not speak of myself. I think the world would be very much the poorer. I am very fond of the ancient masters, though I do not suppose that I understand them.”

“They are easier understood than the modern, I can tell you. Perhaps you don’t care for modern pictures?”

“Not in comparison, certainly. If that is uncivil, you have brought it on yourself. But I do not in truth mean anything derogatory to the painters of the day. When their pictures are old, they,—that is the good ones among them,—will be nice also.”

“Yes, and statues too, and buildings above all things. The colours of new paintings are so glaring, and the faces are so bright and self-conscious, that they look to me when I go to the exhibition like coloured prints in a child’s new picture-book. It is the same thing with buildings. One sees all the points, and nothing is left to the imagination.”

“I hope, at any rate, I am not a sham one;” and Miss Van Siever as she said this looked very savage.

“Ah, that would be saying a great deal for myself. Who can undertake to say that he is not a sham in anything?”

As she said this the ladies were getting up. So Miss Van Siever also got up, and left Mr. Conway Dalrymple to consider whether he could say or could think of himself that he was not a sham in anything. As regarded Miss Clara Van Siever, he began to think that he should not object to paint her portrait, even though there might be no sugarplum. He would certainly do it as Jael; and he would, if he dared, insert dimly in the background some idea of the face of the mother, half-appearing, half-vanishing, as the spirit of the sacrifice. He was composing his picture, while Mr. Dobbs Broughton was arranging himself and his bottles.

“Musselboro,” he said, “I’ll come up between you and Crosbie. Mr. Eames, though I run away from you, the claret shall remain; or, rather, it shall flow backwards and forwards as rapidly as you will.”

“Do; there’s a good fellow. It’s a nice glass of wine, isn’t it? Old Ramsby, who keeps as good a stock of stuff as any wine-merchant in London, gave me a hint, three or four years ago, that he’d a lot of tidy Bordeaux. It’s ‘41, you know. He had ninety dozen, and I took it all.”

“What was the figure, Broughton?” said Crosbie, asking the question which he knew was expected.

“Well, I only gave one hundred and four for it then; it’s worth a hundred and twenty now. I wouldn’t sell a bottle of it for any money. Come, Dalrymple, pass it round; but fill your glass first.”

“I thought you particularly told me to drink his claret?” said Johnny to his friend afterwards.

“So I did,” said Conway; “and wonderfully good wine it is. But I make it a rule never to eat or drink anything in a man’s house when he praises it himself and tells me the price of it.”

Before they went, Johnny Eames had been specially invited to call on Lady Demolines, and had said that he would do so. “We live in Porchester Gardens,” said Miss Demolines. “Upon my word, I believe that the farther London stretches in that direction, the farther mamma will go. She thinks the air so much better. I know it’s a long way.”

“Distance is nothing to me,” said Johnny; “I can always set off over night.”

Conway Dalrymple did not get invited to call on Mrs. Van Siever, but before he left the house he did say a word or two more to his friend Mrs. Broughton as to Clara Van Siever. “She is a fine young woman,” he said; “she is indeed.”

“Yes, I have found it out. I do not doubt that some day she’ll murder her husband or her mother, or startle the world by some newly-invented crime; but that only makes her the more interesting.”

“And when you add to that all the old woman’s money,” said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, “you think that she might do?”

“For a picture, certainly. I’m speaking of her simply as a model. Could we not manage it? Get her once here, without her mother knowing it, or Broughton, or any one. I’ve got the subject,—Jael and Sisera, you know. I should like to put Musselboro in as Sisera, with the nail half driven in.” Mrs. Dobbs Broughton declared that the scheme was a great deal too wicked for her participation, but at last she promised to think of it.

“You might as well come up and have a cigar,” Dalrymple said, as he and his friend left Mr. Broughton’s house. Johnny said that he would go up and have a cigar or two. “And now tell me what you think of Mrs. Dobbs Broughton and her set,” said Conway.

“Well; I’ll tell you what I think of them. I think they stink of money, as the people say; but I’m not sure that they’ve got any all the same.”

“Very likely, and perhaps spends more than he makes. A good deal of it looked to me like make-believe. There’s no doubt about the claret, but the champagne was execrable. A man is a criminal to have such stuff handed round to his guests. And there isn’t the ring of real gold about the house.”

“So do I,—I hate it like poison; but if it is there, I like it to be true. There is a sort of persons going now,—and one meets them out here and there every day of one’s life,—who are downright Brummagem to the ear and to the touch and to the sight, and we recognize them as such at the very first moment. My honoured lord and master, Sir Raffle, is one such. There is no mistaking him. Clap him down upon the counter, and he rings dull and untrue at once. Pardon me, my dear Conway, if I say the same of your excellent friend Mr. Dobbs Broughton.”

“I think you go a little too far, but I don’t deny it. What you mean is, that he’s not a gentleman.”

“I mean a great deal more than that. Bless you, when you come to talk of a gentleman, who is to define the word? How do I know whether or no I’m a gentleman myself? When I used to be in Burton Crescent, I was hardly a gentleman then,—sitting at the same table with Mrs. Roper and the Lupexes;—do you remember them, and the lovely Amelia?”

“You, if you had been painting duchesses then, with a studio in Kensington Gardens, would not have said so, if you had happened to come across me. I can’t define a gentleman, even in my own mind;—but I can define the sort of man with whom I think I can live pleasantly.”

“N—o, not quite; a very nice fellow, I’m quite sure, and I’m very much obliged to you for taking me there.”

“I never will take you to any house again. And what did you think of his wife?”

“That’s a horse of another colour altogether. A pretty woman with such a figure as hers has got a right to be anything she pleases. I see you are a great favourite.”

“No, I’m not;—not especially. I do like her. She wants to make up a match between me and that Miss Van Siever. Miss Van is to have gold by the ingot, and jewels by the bushel, and a hatful of bank shares, and a whole mine in Cornwall, for her fortune.”

“So is her mother,” said Johnny. “If you take the daughter, I’ll take the mother, and see if I can’t do you out of a mine or two. Goodnight, old fellow. I’m only joking about old Dobbs. I’ll go and dine there again tomorrow, if you like it.”

Chapter XXV.
Miss Madalina Demolines

I don’t think you care two straws about her,” Conway Dalrymple said to his friend John Eames, two days after the dinner-party at Mrs. Dobbs Broughton’s. The painter was at work in his studio, and the private secretary from the Income-tax Office, who was no doubt engaged on some special mission to the West End on the part of Sir Raffle Buffle, was sitting in a lounging-chair and smoking a cigar.

“Because I don’t go about with my stockings cross-gartered, and do that kind of business?”

“It isn’t in my line, my dear fellow. I know what you mean, very well. I daresay, artistically speaking,—”

“Well then, poetically, or romantically, if you like that better,— I daresay that poetically or romantically I am deficient. I eat my dinner very well, and I don’t suppose I ought to do that; and, if you’ll believe me, I find myself laughing sometimes.”

“I don’t believe you really care about her. I think you are aware that you have got a love-affair on hand, and that you hang on to it rather persistently, having in some way come to a resolution that you would be persistent. But there isn’t much heart in it. I daresay there was once.”

“You are just like some of those men who for years past have been going to write a book on some new subject. The intention has been sincere at first, and it never altogether dies away. But the would-be author, though he still talks of his work, knows that it will never be executed, and is very patient under the disappointment. All enthusiasm about the thing is gone, but he is still known as the man who is going to do it some day. You are the man who means to marry Miss Dale in five, ten, or twenty years’ time.”

“Now, Conway, all that is thoroughly unfair. The would-be author talks of his would-be book to everybody. I have never talked of Miss Dale to any one but you, and one or two very old family friends. And from year to year, and from month to month, I have done all that has been in my power to win her. I don’t think I shall ever succeed, and yet I am as determined about it as I was when I first began it,—or rather much more so. If I do not marry Lily, I shall never marry at all, and if anybody were to tell me tomorrow that she had made up her mind to have me, I should well nigh go mad for joy. But I am not going to give up all my life for love. Indeed the less I can bring myself to give up for it, the better I shall think of myself. Now I’ll go away and call on old lady Demolines.”

“Yes;—flirt with her daughter, if I get the opportunity. Why shouldn’t I flirt with her daughter?”

“I don’t like it,—not particularly, that is; because the young lady is not very pretty, nor yet very graceful, nor yet very wise.”

“She is pretty after a fashion,” said the artist, “and if not wise, she is at any rate clever.”

“One has to be civil to people though they are neither pretty nor wise. I don’t mean to insinuate that Miss Demolines is particularly bad, or indeed that she is worse than young ladies in general. I only abused her because there was an insinuation in what you said, that I was going to amuse myself with Miss Demolines in the absence of Miss Dale. The one thing has nothing to do with the other thing. Nothing that I shall say to Miss Demolines will at all militate against my loyalty to Lily.”

“All right, old fellow;—I didn’t mean to put you on your purgation. I want you to look at that sketch. Do you know for whom it is intended?” Johnny took up a scrap of paper, and having scrutinized it for a minute or two declared that he had not the slightest idea who was represented. “You know the subject,—the story that is intended to be told?” said Dalrymple.

“Upon my word I don’t. There’s some old fellow seems to be catching it over the head; but it’s all so confused I can’t make much of it. The woman seems to be uncommon angry.”

“Ah, dear! not as often as I ought to do. Ah, I see; it’s Sisera. I never could quite believe that story. Jael might have killed Captain Sisera in his sleep,—for which, by-the-by, she ought to have been hung, and she might possibly have done it with a hammer and a nail. But she could not have driven it through, and staked him to the ground.”

“I’ve warrant enough for putting it into a picture, at any rate. My Jael there is intended for Miss Van Siever.”

“O dear, no; not yet. I mean to get her to do so. There’s a strength about her, which would make her sit the part admirably. And I fancy she would like to be driving a nail into a fellow’s head. I think I shall take Musselboro for a Sisera.”

“He would just do for it. But of course I shan’t ask him to sit, as my Jael would not like it. She would not consent to operate on so base a subject. So you really are going down to Guestwick?”

“Yes; I start tomorrow. Good-by, old fellow. I’ll come and sit for Sisera if you’ll let me;—only Miss Van Jael shall have a blunted nail, if you please.”

Then Johnny left the artist’s room and walked across from Kensington to Lady Demolines’ house. As he went he partly accused himself, and partly excused himself in that matter of his love for Lily Dale. There were moments of his life in which he felt that he would willingly die for her,—that life was not worth having without her,—in which he went about inwardly reproaching fortune for having treated him so cruelly. Why should she not be his? He half believed that she loved him. She had almost told him so. She could not surely still love that other man who had treated her with such vile falsehood? As he considered the question in all its bearings he assured himself over and over again that there would be now no fear of that rival;—and yet he had such fears, and hated Crosbie almost as much as ever. It was a thousand pities, certainly, that the man should have been made free by the death of his wife. But it could hardly be that he should seek Lily again, or that Lily, if so sought, should even listen to him. But yet there he was, free once more,—an odious being, whom Johnny was determined to sacrifice to his vengeance, if cause for such sacrifice should occur. And thus thinking of the real truth of his love, he endeavoured to excuse himself to himself from that charge of vagueness and laxness which his friend Conway Dalrymple had brought against him. And then again he accused himself of the same sin. If he had been positively in earnest, with downright manly earnestness, would he have allowed the thing to drag itself on with a weak uncertain life, as it had done for the last two or three years? Lily Dale had been a dream to him in his boyhood; and he had made a reality of his dream as soon as he had become a man. But before he had been able, as a man, to tell his love to the girl whom he had loved as a child, another man had intervened, and his prize had been taken from him. Then the wretched victor had thrown his treasure away, and he, John Eames, had been content to stoop to pick it up,—was content to do so now. But there was something which he felt to be unmanly in the constant stooping. Dalrymple had told him that he was like a man who is ever writing a book and yet never writes it. He would make another attempt to get his book written,—an attempt into which he would throw all his strength and all his heart. He would do his very best to make Lily his own. But if he failed now, he would have done with it. It seemed to him to be below his dignity as a man to be always coveting a thing which he could not obtain.

Johnny was informed by the boy in buttons, who opened the door for him at Lady Demolines’, that the ladies were at home, and he was shown up into the drawing-room. Here he was allowed full ten minutes to explore the knicknacks on the table, and open the photograph book, and examine the furniture, before Miss Demolines made her appearance. When she did come, her hair was tangled more marvellously even than when he saw her at the dinner-party, and her eyes were darker, and her cheeks thinner. “I’m afraid mamma won’t be able to come down,” said Miss Demolines. “She will be so sorry; but she is not quite well to-day. The wind is in the east, she says, and when she says the wind is in the east she always refuses to be well.”

“Ah, there I can’t help you, Miss Demolines. I never know which is east, and which west; and if I did, I shouldn’t know from which point the wind blew.”

“At any rate mamma can’t come downstairs, and you must excuse her. What a very nice woman Mrs. Dobbs Broughton is.” Johnny acknowledged that Mrs. Dobbs Broughton was charming. “And Mr. Broughton is so goodnatured!” Johnny again assented. “I like him of all things,” said Miss Demolines. “So do I,” said Johnny;—”I never liked anybody so much in my life. I suppose one is bound to say that kind of thing.” “Oh, you illnatured man,” said Miss Demolines. “I suppose you think that poor Mr. Broughton is a little—just a little,—you know what I mean.”

“Yes, you do; you know very well what I mean. And of course he is. How can he help it?”

“Poor fellow,—no. I don’t suppose he can help it, or he would;—wouldn’t he?”

“Of course Mr. Broughton had not the advantage of birth or much early education. All his friends know that, and make allowance accordingly. When she married him, she was aware of his deficiency, and made up her mind to put up with it.”

“I knew Maria Clutterbuck for years before she was married. Of course she was very much my senior, but, nevertheless, we were friends. I think I was hardly more than twelve years old when I first began to correspond with Maria. She was then past twenty. So you see, Mr. Eames, I make no secret of my age.”

“But never mind that. Everybody knows that Maria Clutterbuck was very much admired. Of course I’m not going to tell you or any other gentleman all her history.”

“Then certainly your hopes will be frustrated, Mr. Eames. But undoubtedly when she told us that she was going to take Dobbs Broughton, we were a little disappointed. Maria Clutterbuck had been used to a better kind of life. You understand what I mean, Mr. Eames?”

“No, no; that is true. It has its attractions. She keeps her carriage, sees a good deal of company, has an excellent house, and goes abroad for six weeks every year. But you know, Mr. Eames, there is, perhaps, a little uncertainty about it.”

“You’re quizzing now, I know. But don’t you feel now, really, that City money is always very chancy? It comes and goes so quick.”

“As regards the going, I think that’s the same with all money,” said Johnny.

“Not with land, or the funds. Mamma has every shilling laid out in a first-class mortgage on land at four per cent. That does make one feel so secure! The land can’t run away.”

“It’s all speculation, you know. I don’t believe she minds it; I don’t, indeed. She lives that kind of fevered life now that she likes excitement. Of course we all know that Mr. Dobbs Broughton is not what we can call an educated gentleman. His manners are against him, and he is very ignorant. Even dear Maria would admit that.”

“She has acknowledged it to me, twenty times. But he is very goodnatured, and lets her do pretty nearly anything that she likes. I only hope she won’t trespass on his goodnature. I do, indeed.”

“No; I didn’t mean that exactly. Of course she ought to be moderate, and I hope she is. To that kind of fevered existence profuse expenditure is perhaps necessary. But I was thinking of something else. I fear she is a little giddy.”

“You mean too old for anything of that kind. Maria Broughton must be thirty-three if she’s a day.”

“That would make you just twenty-five,” said Johnny, feeling perfectly sure as he said so that the lady whom he was addressing was at any rate past thirty!

“Never mind my age, Mr. Eames; whether I am twenty-five, or a hundred-and-five, has nothing to do with poor Maria Clutterbuck. But now I’ll tell you why I mention all this to you. You must have seen how foolish she is about your friend Mr. Dalrymple?”

“Nonsense, Mr. Eames; you have. If she were your wife, would you like her to call a man Conway? Of course you would not. I don’t mean to say that there’s anything in it. I know Maria’s principles too well to suspect that. It’s merely because she’s flighty and fevered.”

“No doubt it does,” said Miss Demolines, with a nod of her head, which was intended to show that she was willing to give her friend the full benefit of any excuse which could be offered for her. “But don’t you think you could do something, Mr. Eames?”

“Yes, you. You and Mr. Dalrymple are such friends! If you were just to point out to him you know—”

“Point out what? Tell him that he oughtn’t to be called Conway? Because, after all, I suppose that’s the worst of it. If you mean to say that Dalrymple is in love with Mrs. Broughton, you never made a greater mistake in your life.”

“Oh, no; not in love. That would be terrible, you know.” And Miss Demolines shook her head sadly. “But there may be so much mischief done without anything of that kind! Thoughtlessness, you know, Mr. Eames,—pure thoughtlessness! Think of what I have said, and if you can speak a word to your friend, do. And now I want to ask you something else. I’m so glad you are come, because circumstances have seemed to make it necessary that you and I should know each other. We may be of so much use if we put our heads together.” Johnny bowed when he heard this, but made no immediate reply. “Have you heard anything about a certain picture that is being planned?” Johnny did not wish to answer this question, but Miss Demolines paused so long, and looked so earnestly into his face, that he found himself forced to say something.

“A certain picture that is—, or, perhaps, that is not to be, painted by Mr. Dalrymple?”

“I hear so much about Dalrymple’s pictures! You don’t mean the portrait of Lady Glencora Palliser? That is nearly finished, and will be in the Exhibition this year.”

“As to that I cannot quite say. It is at any rate to be a likeness. I am sure you have heard of it. Come, Mr. Eames; it would be better that we should be candid with each other. You remember Miss Van Siever, of course?”

“And now will you tell me whether you have not heard the names of Jael and Miss Van Siever coupled together? I see you know all about it.”

“Of course you have. So have I, as you perceive. Now, Mr. Eames,”—and Miss Demolines’ voice became tremulously eager as she addressed him,—”it is your duty, and it is my duty, to take care that that picture shall never be painted.”

“I do. I know them both,—well.” There was something almost grandly tragic in Miss Demolines’ voice as she thus spoke. “Yes, Mr. Eames, I know them well. If that scheme be continued, it will work terrible mischief. You and I must prevent it.”

“Think of Conway Dalrymple passing so many hours in Maria’s sitting-room upstairs! The picture is to be painted there, you know.”

“But Miss Van Siever will be present. Won’t that make it all right? What is there wrong about Miss Van Siever?”

“I won’t deny that Clara Van Siever has a certain beauty of her own. To me she is certainly the most unattractive woman that I ever came near. She is simply repulsive!” Hereupon Miss Demolines held up her hand as though she were banishing Miss Van Siever for ever from her sight, and shuddered slightly. “Men think her handsome, and she is handsome. But she is false, covetous, malicious, cruel, and dishonest.”

“You may say that, Mr. Eames. And then her mother! Her mother is not so bad. Her mother is very different. But the mother is an odious woman, too. It was an evil day for Maria Clutterbuck when she first saw either the mother or the daughter. I tell you that in confidence.”

“But what can I do?” said Johnny, who began to be startled and almost interested by the eagerness of the woman.

“I’ll tell you what you can do. Don’t let your friend go to Mr. Broughton’s house to paint the picture. If he does do it, there will mischief come of it. Of course you can prevent him.”

“She’s a nasty proud minx, and it would set her up ever so high,—to think that she was being painted by Mr. Dalrymple! But that isn’t the reason. Maria would get into terrible trouble about it, and there would be no end of mischief. I must not tell you more now, and if you do not believe me, I cannot help it. Surely, Mr. Eames, my word may be taken as going for something? And when I ask you to help me in this, I do expect that you will not refuse me.” By this time Miss Demolines was sitting close to him, and had more than once put her hand upon his arm in the energy of her eloquence. Then as he remembered that he had never seen Miss Demolines till the other day, or Miss Van Siever, or even Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, he bethought himself that it was all very droll. Nevertheless he had no objection to Miss Demolines putting her hand upon his arm.

“I never like to interfere in anything that does not seem to be my own business,” said Johnny.

“Is not your friend’s business your own business? What does friendship mean if it is not so? And when I tell you that it is my business, mine of right, does that go for nothing with you? I thought I might depend upon you, Mr. Eames; I did indeed.” Then again she put her hand upon his arm, and as he looked into her eyes he began to think that after all she was good-looking in a certain way. At any rate she had fine eyes, and there was something picturesque about the entanglement of her hair. “Think of it, and then come back and talk to me again,” said Miss Demolines.

“Nothing can be done during that time. Clara Van Siever is going away in a day, and will not be back for three weeks. I happen to know that; so we have plenty of time for working. It would be very desirable that she should never even hear of it; but that cannot be hoped, as Maria has such a tongue! Couldn’t you see Mr. Dalrymple tonight?”

Before he got out of the house, which he did after a most affectionate farewell, Johnny felt himself compelled to promise that he would come to Miss Demolines again as soon as he got back to town; and as the door was closed behind him by the boy in buttons, he made up his mind that he certainly would call as soon as he returned to London. “It’s as good as a play,” he said to himself. Not that he cared in the least for Miss Demolines, or that he would take any steps with the intention of preventing the painting of the picture. Miss Demolines had some battle to fight, and he would leave her to fight it with her own weapons. If his friend chose to paint a picture of Jael, and take Miss Van Siever as a model, it was no business of his. Nevertheless he would certainly go and see Miss Demolines again, because, as he said, she was as good as a play.

Chapter XXVI.
The Picture

On that same afternoon Conway Dalrymple rolled up his sketch of Jael and Sisera, put it into his pocket, dressed himself with some considerable care, putting on a velvet coat which he was in the habit of wearing out of doors when he did not intend to wander beyond Kensington Gardens and the neighbourhood and which was supposed to become him well, yellow gloves, and a certain Spanish hat of which he was fond, and slowly sauntered across to the house of his friend Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. When the door was opened to him he did not ask if the lady were at home, but muttering some word to the servant, made his way through the hall, upstairs, to a certain small sitting-room looking to the north, which was much used by the mistress of the house. It was quite clear that Conway Dalrymple had arranged his visit beforehand, and that he was expected. He opened the door without knocking, and, though the servant had followed him, he entered without being announced. “I’m afraid I’m late,” he said, as he gave his hand to Mrs. Broughton; “but for the life I could not get away sooner.”

“You are quite in time,” said the lady, “for any good that you are likely to do.”

“It means this, my friend, that you had better give the idea up. I have been thinking of it all day, and I do not approve of it.”

“Of course you will say so, Conway. I have observed of late that whatever I say to you is called nonsense. I suppose it is the new fashion that gentlemen should so express themselves, but I am not quite sure that I like it.”

“You know what I mean. I am very anxious about this picture, and I shall be much disappointed if it cannot be done now. It was you put it into my head first.”

“I regret it very much, I can assure you; but it will not be generous in you to urge that against me.”

“I do not know what they can be. You hinted at something which I only took as having been said in joke.”

“If you mean about Miss Van Siever and yourself, I was quite in earnest, Conway. I do not think you could do better, and I should be glad to see it of all things. Nothing would please me more than to bring Miss Van Siever and you together.”

“Because,—because—. I can do nothing but tell you the truth, carina; because my heart is not free to present itself at Miss Van Siever’s feet.”

“It ought to be free, Conway, and you must make it free. It will be well that you should be married, and well for others besides yourself. I tell you so as your friend, and you have no truer friend. Sit where you are, if you please. You can say anything you have to say without stalking about the room.”

“You will be safer and quieter while you are sitting. I heard a knock at the door, and I do not doubt that it is Clara. She said she would be here.”

“Yes; I have told her. She said that it would be impossible, and that her mother would not allow it. Here she is.” Then Miss Van Siever was shown into the room, and Dalrymple perceived that she was a girl the peculiarity of whose complexion bore daylight better even than candlelight. There was something in her countenance which seemed to declare that she could bear any light to which it might be subjected without flinching from it. And her bonnet, which was very plain, and her simple brown morning gown, suited her well. She was one who required none of the circumstances of studied dress to carry off aught in her own appearance. She could look her best when other women look their worst, and could dare to be seen at all times. Dalrymple, with an artist’s eye, saw this at once, and immediately confessed to himself that there was something great about her. He could not deny her beauty. But there was ever present to him that look of hardness which had struck him when he first saw her. He could not but fancy that though at times she might be playful, and allow the fur of her coat to be stroked with good-humour,—she would be a dangerous plaything, using her claws unpleasantly when the good-humour should have passed away. But not the less was she beautiful, and—beyond that and better than that, for his purpose,—she was picturesque.

“Clara,” said Mrs. Broughton, “here is this mad painter, and he says that he will have you on his canvas, either with your will or without it.”

“To prove to you that I can, I think I need only show you the sketch,” said Dalrymple, taking the drawing out of his pocket. “As regards the face, I know it so well by heart already, that I feel certain I could produce a likeness without even a sitting. What do you think of it, Mrs. Broughton?”

“It is clever,” said she, looking at it with all that enthusiasm which women are able to throw into their eyes on such occasions; “very clever. The subject would just suit her. I have never doubted that.”

“Of course a sketch must be rough. This one has been rubbed about and altered,—but I think there is something in it.”

“But you can see the woman’s fixed purpose; and her stealthiness as well;—and the man sleeps like a log. What is that dim outline?”

“Nothing in particular,” said Dalrymple. But the dim outline was intended to represent Mrs. Van Siever.

“It is very good,—unquestionably good,” said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. “I do not for a moment doubt that you would make a great picture of it. It is just the subject for you, Conway; so much imagination, and yet such a scope for portraiture. It would be full of action, and yet such perfect repose. And the lights and shadows would be exactly in your line. I can see at a glance how you would manage the light in the tent, and bring it down just on the nail. And then the pose of the woman would be so good, so much strength, and yet such grace! You should have the bowl he drank the milk out of, so as to tell the whole story. No painter living tells a story so well as you do, Conway.” Conway Dalrymple knew that the woman was talking nonsense to him, and yet he liked it, and liked her for talking it.

“But Mr. Dalrymple can paint his Sisera without making me a Jael,” said Miss Van Siever.

“But I never will,” said the artist. “I conceived the subject as connected with you, and I will never disjoin the two ideas.”

“And none was intended. But you may observe that artists in all ages have sought for higher types of models in painting women who have been violent or criminal, than have sufficed for them in their portraitures of gentleness and virtue. Look at all the Judiths, and the Lucretias, and the Charlotte Cordays; how much finer the women are than the Madonnas and the Saint Cecilias.”

“After that, Clara, you need not scruple to be a Jael,” said Mrs. Broughton.

“But I do scruple,—very much; so strongly that I know I never shall do it. In the first place I don’t know why Mr. Dalrymple wants it.”

“No;—not this picture. And why should you object? It is the commonest thing in the world for ladies to sit to artists in that manner.”

“Nobody would know it, so that you need care about it. What would it matter if everybody knew it? We are not proposing anything improper;—are we, Mrs. Broughton?”

“She shall not be pressed if she does not like it,” said Mrs. Broughton. “You know I told you before Clara came in, that I was afraid it could not be done.”

“And I don’t like it,” said Miss Van Siever, with some little hesitation in her voice.

“I don’t see anything improper in it, if you mean that,” said Mrs. Broughton.

“Well, yes; that is the difficulty, no doubt. The only question is, whether your mother is not so very singular, as to make it impossible that you should comply with her in everything.”

“I am afraid that I do not comply with her in very much,” said Miss Van Siever in her gentlest voice.

“You drive me to say so, as otherwise I should be a hypocrite. Of course I ought not to have said it before Mr. Dalrymple.”

“You and Mr. Dalrymple will understand all about that, I daresay, before the picture is finished,” said Mrs. Broughton.

It did not take much persuasion on the part of Conway Dalrymple to get the consent of the younger lady to be painted, or of the elder to allow the sitting to go on in her room. When the question of easels and other apparatus came to be considered Mrs. Broughton was rather flustered, and again declared with energy that the whole thing must fall to the ground; but a few more words from the painter restored her, and at last the arrangements were made. As Mrs. Dobbs Broughton’s dear friend, Madalina Demolines had said, Mrs. Dobbs Broughton liked a fevered existence. “What will Dobbs say?” she exclaimed more than once. And it was decided at last that Dobbs should know nothing about it as long as it could be kept from him. “Of course he shall be told at last,” said his wife. “I wouldn’t keep anything from the dear fellow for all the world. But if he knew it at first it would be sure to get through Musselboro to your mother.”

“I certainly shall beg that Mr. Broughton may not be taken into confidence if Mr. Musselboro is to follow,” said Clara. “And it must be understood that I must cease to sit immediately, whatever may be the inconvenience, should mamma speak to me about it.”

This stipulation was made and conceded, and then Miss Van Siever went away, leaving the artist with Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. “And now, if you please, Conway, you had better go too,” said the lady, as soon as there had been time for Miss Van Siever to get downstairs and out of the hall-door.

“A little while ago I improperly said that some suggestion of yours was nonsense and you rebuked me for my blunt incivility. Might not I rebuke you now with equal justice?”

“Do so, if you will;—but leave me. I tell you, Conway, that in these matters you must either be guided by me, or you and I must cease to see each other. It does not do that you should remain here with me longer than the time usually allowed for a morning call. Clara has come and gone, and you also must go. I am sorry to disturb you, for you seem to be so very comfortable in that chair.”

“I am comfortable,—and I can look at you. Come;—there can be no harm in saying that, if I say nothing else. Well;—there, now I am gone.” Whereupon he got up from his armchair.

“You must win it, of course. She is to be won, like any other woman. The fruit won’t fall into your mouth merely because you open your lips. You must climb the tree.”

“Still climbing trees in the Hesperides,” said Conway. “Love does that, you know; but it is hard to climb the trees without the love. It seems to me that I have done my climbing,—have clomb as high as I knew how, and that the boughs are breaking with me, and that I am likely to get a fall. Do you understand me?”

“That is no answer to my question. Do you understand that at this moment I am getting a fall which will break every bone in my skin and put any other climbing out of the question as far as I am concerned? Do you understand that?”

“Then I’ll go and make love at once to Clara Van Siever. There’s enough of pluck left in me to ask her to marry me, and I suppose I could manage to go through the ceremony if she accepted me.”

“I daresay I should love her well enough after a bit;—that is, if she didn’t break my head or comb my hair. I suppose there will be no objection to my saying that you sent me when I ask her?”

“Conway, you will of course not mention my name to her. I have suggested to you a marriage which I think would tend to make you happy, and would give you a stability in life which you want. It is perhaps better that I should be explicit at once. As an unmarried man I cannot continue to know you. You have said words of late which have driven me to this conclusion. I have thought about it much,—too much, perhaps, and I know that I am right. Miss Van Siever has beauty and wealth and intellect, and I think that she would appreciate the love of such a man as you are. Now go.” And Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, standing upright, pointed to the door. Conway Dalrymple slowly took his Spanish hat from off the marble slab on which he had laid it, and left the room without saying a word. The interview had been quite long enough, and there was nothing else which he knew how to say with effect.

Croquet is a pretty game out of doors, and chess is delightful in a drawing-room. Battledoor and shuttlecock and hunt-the-slipper have also their attractions. Proverbs are good, and cross questions with crooked answers may be made very amusing. But none of these games are equal to the game of lovemaking,—providing that the players can be quite sure that there shall be no heart in the matter. Any touch of heart not only destroys the pleasure of the game, but makes the player awkward and incapable and robs him of his skill. And thus it is that there are many people who cannot play the game at all. A deficiency of some needed internal physical strength prevents the owners of the heart from keeping a proper control over its valves, and thus emotion sets in, and the pulses are accelerated, and feeling supervenes. For such a one to attempt a game of lovemaking, is as though your friend with the gout should insist on playing croquet. A sense of the ridiculous, if nothing else, should in either case deter the afflicted one from the attempt. There was no such absurdity with our friend Mrs. Dobbs Broughton and Conway Dalrymple. Their valves and pulses were all right. They could play the game without the slightest danger of any inconvenient result;—of any inconvenient result, that is, as regarded their own feelings. Blind people cannot see and stupid people cannot understand,—and it might be that Mr. Dobbs Broughton, being both blind and stupid in such matters, might perceive something of the playing of the game and not know that it was only a game of skill.

When I say that as regarded these two lovers there was nothing of love between them, and that the game was therefore so far innocent, I would not be understood as asserting that these people had no hearts within their bosoms. Mrs. Dobbs Broughton probably loved her husband in a sensible, humdrum way, feeling him to be a bore, knowing him to be vulgar, aware that he often took a good deal more wine than was good for him, and that he was almost as uneducated as a hog. Yet she loved him, and showed her love by taking care that he should have things for dinner which he liked to eat. But in this alone there were to be found none of the charms of a fevered existence, and therefore Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, requiring those charms for her comfort, played her little game with Conway Dalrymple. And as regarded the artist himself, let no reader presume him to have been heartless because he flirted with Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. Doubtless he will marry some day, will have a large family for which he will work hard, and will make a good husband to some stout lady who will be careful in looking after his linen. But on the present occasion he fell into some slight trouble in spite of the innocence of his game. As he quitted his friend’s room he heard the hall-door slammed heavily; then there was a quick step on the stairs, and on the landing-place above the first flight he met the master of the house, somewhat flurried, as it seemed, and not looking comfortable, either as regarded his person or his temper. “By George, he’s been drinking!” Conway said to himself, after the first glance. Now it certainly was the case that poor Dobbs Broughton would sometimes drink at improper hours.

“What the devil are you doing here?” said Dobbs Broughton to his friend the artist. “You’re always here. You’re here a doosed sight more than I like.” Husbands when they have been drinking are very apt to make mistakes as to the purport of the game.

“No, there ain’t. There’s nothing wrong; and if there was, what’s that to you? I shan’t ask you to pay anything for me, I suppose.”

“I won’t have you here, and let that be an end of it. It’s all very well when I choose to have a few friends to dinner, but my wife can do very well without your fal-lalling here all day. Will you remember that, if you please?”

Conway Dalrymple, knowing that he had better not argue any question with a drunken man, took himself out of the house, shrugging his shoulders as he thought of the misery which his poor dear playfellow would now be called upon to endure.

Chapter XXVII.
A Hero at Home

On the morning after his visit to Miss Demolines John Eames found himself at the Paddington Station asking for a ticket for Guestwick, and as he picked up his change another gentleman also demanded a ticket for the same place. Had Guestwick been as Liverpool or Manchester, Eames would have thought nothing about it. It is a matter of course that men should always be going from London to Liverpool and Manchester; but it seemed odd to him that two men should want first-class tickets for so small a place as Guestwick at the same moment. And when, afterwards, he was placed by the guard in the same carriage with this other traveller, he could not but feel some little curiosity. The man was four or five years Johnny’s senior, a good-looking fellow, with a pleasant face, and the outward appurtenances of a gentleman. The intelligent reader will no doubt be aware that the stranger was Major Grantly; but the intelligent reader has in this respect had much advantage over John Eames, who up to this time had never even heard of his cousin Grace Crawley’s lover. “I think you were asking for a ticket for Guestwick,” said Johnny;—whereupon the major owned that such was the case. “I lived at Guestwick the greater part of my life,” said Johnny, “and it’s the dullest, dearest little town in all England.” “I never was there before,” said the major, “and indeed I can hardly say I am going there now. I shall only pass through it.” Then he got out his newspaper, and Johnny also got out his, and for a time there was no conversation between them. John remembered how holy was the errand upon which he was intent, and gathered his thoughts together, resolving that having so great a matter on his mind he would think about nothing else and speak about nothing at all. He was going down to Allington to ask Lily Dale for the last time whether she would be his wife; to ascertain whether he was to be successful or unsuccessful in the one great wish of his life; and, as such was the case with him,—as he had in hand a thing so vital, it could be nothing to him whether the chance companion of his voyage was an agreeable or a disagreeable person. He himself, in any of the ordinary circumstances of life, was prone enough to talk with any one he might meet. He could have travelled for twelve hours together with an old lady, and could listen to her or make her listen to him without half an hour’s interruption. But this journey was made on no ordinary occasion, and it behoved him to think of Lily. Therefore, after the first little almost necessary effort at civility, he fell back into gloomy silence. He was going to do his best to win Lily Dale, and this doing of his best would require all his thought and all his energy.

And probably Major Grantly’s mind was bent in the same direction. He, too, had this work before him, and could not look upon his work as a thing that was altogether pleasant. He might probably get that which he was intent upon obtaining. He knew,—he almost knew,—that he had won the heart of the girl whom he was seeking. There had been that between him and her which justified him in supposing that he was dear to her, although no expression of affection had ever passed from her lips to his ears. Men may know all that they require to know on that subject without any plainly spoken words. Grace Crawley had spoken no word, and yet he had known,—at any rate had not doubted, that he could have the place in her heart of which he desired to be the master. She would never surrender herself altogether till she had taught herself to be sure of him to whom she gave herself. But she had listened to him with silence that had not rebuked him, and he had told himself that he might venture, without fear of that rebuke as to which the minds of some men are sensitive to a degree which other men cannot even understand. But for all this Major Grantly could not be altogether happy as to his mission. He would ask Grace Crawley to be his wife; but he would be ruined by his own success. And the remembrance that he would be severed from all his own family by the thing that he was doing, was very bitter to him. In generosity he might be silent about this to Grace, but who can endure to be silent on such a subject to the woman who is to be his wife? And then it would not be possible for him to abstain from explanation. He was now following her down to Allington, a step which he certainly would not have taken but for the misfortune which had befallen her father, and he must explain to her in some sort why he did so. He must say to her,—if not in so many words, still almost as plainly as words could speak,—I am here now to ask you to be my wife, because you specially require the protection and countenance of the man who loves you, in the present circumstances of your father’s affairs. He knew that he was doing right;—perhaps had some idea that he was doing nobly; but this very appreciation of his own good qualities made the task before him the more difficult.

Major Grantly had The Times, and John Eames had the Daily News, and they exchanged papers. One had the last Saturday, and the other the last Spectator, and they exchanged those also. Both had the Pall Mall Gazette, of which enterprising periodical they gradually came to discuss the merits and demerits, thus falling into conversation at last, in spite of the weight of the mission on which each of them was intent. Then, at last, when they were within half-an-hour of the end of their journey, Major Grantly asked his companion what was the best inn at Guestwick. He had at first been minded to go on to Allington at once,—to go on to Allington and get his work done, and then return home or remain there, or find the nearest inn with a decent bed, as circumstances might direct him. But on reconsideration, as he drew nearer to the scene of his future operations, he thought that it might be well for him to remain that night at Guestwick. He did not quite know how far Allington was from Guestwick, but he did know that it was still midwinter, and that the days were very short. “The Magpie” was the best inn, Johnny said. Having lived at Guestwick all his life, and having a mother living there now, he had never himself put up at “The Magpie,” but he believed it to be a good country inn. They kept post-horses there, he knew. He did not tell the stranger that his late old friend, Lord De Guest, and his present old friend, Lady Julia, always hired post-horses from “The Magpie,” but he grounded his ready assertion on the remembrance of that fact. “I think I shall stay there tonight,” said the major. “You’ll find it pretty comfortable, I don’t doubt,” said Johnny. “Though, indeed, it always seems to me that a man alone at an inn has a very bad time of it. Reading is all very well, but one gets tired of it at last. And then I hate horsehair chairs.” “It isn’t very delightful,” said the major, “but beggars mustn’t be choosers.” Then there was a pause, after which the major spoke again. “You don’t happen to know which way Allington lies?”

“There is a village called Allington, certainly. It lies over there.” And Johnny pointed with his finger through the window. “As you do not know the country you can see nothing, but I can see the Allington trees at this moment.”

“There’s a public-house, with a very nice clean bedroom. It is called the ‘Red Lion.’ Mrs. Forrard keeps it. I would quite as soon stay there as at ‘The Magpie.’ Only if they don’t expect you, they wouldn’t have much for dinner.”

“Yes, I know the village of Allington very well. I have friends living there. Indeed, I may say I know everybody in Allington.”

“Mrs. Dale?” said Johnny. “Yes, I know Mrs. Dale. I have known Mrs. Dale pretty nearly all my life.” Who could this man be who was going down to see Mrs. Dale,—Mrs. Dale, and consequently, Lily Dale? He thought that he knew Mrs. Dale so well, that she could have no visitor of whom he would not be entitled to have some knowledge. But Major Grantly had nothing more to say at the moment about Mrs. Dale. He had never seen Mrs. Dale in his life, and was now going to her house, not to see her, but a friend of hers. He found that he could not very well explain this to a stranger, and therefore at the moment he said nothing further. But Johnny would not allow the subject to be dropped. “Have you known Mrs. Dale long?” he asked.

“I intend to call upon her, that is all. I suppose they will have an omnibus here from ‘The Magpie?’“ Eames said that there no doubt would be an omnibus from “The Magpie,” and then they were at their journey’s end.

For the present we will follow John Eames, who went at once to his mother’s house. It was his intention to remain there for two or three days, and then go over to the house, or rather to the cottage, of his great ally Lady Julia, which lay just beyond Guestwick Manor, and somewhat nearer to Allington than to the town of Guestwick. He had made up his mind that he would not himself go over to Allington till he could do so from Guestwick Cottage, as it was called, feeling that, under certain untoward circumstances,—should untoward circumstances arise,—Lady Julia’s sympathy might be more endurable than that of his mother. But he would take care that it should be known at Allington that he was in the neighbourhood. He understood the necessary strategy of his campaign too well to suppose that he could startle Lily into acquiescence.

With his own mother and sister, John Eames was in these days quite a hero. He was a hero with them now, because in his early boyish days there had been so little about him that was heroic. Then there had been a doubt whether he would ever earn his daily bread, and he had been a very heavy burden on the slight family resources in the matter of jackets and trousers. The pride taken in our Johnny had not been great, though the love felt for him had been warm. But gradually things had changed, and John Eames had become heroic in his mother’s eyes. A chance circumstance had endeared him to Earl De Guest, and from that moment things had gone well with him. The earl had given him a watch and had left him a fortune, and Sir Raffle Buffle had made him a private secretary. In the old days, when Johnny’s love for Lily Dale was first discussed by his mother and sister, they had thought it impossible that Lily should ever bring herself to regard with affection so humble a suitor;—for the Dales have ever held their heads up in the world. But now there is no misgiving on that score with Mrs. Eames and her daughter. Their wonder is that Lily Dale should be such a fool as to decline the love of such a man. So Johnny was received with the respect due to a hero, as well as with the affection belonging to a son;—by which I mean it to be inferred that Mrs. Eames had got a little bit of fish for dinner as well as a leg of mutton.

“A man came down in the train with me who says he is going over to Allington,” said Johnny. “I wonder who he can be. He is staying at ‘The Magpie.’“

“A friend of Captain Dale’s, probably,” said Mary. Captain Dale was the squire’s nephew and his heir.

“But this man was not going to the squire’s. He was going to the Small House.”

“I suppose not, as he asked about the inn.” Then Johnny reflected that the man might probably be a friend of Crosbie’s, and became melancholy in consequence. Crosbie might have thought it expedient to send an ambassador down to prepare the ground for him before he should venture again upon the scene himself. If it were so, would it not be well that he, John Eames, should get over to Lily as soon as possible, and not wait till he should be staying with Lady Julia?

It was at any rate incumbent upon him to call upon Lady Julia the next morning, because of his commission. The Berlin wool might remain in his portmanteau till his portmanteau should go with him to the cottage; but he would take the spectacles at once, and he must explain to Lady Julia what the lawyers had told him about the income. So he hired a saddle-horse from “The Magpie” and started after breakfast on the morning after his arrival. In his unheroic days he would have walked,—as he had done, scores of times, over the whole distance from Guestwick to Allington. But now, in these grander days, he thought about his boots and the mud, and the formal appearance of the thing. “Ah dear,” he said, to himself, as the nag walked slowly out of the town, “it used to be better with me in the old days. I hardly hoped that she would ever accept me, but at least she had never refused me. And then that brute had not as yet made his way down to Allington!”

He did not go very fast. After leaving the town he trotted on for a mile or so. But when he got to the palings of Guestwick Manor he let the animal walk again, and his mind ran back over the incidents of his life which were connected with the place. He remembered a certain long ramble which he had taken in those woods after Lily had refused him. That had been subsequent to the Crosbie episode in his life, and Johnny had been led to hope by certain of his friends,—especially by Lord De Guest and his sister,—that he might then be successful. But he had been unsuccessful, and had passed the bitterest hour of his life wandering about in those woods. Since that he had been unsuccessful again and again; but the bitterness of failure had not been so strong with him as on that first occasion. He would try again now, and if he failed, he would fail for the last time. As he was thinking of all this, a gig overtook him on the road, and on looking round he saw that the occupant of the gig was the man who had travelled with him on the previous day in the train. Major Grantly was alone in the gig, and as he recognized John Eames he stopped his horse. “Are you also going to Allington?” he asked. John Eames, with something of scorn in his voice, replied that he had no intention of going to Allington on that day. He still thought that this man might be an emissary from Crosbie, and therefore resolved that but scant courtesy was due to him. “I am on my way there now,” said Grantly, “and am going to the house of your friend. May I tell her that I travelled with you yesterday?”

“Yes, sir,” said Johnny. “You may tell her that you came down with John Eames.”

“If you have no objection,” said Johnny. “But I can hardly suppose you have ever heard my name before?”

“It is familiar to me, because I have the pleasure of knowing a cousin of yours, Miss Grace Crawley.”

“Just so,” said the major, who now began to reflect that he had been indiscreet in mentioning Grace Crawley’s name. No doubt every one connected with the family, all the Crawleys, all the Dales, and all the Eameses, would soon know the business which had brought him down to Allington; but he need not have taken the trouble of beginning the story against himself. John Eames, in truth, had never even heard Major Grantly’s name, and was quite unaware of the fortune which awaited his cousin. Even after what he had now been told, he still suspected the stranger of being an emissary from his enemy; but the major, not giving him credit for his ignorance, was annoyed with himself for having told so much of his own history. “I will tell the ladies that I had the pleasure of meeting you,” he said; “that is, if I am lucky enough to see them.” And then he drove on.

“I know I should hate that fellow if I were to meet him anywhere again,” said Johnny to himself as he rode on. “When I take an aversion to a fellow at first sight, I always stick to it. It’s instinct, I suppose.” And he was still giving himself credit for the strength of his instincts when he reached Lady Julia’s cottage. He rode at once into the stableyard, with the privilege of an accustomed friend of the house, and having given up his horse, entered the cottage by the back door. “Is my lady at home, Jemima?” he said to the maid.

“Yes, Mr. John; she is in the drawing-room, and friends of yours are with her.” Then he was announced, and found himself in the presence of Lady Julia, Lily Dale, and Grace Crawley.

He was very warmly received. Lady Julia really loved him dearly, and would have done anything in her power to bring about a match between him and Lily. Grace was his cousin, and though she had not seen him often, she was prepared to love him dearly as Lily’s lover. And Lily,—Lily loved him dearly too,—if only she could have brought herself to love him as he wished to be loved! To all of them Johnny Eames was something of a hero. At any rate in the eyes of all of them he possessed those virtues which seemed to them to justify them in petting him and making much of him.

“I am so glad you’ve come,—that is, if you’ve brought my spectacles,” said Lady Julia.

“No; don’t come till Wednesday. But I mean Monday. No; Monday won’t do. Come on Tuesday,—early, and drive me out. And now tell us the news.”

Johnny swore that there was no news. He made a brave attempt to be gay and easy before Lily; but he failed, and he knew that he failed,—and he knew that she knew that he failed. “Mamma will be so glad to see you,” said Lily. “I suppose you haven’t seen Bell yet?”

“And it will be so nice our having Grace at the Small House;—won’t it? Uncle Christopher has quite taken a passion for Grace,—so that I am hardly anybody now in the Allington world.”

“By-the-by,” said Johnny, “I came down here with a friend of yours, Grace.”

“So he says, and he is at Allington at this moment. He passed me in a gig going there.”

“I have not the remotest idea,” said Johnny. “He is a man about my own age, very good-looking, and apparently very well able to take care of himself. He is shortsighted, and holds a glass in one eye when he looks out of a carriage-window. That’s all that I know about him.”

Grace Crawley’s face had become suffused with blushes at the first mention of the friend and the gig; but then Grace blushed very easily. Lily knew all about it at once;—at once divined who must be the friend in the gig, and was almost beside herself with joy. Lady Julia, who had heard no more of the major than had Johnny, was still clever enough to perceive that the friend must be a particular friend,—for she had noticed Miss Crawley’s blushes. And Grace herself had no doubt as to the man. The picture of her lover, with the glass in his eye as he looked out of the window, had been too perfect to admit of a doubt. In her distress she put out her hand and took hold of Lily’s dress.

Chapter XXVIII.
Showing How Major Grantly Took a Walk

Major Grantly drove his gig into the yard of the “Red Lion” at Allington, and from thence walked away at once to Mrs. Dale’s house. When he reached the village he had hardly made up his mind as to the way in which he would begin his attack; but now, as he went down the street, he resolved that he would first ask for Mrs. Dale. Most probably he would find himself in the presence of Mrs. Dale and her daughter, and of Grace also, at his first entrance; and if so, his position would be awkward enough. He almost regretted now that he had not written to Mrs. Dale, and asked for an interview. His task would be very difficult if he should find all the ladies together. But he was strong in the feeling that when his purpose was told it would meet the approval at any rate of Mrs. Dale; and he walked boldly on, and bravely knocked at the door of the Small House, as he had already learned that Mrs. Dale’s residence was called by all the neighbourhood. Nobody was at home, the servant said; and then, when the visitor began to make further inquiry, the girl explained that the two young ladies had walked as far as Guestwick Cottage, and that Mrs. Dale was at this moment at the Great House with the squire. She had gone across soon after the young ladies had started. The maid, however, was interrupted before she had finished telling all this to the major, by finding her mistress behind her in the passage. Mrs. Dale had returned, and had entered the house from the lawn.

“I am here now, Jane,” said Mrs. Dale, “if the gentleman wishes to see me.”

Then the major announced himself. “My name is Major Grantly,” said he; and he was blundering on with some words about his own intrusion, when Mrs. Dale begged him to follow her into the drawing-room. He had muttered something to the effect that Mrs. Dale would not know who he was; but Mrs. Dale knew all about him, and had heard the whole of Grace’s story from Lily. She and Lily had often discussed the question whether, under existing circumstances, Major Grantly should feel himself bound to offer his hand to Grace, and the mother and daughter had differed somewhat on the matter. Mrs. Dale had held that he was not so bound, urging that the unfortunate position in which Mr. Crawley was placed was so calamitous to all connected with him, as to justify any man, not absolutely engaged, in abandoning the thoughts of such a marriage. Mrs. Dale had spoken of Major Grantly’s father and mother and brother and sister, and had declared her opinion that they were entitled to consideration. But Lily had opposed this idea very stoutly, asserting that in an affair of love a man should think neither of father or brother or mother or sister. “If he is worth anything,” Lily had said, “he will come to her now,—now in her trouble; and will tell her that she at least has got a friend who will be true to her. If he does that, then I shall think that there is something of the poetry and nobleness of love left.” In answer to this Mrs. Dale had replied that women had no right to expect from men such self-denying nobility as that. “I don’t expect it, mamma,” said Lily. “And I am sure that Grace does not. Indeed I am quite sure that Grace does not expect even to see him ever again. She never says so, but I know that she has made up her mind about it. Still I think he ought to come.” “It can hardly be that a man is bound to do a thing, the doing of which, as you confess, would be almost more than noble,” said Mrs. Dale. And so the matter had been discussed between them. But now, as it seemed to Mrs. Dale, the man had come to do this noble thing. At any rate he was there in her drawing-room, and before either of them had sat down he had contrived to mention Grace. “You may not probably have heard my name,” he said, “but I am acquainted with your friend, Miss Crawley.”

“I know your name very well, Major Grantly. My brother-in-law who lives over yonder, Mr. Dale, knows your father very well,—or he did some years ago. And I have heard him say that he remembers you.”

“I recollect. He used to be staying at Ullathorne. But that is a long time ago. Is he at home now?”

“Mr. Dale is almost always at home. He very rarely goes away, and I am sure would be glad to see you.”

Then there was a little pause in the conversation. They had managed to seat themselves, and Mrs. Dale had said enough to put her visitor fairly at his ease. If he had anything special to say to her, he must say it,—any request or proposition to make as to Grace Crawley, he must make it. And he did make it at once. “My object in coming to Allington,” he said, “was to see Miss Crawley.”

“She and my daughter have taken a long walk to call on a friend, and I am afraid they will stay for lunch; but they will certainly be home between three and four, if that is not too long for you to remain at Allington.”

“It certainly will not hurt me, Major Grantly. Perhaps you will lunch with me?”

“I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Dale; if you’ll permit me, I’ll explain to you why I have come here. Indeed, I have intended to do so all through, and I can only ask you to keep my secret, if after all it should require to be kept.”

“I will certainly keep any secret that you may ask me to keep,” said Mrs. Dale, taking off her bonnet.

“I hope there may be no need of one,” said Major Grantly. “The truth is, Mrs. Dale, that I have known Miss Crawley for some time,—nearly for two years now, and—I may as well speak it out at once,—I have made up my mind to ask her to be my wife. That is why I am here.” Considering the nature of the statement, which must have been embarrassing, I think that it was made with fluency and simplicity.

“Of course, Major Grantly, you know that I have no authority with our young friend,” said Mrs. Dale. “I mean that she is not connected with us by family ties. She has a father and mother, living, as I believe, in the same county with yourself.”

“And you may, perhaps, understand that, as Miss Crawley is now staying with me, I owe it in a measure to her friends to ask you whether they are aware of your intention.”

Mrs. Dale was going on, but she was interrupted by Major Grantly. “That is just it,” he said. “There are circumstances at present which make it almost impossible that I should go to Mr. Crawley and ask his permission to address his daughter. I do not know whether you have heard the whole story?”

“He is, I believe, in such a state of mental distress as to be hardly capable of giving me a considerate answer. And I should not know how to speak to him, or how not to speak to him, about this unfortunate affair. But, Mrs. Dale, you will, I think, perceive that the same circumstances make it imperative upon me to be explicit to Miss Crawley. I think I am the last man to boast of a woman’s regard, but I had learned to think that I was not indifferent to Grace. If that be so, what must she think of me if I stay away from her now?”

“She understands too well the weight of the misfortune which has fallen upon her father, to suppose that any one not connected with her can be bound to share it.”

“That is just it. She will think that I am silent for that reason. I have determined that that shall not keep me silent, and, therefore, I have come here. I may, perhaps, be able to bring comfort to her in her trouble. As regards my worldly position,—though, indeed, it will not be very good,—as hers is not good either, you will not think yourself bound to forbid me to see her on that head.”

“Certainly not. I need hardly say that I fully understand that, as regards money, you are offering everything where you can get nothing.”

“Indeed, I do,—and appreciate the great nobility of your love for Grace. You shall see her here, if you wish it,—and to-day, if you choose to wait.” Major Grantly said that he would wait and would see Grace on that afternoon. Mrs. Dale again suggested that he should lunch with her, but this he declined. She then proposed that he should go across and call upon the squire, and thus consume his time. But to this he also objected. He was not exactly in the humour, he said, to renew so old and so slight an acquaintance at that time. Mr. Dale would probably have forgotten him, and would be sure to ask what had brought him to Allington. He would go and take a walk, he said, and come again exactly at half-past three. Mrs. Dale again expressed her certainty that the young ladies would be back by that time, and Major Grantly left the house.

Mrs. Dale when she was left alone could not but compare the good fortune which was awaiting Grace, with the evil fortune which had fallen on her own child. Here was a man who was at all points a gentleman. Such, at least, was the character which Mrs. Dale at once conceded to him. And Grace had chanced to come across this man, and to please his eye, and satisfy his taste, and be loved by him. And the result of that chance would be that Grace would have everything given to her that the world has to give worth acceptance. She would have a companion for her life whom she could trust, admire, love, and of whom she could be infinitely proud. Mrs. Dale was not at all aware whether Major Grantly might have five hundred a year to spend, or five thousand,—or what sum intermediate between the two,—nor did she give much of her thoughts at the moment to that side of the subject. She knew without thinking of it,—or fancied that she knew, that there were means sufficient for comfortable living. It was solely the nature and character of the man that was in her mind, and the sufficiency that was to be found in them for a wife’s happiness. But her daughter, her Lily, had come across a man who was a scoundrel, and, as the consequence of that meeting, all her life was marred! Could any credit be given to Grace for her success, or any blame attached to Lily for her failure? Surely not the latter! How was her girl to have guarded herself from a love so unfortunate, or have avoided the rock on which her vessel had been shipwrecked? Then many bitter thoughts passed through Mrs. Dale’s mind, and she almost envied Grace Crawley her lover. Lily was contented to remain as she was, but Lily’s mother could not bring herself to be satisfied that her child should fill a lower place in the world than other girls. It had ever been her idea,—an idea probably never absolutely uttered even to herself, but not the less practically conceived,—that it is the business of a woman to be married. That her Lily should have been won and not worn, had been, and would be, a trouble to her for ever.

Major Grantly went back to the inn and saw his horse fed, and smoked a cigar, and then, finding that it was still only just one o’clock, he started for a walk. He was careful not to go out of Allington by the road he had entered it, as he had no wish to encounter Grace and her friend on their return into the village; so he crossed a little brook which runs at the bottom of the hill on which the chief street of Allington is built, and turned into a field-path to the left as soon as he had got beyond the houses. Not knowing the geography of the place he did not understand that by taking that path he was making his way back to the squire’s house; but it was so; and after sauntering on for about a mile and crossing back again over the stream, of which he took no notice, he found himself leaning across a gate, and looking into a paddock on the other side of which was the high wall of a gentleman’s garden. To avoid this he went on a little further and found himself on a farm road, and before he could retrace his steps so as not to be seen, he met a gentleman whom he presumed to be the owner of the house. It was the squire surveying his home farm, as was his daily custom; but Major Grantly had not perceived that the house must of necessity be Allington House, having been aware that he had passed the entrance to the place, as he entered the village on the other side. “I’m afraid I’m intruding,” he said, lifting his hat. “I came up the path yonder, not knowing that it would lead me so close to a gentleman’s house.”

“There is a right of way through the fields on to the Guestwick road,” said the squire, “and therefore you are not trespassing in any sense; but we are not particular about such things down here, and you would be very welcome if there were no right of way. If you are a stranger, perhaps you would like to see the outside of the old house. People think it picturesque.”

Then Major Grantly became aware that this must be the squire, and he was annoyed with himself for his own awkwardness in having thus come upon the house. He would have wished to keep himself altogether unseen if it had been possible,—and especially unseen by this old gentleman, to whom, now that he had met him, he was almost bound to introduce himself. But he was not absolutely bound to do so, and he determined that he would still keep his peace. Even if the squire should afterwards hear of his having been there, what would it matter? But to proclaim himself at the present moment would be disagreeable to him. He permitted the squire, however, to lead him to the front of the house, and in a few moments was standing on the terrace hearing an account of the architecture of the mansion.

“You can see the date still in the brickwork of one of the chimneys,—that is, if your eyes are very good you can see it,—1617. It was completed in that year, and very little has been done to it since. We think the chimneys are pretty.”

“They are very pretty,” said the major. “Indeed, the house altogether is as graceful as it can be.”

“Those trees are old, too,” said the squire, pointing to two cedars which stood at the side of the house. “They say they are older than the house but I don’t feel sure of it. There was a mansion here before, very nearly, though not quite, on the same spot.”

“Your own ancestors were living here before that, I suppose?” said Grantly, meaning to be civil.

“Well, yes; two or three hundred years before it, I suppose. If you don’t mind coming down to the churchyard, you’ll get an excellent view of the house;—by far the best that there is. By-the-by, would you like to step in and take a glass of wine?”

“I’m very much obliged,” said the major, “but indeed I’d rather not.” Then he followed the squire down to the churchyard, and was shown the church as well as the view of the house, and the vicarage, and a view over to Allington woods from the vicarage gate, of which the squire was very fond, and in this way he was taken back on to the Guestwick side of the village, and even down on to the road by which he had entered it, without in the least knowing where he was. He looked at his watch and saw that it was past two. “I’m very much obliged to you, sir,” he said, again taking off his hat to the squire, “and if I shall not be intruding I’ll make my way back to the village.”

“This is Allington,” said the squire; and as he spoke, Lily Dale and Grace Crawley turned a corner from the Guestwick road and came close upon them. “Well, girls, I did not expect to see you,” said the squire; “your mamma told me you wouldn’t be back till it was nearly dark, Lily.”

“We have come back earlier than we intended,” said Lily. She of course had seen the stranger with her uncle, and knowing the ways of the squire in such matters had expected to be introduced to him. But the reader will be aware that no introduction was possible. It never occurred to Lily that this man could be the Major Grantly of whom she and Grace had been talking during the whole length of the walk home. But Grace and her lover had of course known each other at once, and Grantly, though he was abashed and almost dismayed by the meeting, of course came forward and gave his hand to his friend. Grace in taking it did not utter a word.

“Perhaps I ought to have introduced myself to you as Major Grantly?” said he, turning to the squire.

“Major Grantly! Dear me! I had no idea that you were expected in these parts.”

“You are very welcome, I’m sure. I hope your father is well? I used to know him some years ago, and I daresay he has not forgotten me.” Then, while the girls stood by in silence, and while Grantly was endeavouring to escape, the squire invited him very warmly to send his portmanteau up to the house. “We’ll have the ladies up from the house below, and make it as little dull for you as possible.” But this would not have suited Grantly,—at any rate would not suit him till he should know what answer he was to have. He excused himself therefore, pleading a positive necessity to be at Guestwick that evening, and then, explaining that he had already seen Mrs. Dale, he expressed his intention of going back to the Small House in company with the ladies, if they would allow him. The squire, who did not as yet quite understand it all, bade him a formal adieu, and Lily led the way home down behind the churchyard wall and through the bottom of the gardens belonging to the Great House. She of course knew now who the stranger was, and did all in her power to relieve Grace of her embarrassment. Grace had hitherto not spoken a single word since she had seen her lover, nor did she say a word to him in their walk to the house. And, in truth, he was not much more communicative than Grace. Lily did all the talking, and with wonderful female skill contrived to have some words ready for use till they all found themselves together in Mrs. Dale’s drawing-room. “I have caught a major, mamma, and landed him,” said Lily laughing, “but I’m afraid, from what I hear, that you had caught him first.”

Chapter XXIX.
Miss Lily Dale’s Logic

Lady Julia De Guest always lunched at one exactly, and it was not much past twelve when John Eames made his appearance at the cottage. He was of course told to stay, and of course said that he would stay. It had been his purpose to lunch with Lady Julia; but then he had not expected to find Lily Dale at the cottage. Lily herself would have been quite at her ease, protected by Lady Julia, and somewhat protected also by her own powers of fence, had it not been that Grace was there also. But Grace Crawley, from the moment that she had heard the description of the gentleman who looked out of the window with his glass in his eye, had by no means been at her ease. Lily saw at once that she could not be brought to join in any conversation, and both John and Lady Julia, in their ignorance of the matter in hand, made matters worse.

“So that was Major Grantly?” said John. “I have heard of him before, I think. He is a son of the old archdeacon, is he not?”

“I don’t know about old archdeacon,” said Lady Julia. “The archdeacon is the son of the old bishop, whom I remember very well. And it is not so very long since the bishop died, either.”

“But he’s going to call on your mother,” he said. Then Johnny remembered that the major had said something as to knowing Miss Crawley, and for the moment he was silent.

“I remember when they talked of making the son a bishop also,” said Lady Julia.

“No, you goose. He is not the son; he is the grandson. They were going to make the archdeacon a bishop, and I remember hearing that he was terribly disappointed. He is getting to be an old man now, I suppose; and yet, dear me, how well I remember his father.”

“I suppose he ought to have some sort of clerical tinge about him; but this fellow had nothing of that kind.”

“But then this fellow, as you call him,” said Lily, “is only the son of an archdeacon.”

But during all this time Grace did not say a word, and Lily perceived it. Then she bethought herself as to what she had better do. Grace, she knew, could not be comfortable where she was. Nor, indeed, was it probable that Grace would be very comfortable in returning home. There could not be much ease for Grace till the coming meeting between her and Major Grantly should be over. But it would be better that Grace should go back to Allington at once; and better also, perhaps, for Major Grantly that it should be so. “Lady Julia,” she said, “I don’t think we’ll mind stopping for lunch to-day.”

“I think we must break our promise; I do indeed. You mustn’t be angry with us.” And Lily looked at Lady Julia, as though there were something which Lady Julia ought to understand, which she, Lily, could not quite explain. I fear that Lily was false, and intended her old friend to believe that she was running away because John Eames had come there.

“It is out of the question that I should let you walk all the way here from Allington and all the way back without taking something.”

“We shall just be home in time for lunch if we go now,” said Lily. “Will not that be best, Grace?”

Grace hardly knew what would be best. She only knew that Major Grantly was at Allington, and that he had come thither to see her. The idea of hurrying back after him was unpleasant to her, and yet she was so flurried that she felt thankful to Lily for taking her away from the cottage. The matter was compromised at last. They remained for half an hour, and ate some biscuits and pretended to drink a glass of wine, and then they started. John Eames, who in truth believed that Lily Dale was running away from him, was by no means well pleased, and when the girls were gone, did not make himself so agreeable to his old friend as he should have done. “What a fool I am to come here at all,” he said, throwing himself into an armchair as soon as the front door was closed.

“You know what I mean, Lady Julia. I am a fool to come near her, until I can do so without thinking more of her than I do of any other girl in the county.”

“I don’t think you have anything to complain of as yet,” said Lady Julia, who had in some sort perceived that Lily’s retreat had been on Grace’s account, and not on her own. “It seems to me that Lily was very glad to see you, and when I told her that you were coming to stay here, and would be near them for some days, she seemed to be quite pleased;—she did indeed.”

“I think it was something you said about that man who has gone to Allington.”

“What difference can the man make to her? The truth is, I despise myself;—I do indeed, Lady Julia. Only think of my meeting Crosbie at dinner the other day, and his having the impertinence to come up and shake hands with me.”

“I suppose he didn’t say anything about what happened at the Paddington Station?”

“No; he didn’t speak about that. I wish I knew whether she cares for him still. If I thought she did, I would never speak another word to her,—I mean about myself. Of course I am not going to quarrel with them. I am not such a fool as that.” Then Lady Julia tried to comfort him, and succeeded so far that he was induced to eat the mince veal that had been intended for the comfort and support of the two young ladies who had run away.

“Do you think it is he?” were the first words which Grace said when they were fairly on their way back together.

“I should think it must be. What other man can there be, of that sort, who would be likely to come to Allington to see you?”

“His coming is not likely. I cannot understand that he should come. He let me leave Silverbridge without seeing me,—and I thought that he was quite right.”

“And I think he is quite right to come here. I am very glad he has come. It shows that he has really something like a heart inside him. Had he not come, or sent, or written, or taken some step before the trial comes on, to make you know that he was thinking of you, I should have said that he was as hard,—as hard as any other man that I ever heard of. Men are so hard! But I don’t think he is, now. I am beginning to regard him as the one chevalier sans peur et sans reproche, and to fancy that you ought to go down on your knees before him, and kiss his highness’s shoebuckle. In judging of men one’s mind vacillates so quickly between the scorn which is due to a false man and the worship which is due to a true man.” Then she was silent for a moment, but Grace said nothing, and Lily continued, “I tell you fairly, Grace, that I shall expect very much from you now.”

“In the way of worship. I shall not be content that you should merely love him. If he has come here, as he must have done, to say that the moment of the world’s reproach is the moment he has chosen to ask you to be his wife, I think that you will owe him more than love.”

“I shall owe him more than love, and I will pay him more than love,” said Grace. There was something in the tone of her voice as she spoke which made Lily stop her and look up into her face. There was a smile there which Lily had never seen before, and which gave a beauty to her which was wonderful to Lily’s eyes. Surely this lover of Grace’s must have seen her smile like that, and therefore had loved her and was giving such wonderful proof of his love. “Yes,” continued Grace, standing and looking at her friend, “you may stare at me, Lily, but you may be sure that I will do for Major Grantly all the good that I can do for him.”

“Never mind what I mean. You are very imperious in managing your own affairs, and you must let me be so equally in mine.”

“Do you suppose that if—if—if in real truth it can possibly be the case that Major Grantly shall have come here to offer me his hand when we are all ground down into the dust, as we are, do you think that I will let him sacrifice himself? Would you?”

“Certainly. Why not? There will be no sacrifice. He will be asking for that which he wishes to get; and you will be bound to give it to him.”

“If he wants it, where is his nobility? If it be as you say, he will have shown himself noble, and his nobility will have consisted in this, that he has been willing to take that which he does not want, in order that he may succour one whom he loves. I also will succour one whom I love, as best I know how.” Then she walked on quickly before her friend, and Lily stood for a moment thinking before she followed her. They were now on a field-path, by which they were enabled to escape the road back to Allington for the greater part of the distance, and Grace had reached a stile, and had clambered over it before Lily had caught her.

“I want you to stop a moment and listen to me. I am sure you are wrong in this,—wrong for both your sakes. You believe that he loves you?”

“I thought he did once; and if he has come here to see me, I suppose he does still.”

“I do. I make no mystery about that to you. I do love him with all my heart. I love him to-day, now that I believe him to be here, and that I suppose I shall see him, perhaps this very afternoon. And I loved him yesterday, when I thought that I should never see him again. I do love him. I do. I love him so well that I will never do him an injury.”

“That being so, if he makes you an offer you are bound to accept it. I do not think that you have an alternative.”

“I have an alternative, and I shall use it. Why don’t you take my cousin John?”

“Because I like somebody else better. If you have got as good a reason I won’t say another word to you.”

“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.”

“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—”

“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?”

“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.”

“Nor his dog, nor his ox, nor his ass, 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.

Chapter XXX.
Showing What Major Grantly Did After His Walk

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.”

“I have thought a great deal about it, and your friend, Miss Prettyman, 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.”

“I have felt that at the present moment I could not do so with any success. It has 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.”

“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?”

“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 brother 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?

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

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

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

“It would do no good,—none. I only asked you because you can hardly know how sad is our state at home.”

“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. 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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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-by, Grace;—my own Grace.”

“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.

Chapter XXXI.
Showing How Major Grantly Returned to Guestwick

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.

After a while she was able to think of his conduct, and she believed that she ought to be very angry with him. He had taken her roughly in his arms, and had insulted her. He had forced a kiss from her. She had felt his arms warm and close and strong about her, and had not known whether she was in paradise or in purgatory. She was very angry with him. She would send back his letter to him without reading it,—without opening it, if that might be possible. He had done that to her which nothing could justify. But yet,—yet,—yet how dearly she loved him! Was he not a prince of men? He had behaved badly, of course; but had any man ever behaved so badly before in so divine a way? Was it not a thousand pities that she should be driven to deny anything to a lover who so richly deserved everything that could be given to him? He had kissed her hand as he let her go, and now, not knowing what she did, she kissed the spot on which she had felt his lips. His arm had been round her waist, and the old frock which she wore should be kept by her for ever, because it had been so graced.

What was she now to say to Lily and to Lily’s mother? Of one thing there was no doubt. She would never tell them of her lover’s wicked audacity. That was a secret never to be imparted to any ears. She would keep her resentment to herself, and not ask the protection of any vicarious wrath. He could never so sin again, that was certain; and she would keep all knowledge and memory of the sin for her own purposes. But how could it be that such a man as that, one so good though so sinful, so glorious though so great a trespasser, should have come to such a girl as her and have asked for her love? Then she thought of her father’s poverty and the misery of her own condition, and declared to herself that it was very wonderful.

Lily was the first to enter the room, and she, before she did so, learned from the servant that Major Grantly had left the house. “I heard the door, miss, and then I saw the top of his hat out of the pantry window.” Armed with this certain information Lily entered the drawing-room, and found Grace in the act of rising from the sofa.

“No; not at all. I am glad you have come. Kiss me, and be good to me.” And she twined her arms about Lily and embraced her.

Then she hid her face upon her friend’s shoulder and broke forth again into hysterical tears.

“I will tell you everything;—that is, everything I can.” And Grace blushed as she thought of the one secret which she certainly would not tell.

“Has he,—has he done what I said he would do? Come, speak out boldly. Has he asked you to be his wife?”

“No, Lily, I have not. Indeed, I have not. I did not know how to speak, because I was surprised;—and he, of course, could say what he liked. But I told him as well as I could, that I would not marry him.”

“Then, if he is the man I take him to be, that answer will go for nothing. Of course he knew all that before he came here. He did not think you were an heiress with forty thousand pounds. If he is in earnest, that will go for nothing. And I think he is in earnest.”

“Do not be so sure of that. Women are not allowed to have wills of their own on all occasions. Some man comes in a girl’s way, and she gets to be fond of him, just because he does come in her way. Well; when that has taken place, she has no alternative but to be taken if he chooses to take her; or to be left, if he chooses to leave her.”

“But I do say it. A man may assure himself that he will find for himself a wife who shall be learned, or beautiful, or six feet high, if he wishes it, or who has red hair, or red eyes, or red cheeks,—just what he pleases; and he may go about till he finds it, as you can go about and match your worsteds. You are a fool if you buy a colour you don’t want. But we can never match our worsteds for that other piece of work, but are obliged to take any colour that comes,—and, therefore, it is that we make such a jumble of it! Here’s mamma. We must not be philosophical before her. Mamma, Major Grantly has—skedaddled.”

“But, oh, mamma, what a thing! Fancy his going away and not saying a word to anybody!”

“He asked her to marry him, of course. We none of us had any doubt about that. He swore to her that she and none but she should be his wife,—and all that kind of thing. But he seems to have done it in the most prosaic way;—and now he has gone away without saying a word to any of us. I shall never speak to him again,—unless Grace asks me.”

Grace did not answer, as Lily was too quick for her. “Oh, she has refused him, of course. But Major Grantly is a man of too much sense to expect that he should succeed the first time. Let me see; this is the fourteenth. These clocks run fourteen days, and, therefore, you may expect him again about the twenty-eighth. For myself, I think you are giving him an immense deal of unnecessary trouble, and that if he left you in the lurch it would only serve you right; but you have the world with you, I’m told. A girl is supposed to tell a man two fibs before she may tell him one truth.”

“I told him no fib, Lily. I told him that I would not marry him, and I will not.”

“Because the people say that papa is a thief!” Having said this, Grace walked slowly out of the room, and neither Mrs. Dale nor Lily attempted to follow her.

“I think he is good, too; but she has told me nothing yet of what he has said to her. He must be good, or he would not have come down here after her. But I don’t wonder at his coming, because she is so beautiful! Once or twice as we were walking back to-day, I thought her face was the most lovely that I had ever seen. And did you see her just now, as she spoke of her father?”

“Think what she will be in two or three years’ time, when she becomes a woman. She talks French, and Italian, and Hebrew for anything that I know; and she is perfectly beautiful. I never saw a more lovely figure;—and she has spirit enough for a goddess. I don’t think that Major Grantly is such a fool after all.”

“I have no doubt all his own people do;—or they will, when they hear of it. But, mamma, she will grow to be big enough to walk atop of all the Lady Hartletops in England. It will all come right at last.”

“Oh, yes. Why should it not? If he is worth having, it will;—and I think he is worth having. He must wait till this horrid trial is over. It is clear to me that Grace thinks that her father will be convicted.”

“I think he took it, and I think it wasn’t his. But I don’t think he stole it. I don’t know whether you can understand the difference.”

“A jury of men will not. I wish they could put you and me on it, mamma. I would take my best boots and eat them down to the heels, for Grace’s sake, and for Major Grantly’s. What a good-looking man he is!”

“And so like a gentleman! I’ll tell you what, mamma; we won’t say anything to her about him for the present. Her heart will be so full she will be driven to talk, and we can comfort her better in that way.” The mother and daughter agreed to act upon these tactics, and nothing more was said to Grace about her lover on that evening.

Major Grantly walked from Mrs. Dale’s house to the inn and ordered his gig, and drove himself out of Allington, almost without remembering where he was or whither he was going. He was thinking solely of what had just occurred, and of what, on his part, should follow as the result of that meeting. Half at least of the noble deeds done in this world are due to emulation, rather than to the native nobility of the actors. A young man leads a forlorn hope because another young man has offered to do so. Jones in the hunting-field rides at an impracticable fence because he is told that Smith took it three years ago. And Walker puts his name down for ten guineas at a charitable dinner, when he hears Thompson’s read out for five. And in this case the generosity and self-denial shown by Grace warmed and cherished similar virtues within her lover’s breast. Some few weeks ago Major Grantly had been in doubt as to what his duty required of him in reference to Grace Crawley; but he had no doubt whatsoever now. In the fervour of his admiration he would have gone straight to the archdeacon, had it been possible, and have told him what he had done and what he intended to do. Nothing now should stop him;—no consideration, that is, either as regarded money or position. He had pledged himself solemnly, and he was very glad that he had pledged himself. He would write to Grace and explain to her that he trusted altogether in her father’s honour and innocence, but that no consideration as to that ought to influence either him or her in any way. If, independently of her father, she could bring herself to come to him and be his wife, she was bound to do so now, let the position of her father be what it might. And thus, as he drove his gig back towards Guestwick, he composed a very pretty letter to the lady of his love.

And as he went, at the corner of the lane which led from the main road up to Guestwick cottage, he again came upon John Eames, who was also returning to Guestwick. There had been a few words spoken between Lady Julia and Johnny respecting Major Grantly after the girls had left the cottage, and Johnny had been persuaded that the strange visitor to Allington could have no connection with his arch-enemy. “And why has he gone to Allington?” John demanded, somewhat sternly, of his hostess.

“Well; if you ask me, I think he has gone there to see your cousin, Grace Crawley.”

“He told me that he knew Grace,” said John, looking as though he were conscious of his own ingenuity in putting two and two together very cleverly.

“I didn’t look at her,” said Johnny. Therefore, when he again met Major Grantly, having continued to put two and two together with great ingenuity, he felt quite sure that the man had nothing to do with the arch-enemy, and he determined to be gracious. “Did you find them at home at Allington?” he said, raising his hat.

“How do you do again?” said the major. “Yes, I found your friend Mrs. Dale at home.”

“But not her daughter, or my cousin? They were up there;—where I’ve come from. But, perhaps, they had got back before you left.”

“Well, no. I remembered that I wanted to get back to London; and as I had seen my friends, I thought I might as well hurry away.”

“No, I didn’t. I never saw her in my life before. But I knew the old squire when I was a boy. However, I should have said friend. I went to see one friend, and I saw her.”

John Eames perceived that his companion put a strong emphasis on the word “her,” as though he were determined to declare boldly that he had gone to Allington solely to see Grace Crawley. He had not the slightest objection to recognizing in Major Grantly a suitor for his cousin’s hand. He could only reflect what an unusually fortunate girl Grace must be if such a thing could be true. Of those poor Crawleys he had only heard from time to time that their misfortunes were as numerous as the sands on the seashore, and as unsusceptible of any fixed and permanent arrangement. But, as regarded Grace, here would be a very permanent arrangement. Tidings had reached him that Grace was a great scholar, but he had never heard much of her beauty. It must probably be the case that Major Grantly was fond of Greek. There was, he reminded himself, no accounting for tastes; but as nothing could be more respectable than such an alliance, he thought that it would become him to be civil to the major.

“I hope you found her quite well. I had barely time to speak to her myself.”

“Very sad,” said Johnny. Perhaps the major had heard about the accusation for the first time to-day, and was going to find an escape on that plea. If such was the case, it would not be so well to be particularly civil.

“I believe so. I don’t know much about them myself,—that is, personally. Of course I have heard of this charge that has been made against him. It seems to me to be a great shame.”

“Well, I can’t exactly say that it is a shame. I do not know that there has been anything done with a feeling of persecution or of cruelty. It is a great mystery, and we must have it cleared up if we can.”

“Certainly not in the ordinary sense of the word. I heard all the evidence against him.”

“Yes,” said the major. “I live near them in Barsetshire, and I am one of his bailsmen.”

“Not exactly that; but circumstances make me very much interested about them. I fancy that the cheque was left in his house by accident, and that it got into his hands he didn’t know how, and that when he used it he thought it was his.”

“The great cruelty is,” said the major, “that whatever may be the result, the punishment will fall so heavily upon his wife and daughters. I think the whole county ought to come forward and take them by the hand. Well, good-by. I’ll drive on, as I’m a little in a hurry.”

“Good-by,” said Johnny. “I’m very glad to have had the pleasure of meeting you.” “He’s a good sort of a fellow after all,” he said to himself when the gig had passed on. “He wouldn’t have talked in that way if he had meant to hang back.”

Chapter XXXII.
Mr. Toogood

Mr Crawley had declared to Mr. Robarts, that he would summon no legal aid to his assistance at the coming trial. The reader may, perhaps, remember the impetuosity with which he rejected the advice on this subject which was conveyed to him by Mr. Robarts with all the authority of Archdeacon Grantly’s name. “Tell the archdeacon,” he had said, “that I will have none of his advice.” And then Mr. Robarts had left him, fully convinced that any further interference on his part could be of no avail. Nevertheless, the words which had then been spoken were not without effect. This coming trial was ever present to Mr. Crawley’s mind, and though, when driven to discuss the subject, he would speak of it with high spirit, as he had done both to the bishop and to Mr. Robarts, yet in his long hours of privacy, or when alone with his wife, his spirit was anything but high. “It will kill me,” he would say to her. “I shall get salvation thus. Death will relieve me, and I shall never be called upon to stand before those cruel eager eyes.” Then would she try to say words of comfort, sometimes soothing him as though he were a child, and at others bidding him be a man, and remember that as a man he should have sufficient endurance to bear the eyes of any crowd that might be there to look at him.

“I think I will go up to London,” he said to her one evening, very soon after the day of Mr. Robarts’s visit.

“Go up to London, Josiah!” Mr. Crawley had not been up to London once since they had been settled at Hogglestock, and this sudden resolution on his part frightened his wife. “Go up to London, dearest! and why?”

“I will tell you why. They all say that I should speak to some man of the law whom I may trust about this coming trial. I trust no one in these parts. Not, mark you, that I say that they are untrustworthy. God forbid that I should so speak or even so think of men whom I know not. But the matter has become so common in men’s mouths at Barchester and at Silverbridge, that I cannot endure to go among them and to talk of it. I will go up to London, and I will see your cousin, Mr. John Toogood, of Gray’s Inn.” Now in this scheme there was an amount of everyday prudence which startled Mrs. Crawley almost as much as did the prospect of the difficulties to be overcome if the journey were to be made. Her husband, in the first place, had never once seen Mr. John Toogood; and in days very long back, when he and she were making their first gallant struggle,—for in those days it had been gallant,—down in their Cornish curacy, he had reprobated certain Toogood civilities,—professional civilities,—which had been proffered, perhaps, with too plain an intimation that on the score of relationship the professional work should be done without payment. The Mr. Toogood of those days, who had been Mrs. Crawley’s uncle, and the father of Mrs. Eames and grandfather of our friend Johnny Eames, had been much angered by some correspondence which had grown up between him and Mr. Crawley, and from that day there had been a cessation of all intercourse between the families. Since those days that Toogood had been gathered to the ancient Toogoods of old, and the son reigned on the family throne in Raymond’s Buildings. The present Toogood was therefore first-cousin to Mrs. Crawley. But there had been no intimacy between them. Mrs. Crawley had not seen her cousin since her marriage,—as indeed she had seen none of her relations, having been estranged from them by the singular bearing of her husband. She knew that her cousin stood high in his profession, the firm of Toogood and Crump,—Crump and Toogood it should have been properly called in these days,—having always held its head up high above all dirty work; and she felt that her husband could look for advice from no better source. But how would such a one as he manage to tell his story to a stranger? Nay, how would he find his way alone into the lawyer’s room, to tell his story at all,—so strange was he to the world? And then the expense! “If you do not wish me to apply to your cousin, say so, and there shall be an end of it,” said Mr. Crawley in an angry tone.

“Of course I would wish it. I believe him to be an excellent man, and a good lawyer.”

“Then why should I not go to his chambers? In formâ pauperis I must go to him, and must tell him so. I cannot pay him for the labour of his counsel, nor for such minutes of his time as I shall use.”

“But I must speak of it. Can I go to a professional man, who keeps as it were his shop open for those who may think fit to come, and purchase of him, and take of his goods, and afterwards, when the goods have been used, tell him that I have not the price in my hand? I will not do that, Mary. You think that I am mad, that I know not what I do. Yes,—I see it in your eyes; and you are sometimes partly right. But I am not so mad but that I know what is honest. I will tell your cousin that I am sore straitened, and brought down into the very dust by misfortune. And I will beseech him, for what of ancient feeling of family he may bear to you, to listen to me for a while. And I will be very short, and, if need be, will bide his time patiently, and perhaps he may say a word to me that may be of use.”

There was certainly very much in this to provoke Mrs. Crawley. It was not only that she knew well that her cousin would give ample and immediate attention, and lend himself thoroughly to the matter without any idea of payment,—but that she could not quite believe that her husband’s humility was true humility. She strove to believe it, but knew that she failed. After all it was only a feeling on her part. There was no argument within herself about it. An unpleasant taste came across the palate of her mind, as such a savour will sometimes, from some unexpected source, come across the palate of the mouth. Well; she could only gulp at it, and swallow it and excuse it. Among the salad that comes from your garden a bitter leaf will now and then make its way into your salad-bowl. Alas, there were so many bitter leaves ever making their way into her bowl! “What I mean is, Josiah, that no long explanation will be needed. I think, from what I remember of him, that he would do for us anything that he could do.”

“Then I will go to the man, and will humble myself before him. Even that, hard as it is to me, may be a duty that I owe.” Mr. Crawley as he said this was remembering the fact that he was a clergyman of the Church of England, and that he had a rank of his own in the country, which, did he ever do such a thing as go out to dinner in company, would establish for him a certain right of precedence; whereas this attorney, of whom he was speaking, was, so to say, nobody in the eyes of the world.

“There need be no humbling, Josiah, other than that which is due from man to man in all circumstances. But never mind; we will not talk about that. If it seems good to you, go to Mr. Toogood. I think that it is good. May I write to him and say that you will go?”

Then the wife paused before she asked the next question,—paused for some minute or two, and then asked it with anxious doubt,—”And may I go with you, Josiah?”

“Why should two go when one can do the work?” he answered sharply. “Have we money so much at command?”

“You should go and do it all, for you are wiser in these things than I am, were it not that I may not dare to show—that I submit myself to my wife.”

“But it is ay, my dear. It is so. This is a thing such as men do; not such as women do, unless they be forlorn and unaided of men. I know that I am weak where you are strong; that I am crazed where you are clear-witted.”

“Nevertheless it is as I say; but, for all that, it may not be that you should do my work. There are those watching me who would say, ‘Lo! he confesses himself incapable.’ And then some one would whisper something of a madhouse. Mary, I fear that worse than a prison.”

“But I must look to it, my dear. Do you think that that woman, who sits there at Barchester in high places, disgracing herself and that puny ecclesiastical lord who is her husband,—do you think that she would not immure me if she could? She is a she-wolf,—only less reasonable than the dumb brute as she sharpens her teeth in malice coming from anger, and not in malice coming from hunger as do the outer wolves of the forest. I tell you, Mary, that if she had a colourable ground for her action, she would swear tomorrow that I am mad.”

“Yes, I will go alone. They shall not say that I cannot yet do my own work as a man should do it. I stood up before him, the puny man who is called a bishop, and before her who makes herself great by his littleness, and I scorned them both to their faces. Though the shoes which I had on were all broken, as I myself could not but see when I stood, yet I was greater than they were with all their purple and fine linen.”

“Ill-usage you can bear; and violent ill-usage, such as that which Mrs. Proudie allowed herself to exhibit, you can repay with interest; but kindness seems to be too heavy a burden for you.”

“I will struggle. I will endeavour. I will speak but little, and, if possible, I will listen much. Now, my dear, I will write to this man, and you shall give me the address that is proper for him.” Then he wrote the letter, not accepting a word in the way of dictation from his wife, but “craving the great kindness of a short interview, for which he ventured to become a solicitor, urged thereto by his wife’s assurance that one with whom he was connected by family ties would do as much as this for the possible preservation of the honour of the family.” In answer to this, Mr. Toogood wrote back as follows:—”Dear Mr. Crawley, I will be at my office all Thursday morning next from ten to two, and will take care that you shan’t be kept waiting for me above ten minutes. You parsons never like waiting. But hadn’t you better come and breakfast with me and Maria at nine? then we’d have a talk as we walk to the office. Yours always, Thomas Toogood.” And the letter was dated from the attorney’s private house in Tavistock Square.

“Doubtless he means to be kind. But his kindness is rough;—I will not say unmannerly, as the word would be harsh. I have never even seen the lady whom he calls Maria.”

“So I would venture to suppose; but she is unknown to me. I will write again, and thank him, and say that I will be with him at ten to the moment.”

There were still many things to be settled before the journey could be made. Mr. Crawley, in his first plan, proposed that he should go up by night mail train, travelling in the third class, having walked over to Silverbridge to meet it; that he should then walk about London from 5 a.m. to 10 a.m., and afterwards come down by an afternoon train to which a third class was also attached. But at last his wife persuaded him that such a task as that, performed in the middle of the winter, would be enough to kill any man, and that, if attempted, it would certainly kill him; and he consented at last to sleep the night in town,—being specially moved thereto by discovering that he could, in conformity with this scheme, get in and out of the train at a station considerably nearer to him than Silverbridge, and that he could get a return-ticket at a third-class fare. The whole journey, he found, could be done for a pound, allowing him seven shillings for his night’s expenses in London; and out of the resources of the family there were produced two sovereigns, so that in the event of accident he would not utterly be a castaway from want of funds.

So he started on his journey after an early dinner, almost hopeful through the new excitement of a journey to London, and his wife walked with him nearly as far as the station. “Do not reject my cousin’s kindness,” were the last words she spoke.

“For his professional kindness, if he will extend it to me, I will be most thankful,” he replied. She did not dare to say more; nor had she dared to write privately to her cousin, asking for any special help, lest by doing so she should seem to impugn the sufficiency and stability of her husband’s judgment. He got up to town late at night, and having made inquiry of one of the porters, he hired a bed for himself in the neighbourhood of the railway station. Here he had a cup of tea and a morsel of bread-and-butter, and in the morning he breakfasted again on the same fare. “No, I have no luggage,” he had said to the girl at the public-house, who had asked him as to his travelling gear. “If luggage be needed as a certificate of respectability, I will pass on elsewhere,” said he. The girl stared, and assured him that she did not doubt his respectability. “I am a clergyman of the Church of England,” he had said, “but my circumstances prevent me from seeking a more expensive lodging.” They did their best to make him comfortable, and, I think, almost disappointed him in not heaping further misfortunes on his head.

He was in Raymond’s Buildings at half-past nine, and for half an hour walked up and down the umbrageous pavement,—it used to be umbrageous, but perhaps the trees have gone now,—before the doors of the various chambers. He could hear the clock strike from Gray’s Inn; and the moment that it had struck he was turning in, but was encountered in the passage by Mr. Toogood, who was equally punctual with himself. Strange stories about Mr. Crawley had reached Mr. Toogood’s household, and that Maria, the mention of whose Christian name had been so offensive to the clergyman, had begged her husband not to be a moment late. Poor Mr. Toogood, who on ordinary days did perhaps take a few minutes’ grace, was thus hurried away almost with his breakfast in his throat, and, as we have seen, just saved himself. “Perhaps, sir, you are Mr. Crawley?” he said, in a good-humoured, cheery voice. He was a good-humoured, cheery-looking man, about fifty years of age, with grizzled hair and sunburnt face, and large whiskers. Nobody would have taken him to be a partner in any of those great houses of which we have read in history,—the Quirk, Gammon and Snaps of the profession, or the Dodson and Foggs, who are immortal.

“That is my name, sir,” said Mr. Crawley, taking off his hat and bowing low, “and I am here by appointment to meet Mr. Toogood, the solicitor, whose name I see affixed upon the doorpost.”

“I am Mr. Toogood, the solicitor, and I hope I see you quite well, Mr. Crawley.” Then the attorney shook hands with the clergyman and preceded him upstairs to the front room on the first floor. “Here we are, Mr. Crawley, and pray take a chair. I wish you could have made it convenient to come and see us at home. We are rather long, as my wife says,—long in family, she means, and therefore are not very well off for spare beds—”

“I’ve twelve of ‘em living, Mr. Crawley,—from eighteen years, the eldest,—a girl, down to eighteen months the youngest,—a boy, and they go in and out, boy and girl, boy and girl, like the cogs of a wheel. They ain’t such far away distant cousins from your own young ones—only first, once, as we call it.”

“I am aware that there is a family tie, or I should not have ventured to trouble you.”

“Blood is thicker than water; isn’t it? I often say that. I heard of one of your girls only yesterday. She is staying somewhere down in the country, not far from where my sister lives—Mrs. Eames, the widow of poor John Eames, who never did any good in this world. I daresay you’ve heard of her?”

“Of course it is. I’ve a nephew down there just now, and he saw your girl the other day;—very highly he spoke of her too. Let me see;—how many is it you have?”

“I’ve just four times three;—that’s the difference. But I comfort myself with the text about the quiver you know; and I tell them that when they’ve eat up all the butter, they’ll have to take their bread dry.”

“I don’t know much about spirit. There’s spirit enough. My second girl, Lucy, told me that if I came home to-day without tickets for the pantomime I shouldn’t have any dinner allowed me. That’s the way they treat me. But we understand each other at home. We’re all pretty good friends there, thank God. And there isn’t a sick chick among the boiling.”

“You have many mercies for which you should indeed be thankful,” said Mr. Crawley, gravely.

“Yes, yes, yes; that’s true. I think of that sometimes, though perhaps not so much as I ought to do. But the best way to be thankful is to use the goods the gods provide you. ‘The lovely Thais sits beside you. Take the goods the gods provide you.’ I often say that to my wife, till the children have got to calling her Thais. The children have it pretty much their own way with us, Mr. Crawley.”

By this time Mr. Crawley was almost beside himself, and was altogether at a loss how to bring in the matter on which he wished to speak. He had expected to find a man who in the hurry of London business might perhaps just manage to spare him five minutes,—who would grapple instantly with the subject that was to be discussed between them, would speak to him half-a-dozen hard words of wisdom, and would then dismiss him and turn on the instant to other matters of important business;—but here was an easy familiar fellow, who seemed to have nothing on earth to do, and who at this first meeting had taken advantage of a distant family connexion to tell him everything about the affairs of his own household. And then how peculiar were the domestic traits which he told! What was Mr. Crawley to say to a man who had taught his own children to call their mother Thais? Of Thais Mr. Crawley did know something, and he forgot to remember that perhaps Mr. Toogood knew less. He felt it, however, to be very difficult to submit the details of his case to a gentleman who talked in such a strain about his own wife and children.

But something must be done. Mr. Crawley, in his present frame of mind, could not sit and talk about Thais all day. “Sir,” he said, “the picture of your home is very pleasant, and I presume that plenty abounds there.”

“Well, you know, pretty toll-loll for that. With twelve of ‘em, Mr. Crawley, I needn’t tell you they are not all going to have castles and parks of their own, unless they can get ‘em off their own bats. But I pay upwards of a hundred a year each for my eldest three boys’ schooling, and I’ve been paying eighty for the girls. Put that and that together and see what it comes to. Educate, educate, educate; that’s my word.”

“I don’t think there’s a girl in Tavistock Square that can beat Polly,—she’s the eldest, called after her mother, you know;—that can beat her at the piano. And Lucy has read Lord Byron and Tom Moore all through, every word of ‘em. By Jove, I believe she knows most of Tom Moore by heart. And the young uns are coming on just as well.”

“Just at this time of the day we don’t care so much about it, Mr. Crawley; and one doesn’t catch a new cousin every day, you know.”

“We’ll tackle to? Very well; so be it. Now, Mr. Crawley, let me hear what it is that I can do for you.” Of a sudden, as Mr. Toogood spoke these last words, the whole tone of his voice seemed to change, and even the position of his body became so much altered as to indicate a different kind of man. “You just tell your story in your own way, and I won’t interrupt you till you’ve done. That’s always the best.”

“I must first crave your attention to an unfortunate preliminary,” said Mr. Crawley.

“I come before you in formâ pauperis.” Here Mr. Crawley paused and stood up before the attorney with his hands crossed one upon the other, bending low, as though calling attention to the poorness of his raiment. “I know that I have no justification for my conduct. I have nothing of reason to offer why I should trespass upon your time. I am a poor man, and cannot pay you for your services.”

“Don’t let’s have any more of this,” said the attorney. “We none of us like this kind of thing at all. If I can be of any service to you, you’re as welcome to it as flowers in May; and as for billing my first-cousin, which your wife is, I should as soon think of sending in an account to my own.”

“Very well; now you have been explicit with a vengeance, and you may heave a-head. Let’s hear the story, and if I can help you I will. When I’ve said that, you may be sure I mean it. I’ve heard something of it before; but let me hear it all from you.”

Then Mr. Crawley began and told the story. Mr. Toogood was actually true to his promise and let the narrator go on with his narrative without interruption. When Mr. Crawley came to his own statement that the cheque had been paid to him by Mr. Soames, and went on to say that that statement had been false,—”I told him that, but I told him so wrongly,” and then paused, thinking that the lawyer would ask some question, Mr. Toogood simply said, “Go on; go on. I’ll come back to all that when you’ve done.” And he merely nodded his head when Mr. Crawley spoke of his second statement, that the money had come from the dean. “We had been bound together by close ties of early familiarity,” said Mr. Crawley, “and in former years our estates in life were the same. But he has prospered and I have failed. And when creditors were importunate, I consented to accept relief in money which had previously been often offered. And I must acknowledge, Mr. Toogood, while saying this, that I have known,—have known with heartfelt agony,—that at former times my wife has taken that from my friend Mr. Arabin, with hand half-hidden from me, which I have refused. Whether it be better to eat—the bread of charity,—or not to eat bread at all, I, for myself, have no doubt,” he said; “but when the want strikes one’s wife and children, and the charity strikes only oneself, then there is a doubt.” When he spoke thus, Mr. Toogood got up, and thrusting his hands into his waistcoat pockets walked about the room, exclaiming, “By George, by George, by George!” But he still let the man go on with his story, and heard him out at last to the end.

“And they committed you for trial at the next Barchester assizes?” said the lawyer.

“You were wrong there, Mr. Crawley. I must be allowed to say that you were wrong there.”

“I may possibly have been so from your point of view, Mr. Toogood; but permit me to explain. I—”

“It’s no good explaining now. Of course you must employ a lawyer for your defence,—an attorney who will put the case into the hands of counsel.”

“You must do it. If you don’t do it, your friends should do it for you. If you don’t do it, everybody will say you’re mad. There isn’t a single solicitor you could find within half a mile of you at this moment who wouldn’t give you the same advice,—not a single man, either, who has got a head on his shoulders worth a turnip.”

When Mr. Crawley was told that madness would be laid to his charge if he did not do as he was bid, his face became very black, and assumed something of that look of determined obstinacy which it had worn when he was standing in the presence of the bishop and Mrs. Proudie. “It may be so,” he said. “It may be as you say, Mr. Toogood. But these neighbours of yours, as to whose collected wisdom you speak with so much certainty, would hardly recommend me to indulge in a luxury for which I have no means of paying.”

“The wretchedest costermonger that comes to grief has a barrister in a wig and gown to give him his chance of escape.”

“But I am not a costermonger, Mr. Toogood,—though more wretched perhaps than any costermonger now in existence. It is my lot to have to endure the sufferings of poverty, and at the same time not to be exempt from those feelings of honour to which poverty is seldom subject. I cannot afford to call in legal assistance for which I cannot pay,—and I will not do it.”

“I’ll carry the case through for you. It certainly is not just my line of business,—but I’ll see it carried through for you.”

“No, Mr. Toogood; this thing you can not do. But do not suppose I am the less grateful.”

“What is it I can do then? Why do you come to me if you won’t take my advice?”

After this the conversation went on for a considerable time without touching on any point which need be brought palpably before the reader’s eye. The attorney continued to beg the clergyman to have his case managed in the usual way, and went so far as to tell him that he would be illtreating his wife and family if he continued to be obstinate. But the clergyman was not shaken from his resolve, and was at last able to ask Mr. Toogood what he had better do,—how he had better attempt to defend himself,—on the understanding that no legal aid was to be employed. When this question was at last asked in such a way as to demand an answer, Mr. Toogood sat for a moment or two in silence. He felt that an answer was not only demanded, but almost enforced; and yet there might be much difficulty in giving it.

“Mr. Toogood,” said Mr. Crawley, seeing the attorney’s hesitation, “I declare to you before God, that my only object will be to enable the jury to know about this sad matter all that I know myself. If I could open my breast to them I should be satisfied. But then a prisoner can say nothing; and what he does say is ever accounted false.”

“We had already come to a conclusion on that matter, as I thought,” said Mr. Crawley.

Mr. Toogood paused for another moment or two, and then dashed at his answer; or rather, dashed at a counter question. “Mr. Crawley, where did you get the cheque? You must pardon me, you know; or, if you wish it, I will not press the question. But so much hangs on that, you know.”

“Absolutely; totally. I wish, Mr. Toogood, I could explain to you the toilsome perseverance with which I have cudgelled my poor brains, endeavouring to extract from them some scintilla of memory that would aid me.”

“No;—no; that I did not do. Dull as I am, I know so much. It was mine of right, from whatever source it came to me. I know myself as no one else can know me, in spite of the wise man’s motto. Had I picked up a cheque in my house, or on the road, I should not have slept till I had taken steps to restore it to the seeming owner. So much I can say. But, otherwise, I am in such matters so shandy-pated, that I can trust myself to be sure of nothing. I thought;—I certainly thought—”

“I thought that it had been given to me by my friend the dean. I remember well that I was in his library at Barchester, and I was somewhat provoked in spirit. There were lying on the floor hundreds of volumes, all glittering with gold, and reeking with new leather from the binders. He asked me to look at his toys. Why should I look at them? There was a time, but the other day it seemed, when he had been glad to borrow from me such treasures as I had. And it seemed to me that he was heartless in showing me these things. Well; I need not trouble you with all that.”

“I know now how vain, how vile I was. I always know afterwards how low the spirit has grovelled. I had gone to him then because I had resolved to humble myself, and, for my wife’s sake, to ask my friend—for money. With words which were very awkward,—which no doubt were ungracious—I had asked him, and he had bid me follow him from his hall into his library. There he left me awhile, and on returning told me with a smile that he had sent for money,—and, if I can remember, the sum he named was fifty pounds.”

“But it has turned out, as you say, that you have paid fifty pounds with his money,—besides the cheque.”

“That is true;—that is quite true. There is no doubt of that. But as I was saying,—then he fell to talking about the books, and I was angered. I was very sore in my heart. From the moment in which the words of beggary had passed from my lips, I had repented. And he had laughed and had taken it gaily. I turned upon him and told him that I had changed my mind. I was grateful, but I would not have his money. And so I prepared to go. But he argued with me, and would not let me go,—telling me of my wife and of my children, and while he argued there came a knock at the door, and something was handed in, and I knew that it was the hand of his wife.”

“Yes, Mr. Toogood; it was the money. And I became the more uneasy, because she herself is rich. I liked it the less because it seemed to come from her hand. But I took it. What could I do when he reminded me that I could not keep my parish unless certain sums were paid? He gave me a little parcel in a cover, and I took it,—and left him sorrowing. I had never before come quite to that;—though, indeed, it had in fact been often so before. What was the difference whether the alms were given into my hands or into my wife’s?”

“Of course I am. Do you try it, and see whether you will be touchy. You have worked hard at your profession, I daresay.”

“Well, yes; pretty well. To tell the truth, I have worked hard. By George, yes! It’s not so bad now as it used to be.”

“But you have always earned your bread; bread for yourself, and bread for your wife and little ones. You can buy tickets for the play.”

“I have worked as hard, and yet I cannot get bread. I am older than you, and I cannot earn my bare bread. Look at my clothes. If you had to go and beg from Mr. Crump, would not you be touchy?”

“Never mind. But I took it, and went home, and for two days I did not look at it. And then there came an illness upon me, and I know not what passed. But two men who had been hard on me came to the house when I was out, and my wife was in a terrible state; and I gave her the money, and she went into Silverbridge and paid them.”

“No; I gave her money in notes,—just fifty pounds. When I gave it her, I thought I gave it all; and yet afterwards I thought I remembered that in my illness I had found the cheque with the dean’s money. But it was not so.”

“He has said that he put five notes of £10 each into the cover, and such notes I certainly gave to my wife.”

“Where then did you get the cheque?” Mr. Crawley again paused before he answered. “Surely, if you will exert your mind, you will remember,” said the lawyer. “Where did you get the cheque?”

Mr. Toogood threw himself back in his chair, took his knee up into his lap to nurse it, and began to think of it. He sat thinking of it for some minutes without a word,—perhaps for five minutes, though the time seemed to be much longer to Mr. Crawley, who was, however, determined that he would not interrupt him. And Mr. Toogood’s thoughts were at variance with Mr. Toogood’s former words. Perhaps, after all, this scheme of Mr. Crawley’s,—or rather the mode of defence on which he had resolved without any scheme,—might be the best of which the case admitted. It might be well that he should go into court without a lawyer. “He has convinced me of his innocence,” Mr. Toogood said to himself, “and why should he not convince a jury? He has convinced me, not because I am specially soft, or because I love the man,—for as to that I dislike him rather than otherwise;—but because there is either real truth in his words, or else so well-feigned a show of truth that no jury can tell the difference. I think it is true. By George, I think he did get the twenty pounds honestly, and that he does not this moment know where he got it. He may have put his finger into my eye; but, if so, why not also into the eyes of a jury?” Then he released his leg, and spoke something of his thoughts aloud. “It’s a sad story,” he said; “a very sad story.”

“I haven’t a doubt but what you’re as innocent as I am.” Mr. Toogood, as he said this, felt a little twinge of conscience. He did believe Mr. Crawley to be innocent, but he was not so sure of it as his words would seem to imply. Nevertheless he repeated the words again;—”as innocent as I am.”

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Crawley. “I don’t know. I think I am; but I don’t know.”

“I believe you are. But you see the case is a very distressing one. A jury has a right to say that the man in possession of a cheque for twenty pounds should account for his possession of it. If I understand the story aright, Mr. Soames will be able to prove that he brought the cheque into your house, and, as far as he knows, never took it out again.”

“I suppose so; all the same, if he brought it in, then did he also take it out again.”

“I am saying what he will prove,—or, in other words, what he will state upon oath. You can’t contradict him. You can’t get into the box to do it,—even if that would be of any avail; and I am glad that you cannot, as it would be of no avail. And you can put no one else into the box who can do so.”

“That is to say, we think you cannot do so. People can do so many things that they don’t think they can do; and can’t do so many things that they think that they can do! When will the dean be home?”

“It’s almost a toss-up whether he’d do more harm or good if he were there.”

“I wish he might be there if he has anything to say, whether it might be for harm or good.”

“So they tell me. A dean can go where he likes. He has no cure of souls to stand in the way of his pleasures.”

“He hasn’t,—hasn’t he? I wish I were a dean; that is, if I were not a lawyer. Might I write a line to the dean,—and to Mrs. Dean, if it seemed fit? You wouldn’t mind that? As you have come to see your cousin at last,—and very glad I am that you have,—you must leave him a little discretion. I won’t say anything I oughtn’t to say.” Mr. Crawley opposed this scheme for some time, but at last consented to the proposition. “And I’ll tell you what, Mr. Crawley; I am very fond of cathedrals, I am indeed; and I have long wanted to see Barchester. There’s a very fine what-you-may-call-em; isn’t there? Well; I’ll just run down at the assizes. We have nothing to do in London when the judges are in the country,—of course.” Mr. Toogood looked into Mr. Crawley’s eyes as he said this, to see if his iniquity were detected, but the perpetual curate was altogether innocent in these matters. “Yes; I’ll just run down for a mouthful of fresh air. Of course I shan’t open my mouth in court. But I might say one word to the dean, if he’s there;—and one word to Mr. Soames. Who is conducting the prosecution?” Mr. Crawley said that Mr. Walker was doing so. “Walker, Walker, Walker? oh,—yes; Walker and Winthrop, isn’t it? A decent sort of man, I suppose?”

“And that’s saying a great deal for a lawyer. Well, Mr. Crawley, if nothing else comes out between this and that,—nothing, that is, that shall clear your memory about that unfortunate bit of paper, you must simply tell your story to the jury as you’ve told it to me. I don’t think any twelve men in England would convict you;—I don’t indeed.”

“But judging as well as I can judge from one side, I don’t think a jury can convict you. At any rate I’ll see you at Barchester, and I’ll write a line or two before the trial, just to find out anything that can be found out. And you’re sure you won’t come and take a bit of mutton with us in the Square? The girls would be delighted to see you, and so would Maria.” Mr. Crawley said that he was quite sure he could not do that, and then having tendered reiterated thanks to his new friend in words which were touching in spite of their old-fashioned gravity, he took his leave, and walked back again to the public-house at Paddington.

He returned home to Hogglestock on the same afternoon, reaching that place at nine in the evening. During the whole of the day after leaving Raymond’s Buildings he was thinking of the lawyer, and of the words which the lawyer had spoken. Although he had been disposed to quarrel with Mr. Toogood on many points, although he had been more than once disgusted by the attorney’s bad taste, shocked by his low morality, and almost insulted by his easy familiarity, still, when the interview was over, he liked the attorney. When first Mr. Toogood had begun to talk, he regretted very much that he had subjected himself to the necessity of discussing his private affairs with such a windbag of a man; but when he left the chamber he trusted Mr. Toogood altogether, and was very glad that he had sought his aid. He was tired and exhausted when he reached home, as he had eaten nothing but a biscuit or two since his breakfast; but his wife got him food and tea, and then asked him as to his success. “Was my cousin kind to you?”

“Very kind,—more than kind,—perhaps somewhat too pressing in his kindness. But I find no fault. God forbid that I should. He is, I think, a good man, and certainly has been good to me.”

“Nevertheless, I thank God that some one will be there who will know how to give you assistance and advice.”

Chapter XXIII. Miss Lily Dale’s Resolution

Chapter XXIV. Mrs. Dobbs Broughton’s Dinner-Party

Chapter XXV. Miss Madalina Demolines

Chapter XXVI. The Picture

Chapter XXVII. A Hero at Home

Chapter XXVIII. Showing How Major Grantly Took a Walk

Chapter XXIX. Miss Lily Dale’s Logic

Chapter XXX. Showing What Major Grantly Did After His Walk

Chapter XXXI. Showing How Major Grantly Returned to Guestwick

Chapter XXXII. Mr. Toogood

Chapter XXIII.
Miss Lily Dale’s Resolution