The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  Make such a denial! And was it the fact that he could wish to do so—that he should think of such falsehood, and even meditate on the perpetration of such cowardice? He had held that young girl to his heart on that very morning. He had sworn to her, and had also sworn to himself, that she should have no reason for distrusting him. He had acknowledged most solemnly to himself that, whether for good or for ill, he was bound to her; and could it be that he was already calculating as to the practicability of disowning her? In doing so must he not have told himself that he was a villain? But in truth he made no such calculation. His object was to banish the subject, if it were possible to do so; to think of some answer by which he might create a doubt. It did not occur to him to tell the countess boldly that there was no truth whatever in the report, and that Miss Dale was nothing to him. But might he not skilfully laugh off the subject, even in the presence of Lady Julia? Men who were engaged did so usually, and why should not he? It was generally thought that solicitude for the lady’s feelings should prevent a man from talking openly of his own engagement. Then he remembered the easy freedom with which his position had been discussed throughout the whole neighbourhood of Allington, and felt for the first time that the Dale family had been almost indelicate in their want of reticence. “I suppose it was done to tie me the faster,” he said to himself, as he pulled out the ends of his cravat. “What a fool I was to come here, or indeed to go anywhere, after settling myself as I have done.” And then he went down into the drawing-room.

  It was almost a relief to him when he found that he was not charged with his sin at once. He himself had been so full of the subject that he had expected to be attacked at the moment of his entrance. He was, however, greeted without any allusion to the matter. The countess, in her own quiet way, shook hands with him as though she had seen him only the day before. The earl, who was seated in his arm-chair, asked some one, out loud, who the stranger was, and then, with two fingers put forth, muttered some apology for a welcome. But Crosbie was quite up to that kind of thing. “How do, my lord?” he said, turning his face away to some one else as he spoke; and then he took no further notice of the master of the house. “Not know him, indeed!” Crippled though he was by his matrimonial bond, Crosbie felt that, at any rate as yet, he was the earl’s equal in social importance. After that, he found himself in the back part of the drawing-room, away from the elder people, standing with Lady Alexandrina, with Miss Gresham, a cousin of the De Courcys, and sundry other of the younger portion of the assembled community.

  “So you have Lady Dumbello here?” said Crosbie.

  “Oh, yes; the dear creature!” said Lady Margaretta. “It was so good of her to come, you know.”

  “She positively refused the Duchess of St. Bungay,” said Alexandrina. “I hope you perceive how good we’ve been to you in getting you to meet her. People have actually asked to come.”

  “I am grateful; but, in truth, my gratitude has more to do with Courcy Castle and its habitual inmates, than with Lady Dumbello. Is he here?”

  “Oh, yes! he’s in the room somewhere. There he is, standing up by Lady Clandidlem. He always stands in that way before dinner. In the evening he sits down much after the same fashion.”

  Crosbie had seen him on first entering the room, and had seen every individual in it. He knew better than to omit the duty of that scrutinising glance; but it sounded well in his line not to have observed Lord Dumbello.

  “And her ladyship is not down?” said he.

  “She is generally last,” said Lady Margaretta.

  “And yet she has always three women to dress her,” said Alexandrina.

  “But when finished, what a success it is!” said Crosbie.

  “Indeed it is!” said Margaretta, with energy. Then the door was opened, and Lady Dumbello entered the room.

  There was immediately a commotion among them all. Even the gouty old lord shuffled up out of his chair, and tried, with a grin, to look sweet and pleasant. The countess came forward, looking very sweet and pleasant, making little complimentary speeches, to which the viscountess answered simply by a gracious smile. Lady Clandidlem, though she was very fat and heavy, left the viscount, and got up to join the group. Baron Potsneuf, a diplomatic German of great celebrity, crossed his hands upon his breast, and made a low bow. The Honourable George, who had stood silent for the last quarter of an hour, suggested to her ladyship that she must have found the air rather cold; and the Ladies Margaretta and Alexandrina fluttered up with little complimentary speeches to their dear Lady Dumbello, hoping this and beseeching that, as though the “Woman in White” before them had been the dearest friend of their infancy.

  She was a woman in white, being dressed in white silk, with white lace over it, and with no other jewels upon her person than diamonds. Very beautifully she was dressed; doing infinite credit, no doubt, to those three artists who had, between them, succeeded in turning her out of hand. And her face, also, was beautiful, with a certain cold, inexpressive beauty. She walked up the room very slowly, smiling here and smiling there; but still with very faint smiles, and took the place which her hostess indicated to her. One word she said to the countess and two to the earl. Beyond that she did not open her lips. All the homage paid to her she received as though it were clearly her due. She was not in the least embarrassed, nor did she show herself to be in the slightest degree ashamed of her own silence. She did not look like a fool, nor was she even taken for a fool; but she contributed nothing to society but her cold, hard beauty, her gait, and her dress. We may say that she contributed enough, for society acknowledged itself to be deeply indebted to her.

  The only person in the room who did not move at Lady Dumbello’s entrance was her husband. But he remained unmoved from no want of enthusiasm. A spark of pleasure actually beamed in his eye as he saw the triumphant entrance of his wife. He felt that he had made a match that was becoming to him as a great nobleman, and that the world was acknowledging that he had done his duty. And yet Lady Dumbello had been simply the daughter of a country parson, of a clergyman who had reached no higher rank than that of an archdeacon. “How wonderfully well that woman has educated her,” the countess said that evening in her dressing-room, to Margaretta. The woman alluded to was Mrs. Grantly, the wife of the parson and mother of Lady Dumbello.

  The old earl was very cross because destiny and the table of precedence required him to take out Lady Clandidlem to dinner. He almost insulted her, as she kindly endeavoured to assist him in his infirm step rather than to lean upon him.

  “Ugh!” he said, “it’s a bad arrangement that makes two old people like you and me be sent out together to help each other.”

  “Speak for yourself,” said her ladyship, with a laugh. “I, at any rate, can get about without any assistance,”—which, indeed, was true enough.

  “It’s well for you!” growled the earl, as he got himself into his seat.

  And after that he endeavoured to solace his pain by a flirtation with Lady Dumbello on his left. The earl’s smiles and the earl’s teeth, when he whispered naughty little nothings to pretty young women, were phenomena at which men might marvel. Whatever those naughty nothings were on the present occasion, Lady Dumbello took them all with placidity, smiling graciously, but speaking hardly more than monosyllables.

  Lady Alexandrina fell to Crosbie’s lot, and he felt gratified that it was so. It might be necessary for him, as a married man, to give up such acquaintances as the De Courcys, but he should like, if possible, to maintain a friendship with Lady Alexandrina. What a friend Lady Alexandrina would be for Lily, if any such friendship were only possible! What an advantage would such an alliance confer upon that dear little girl—for, after all, though the dear little girl’s attractions were very great, he could not but admit to himself that she wanted a something—a way of holding herself and of speaking, which some people call style. Lily might certainly learn a great deal from Lady Alexandrina; and it was this conviction, no doubt, which made him so sedulous in pleasing t
hat lady on the present occasion.

  And she, as it seemed, was well inclined to be pleased. She said no word to him during dinner about Lily; and yet she spoke about the Dales, and about Allington, showing that she knew in what quarters he had been staying, and then she alluded to their last parties in London—those occasions on which, as Crosbie now remembered, the intercourse between them had almost been tender. It was manifest to him that at any rate she did not wish to quarrel with him. It was manifest, also, that she had some little hesitation in speaking to him about his engagement. He did not for a moment doubt that she was aware of it. And in this way matters went on between them till the ladies left the room.

  “So you’re going to be married, too,” said the Honourable George, by whose side Crosbie found himself seated when the ladies were gone. Crosbie was employing himself upon a walnut, and did not find it necessary to make any answer.

  “It’s the best thing a fellow can do,” continued George; “that is, if he has been careful to look to the main chance—if he hasn’t been caught napping, you know. It doesn’t do for a man to go hanging on by nothing till he finds himself an old man.”

  “You’ve feathered your own nest, at any rate.”

  “Yes; I’ve got something in the scramble, and I mean to keep it. Where will John be when the governor goes off the hooks? Porlock wouldn’t give him a bit of bread and cheese and a glass of beer to save his life—that is to say, not if he wanted it.”

  “I’m told your elder brother is going to be married.”

  “You’ve heard that from John. He’s spreading that about everywhere to take a rise out of me. I don’t believe a word of it. Porlock never was a marrying man—and, what’s more, from all I hear, I don’t think he’ll live long.”

  In this way Crosbie escaped from his own difficulty; and when he rose from the dinner-table had not as yet been driven to confess anything to his own discredit.

  But the evening was not yet over. When he returned to the drawing-room he endeavoured to avoid any conversation with the countess herself, believing that the attack would more probably come from her than from her daughter. He, therefore, got into conversation first with one and then with another of the girls, till at last he found himself again alone with Alexandrina.

  “Mr. Crosbie,” she said, in a low voice, as they were standing together over one of the distant tables, with their backs to the rest of the company, “I want you to tell me something about Miss Lilian Dale.”

  “About Miss Lilian Dale!” he said, repeating her words.

  “Is she very pretty?”

  “Yes; she certainly is pretty.”

  “And very nice, and attractive, and clever—and all that is delightful? Is she perfect?”

  “She is very attractive,” said he; “but I don’t think she’s perfect.”

  “And what are her faults?”anyone

  “That question is hardly fair, is it? Suppose anyone were to ask me what were your faults, do you think I should answer the question?”

  “I am quite sure you would, and make a very long list of them, too. But as to Miss Dale, you ought to think her perfect. If a gentleman were engaged to me, I should expect him to swear before all the world that I was the very pink of perfection.”

  “But supposing the gentleman were not engaged to you?”

  “That would be a different thing.”

  “I am not engaged to you,” said Crosbie. “Such happiness and such honour are, I fear, very far beyond my reach. But, nevertheless, I am prepared to testify as to your perfection anywhere.”

  “And what would Miss Dale say?”

  “Allow me to assure you that such opinions as I may choose to express of my friends will be my own opinions, and not depend on those of anyone else.”

  “And you think, then, that you are not bound to be enslaved as yet? How many more months of such freedom are you to enjoy?”

  Crosbie remained silent for a minute before he answered, and then he spoke in a serious voice. “Lady Alexandrina,” said he, “I would beg from you a great favour.”

  “What is the favour, Mr. Crosbie?”

  “I am quite in earnest. Will you be good enough, kind enough, enough my friend, not to connect my name again with that of Miss Dale while I am here?”

  “Has there been a quarrel?”

  “No; there has been no quarrel. I cannot explain to you now why I make this request; but to you I will explain it before I go.”

  “Explain it to me!”

  “I have regarded you as more than an acquaintance—as a friend. In days now past there were moments when I was almost rash enough to hope that I might have said even more than that. I confess that I had no warrant for such hopes, but I believe that I may still look on you as a friend?”

  “Oh, yes, certainly,” said Alexandrina, in a very low voice, and with a certain amount of tenderness in her tone. “I have always regarded you as a friend.”

  “And therefore I venture to make the request. The subject is not one on which I can speak openly, without regret, at the present moment. But to you, at least, I promise that I will explain it all before I leave Courcy.”

  He at any rate succeeded in mystifying Lady Alexandrina. “I don’t believe he is engaged a bit,” she said to Lady Amelia Gazebee that night.

  “Nonsense, my dear. Lady Julia wouldn’t speak of it in that certain way if she didn’t know. Of course he doesn’t wish to have it talked about.”

  “If ever he has been engaged to her, he has broken it off again,” said Lady Alexandrina.

  “I dare say he will, my dear, if you give him encouragement,” said the married sister, with great sisterly good-nature.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Lily Dale’s First Love-Letter

  Crosbie was rather proud of himself when he went to bed. He had succeeded in baffling the charge made against him, without saying anything as to which his conscience need condemn him. So, at least, he then told himself. The impression left by what he had said would be that there had been some question of an engagement between him and Lilian Dale, but that nothing at this moment was absolutely fixed. But in the morning his conscience was not quite so clear. What would Lily think and say if she knew it all? Could he dare to tell her, or to tell anyone the real state of his mind?

  As he lay in bed, knowing that an hour remained to him before he need encounter the perils of his tub, he felt that he hated Courcy Castle and its inmates. Who was there, among them all, that was comparable to Mrs. Dale and her daughters? He detested both George and John. He loathed the earl. As to the countess herself, he was perfectly indifferent, regarding her as a woman whom it was well to know, but as one only to be known as the mistress of Courcy Castle and a house in London. As to the daughters, he had ridiculed them all from time to time—even Alexandrina, whom he now professed to love. Perhaps in some sort of way he had a weak fondness for her—but it was a fondness that had never touched his heart. He could measure the whole thing at its worth—Courcy Castle with its privileges, Lady Dumbello, Lady Clandidlem, and the whole of it. He knew that he had been happier on that lawn at Allington, and more contented with himself, than ever he had been even under Lady Hartletop’s splendid roof in Shropshire. Lady Dumbello was satisfied with these things, even in the inmost recesses of her soul; but he was not a male Lady Dumbello. He knew that there was something better, and that that something was within his reach.

  But, nevertheless, the air of Courcy was too much for him. In arguing the matter with himself he regarded himself as one infected with a leprosy from which there could be no recovery, and who should, therefore, make his whole life suitable to the circumstances of that leprosy. It was of no use for him to tell himself that the Small House at Allington was better than Courcy Castle. Satan knew that heaven was better than hell; but he found himself to be fitter for the latter place. Crosbie ridiculed Lady Dumbello, even there among her friends, with all the cutting words that his wit could find; but, nevertheless, the privilege of staying in the same
house with her was dear to him. It was the line of life into which he had fallen, and he confessed inwardly that the struggle to extricate himself would be too much for him. All that had troubled him while he was yet at Allington, but it overwhelmed him almost with dismay beneath the hangings of Courcy Castle.

  Had he not better run from the place at once? He had almost acknowledged to himself that he repented his engagement with Lilian Dale, but he still was resolved that he would fulfil it. He was bound in honour to marry “that little girl,” and he looked sternly up at the drapery over his head, as he assured himself that he was a man of honour. Yes; he would sacrifice himself. As he had been induced to pledge his word, he would not go back from it. He was too much of a man for that!

  But had he not been wrong to refuse the result of Lily’s wisdom when she told him in the field that it would be better for them to part? He did not tell himself that he had refused her offer merely because he had not the courage to accept it on the spur of the moment. No. “He had been too good to the poor girl to take her at her word.” It was thus he argued on the matter within his own breast. He had been too true to her; and now the effect would be that they would both be unhappy for life! He could not live in content with a family upon a small income. He was well aware of that. No one could be harder upon him in that matter than was he himself. But it was too late now to remedy the ill effects of an early education.

  It was thus that he debated the matter as he lay in bed, contradicting one argument by another over and over again; but still in all of them teaching himself to think that this engagement of his was a misfortune. Poor Lily! Her last words to him had conveyed an assurance that she would never distrust him. And she also, as she lay wakeful in her bed on this the first morning of his absence, thought much of their mutual vows. How true she would be to them! How she would be his wife with all her heart and spirit! It was not only that she would love him—but in her love she would serve him to her utmost; serve him as regarded this world, and if possible as regarded the next.