The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  “But suppose he hasn’t got any heirs of his body?” asked the pretty housemaid, who was rather fond of putting down Mr. Vickers.

  “He must have heirs of his body,” said the butler. “Everybody has ‘em. If a man don’t know ‘em himself, the law finds ‘em out.” And then Mr. Vickers walked away, avoiding further dispute.

  In the meantime, the earl was asleep upstairs, and the two young men from Guestwick did not find that they could amuse themselves with any satisfaction. Each took up a book; but there are times at which a man is quite unable to read, and when a book is only a cover for his idleness or dulness. At last, Dr. Crofts suggested, in a whisper, that they might as well begin to think of going home.

  “Eh; yes; what?” said the earl, “I’m not asleep.” In answer to which the doctor said that he thought he’d go home, if his lordship would let him order his horse. But the earl was again fast bound in slumber, and took no further notice of the proposition.

  “Perhaps we could get off without waking him,” suggested Eames, in a whisper.

  “Eh; what?” said the earl. So they both resumed their books, and submitted themselves to their martyrdom for a further period of fifteen minutes. At the expiration of that time, the footman brought in tea.

  “Eh, what? tea!” said the earl. “Yes, we’ll have a little tea. I’ve heard every word you’ve been saying.” It was that assertion on the part of the earl which always made Lady Julia so angry. “You cannot have heard what I have been saying, Theodore, because I have said nothing,” she would reply. “But I should have heard it if you had,” the earl would rejoin, snappishly. On the present occasion neither Crofts nor Eames contradicted him, and he took his tea and swallowed it while still three parts asleep.

  “If you’ll allow me, my lord, I think I’ll order my horse,” said the doctor.

  “Yes; horse—yes—” said the earl, nodding.

  “But what are you to do, Eames, if I ride?” said the doctor.

  “I’ll walk,” whispered Eames, in his very lowest voice.

  “What—what—what?” said the earl, jumping up on his feet. “Oh, ah, yes; going away, are you? I suppose you might as well, as sit here and see me sleeping. But, doctor—I didn’t snore, did I?”

  “Only occasionally.”

  “Not loud, did I? Come, Eames, did I snore loud?”

  “Well, my lord, you did snore rather loud two or three times.”

  “Did I?” said the earl, in a voice of great disappointment. “And yet, do you know, I heard every word you said.”

  The small phaeton had been already ordered, and the two young men started back to Guestwick together, a servant from the house riding the doctor’s horse behind them. “Look here, Eames,” said the earl, as they parted on the steps of the hall door. “You’re going back to town the day after to-morrow, you say, so I shan’t see you again?”

  “No, my lord”, said Johnny.

  “Look you here, now. I shall be up for the Cattle-show before Christmas. You must dine with me at my hotel, on the twenty-second of December, Pawkins’, in Jermyn Street; seven o’clock, sharp. Mind you do not forget, now. Put it down in your pocket-book when you get home. Good-bye, doctor; good-bye. I see I must stick to that mutton chop in the middle of the day.” And then they drove off.

  “He’ll make him his heir for certain,” said Vickers to himself, as he slowly returned to his own quarters.

  “You were returning from Allington, I suppose,” said Crofts, “when you came across Lord De Guest and the bull?”

  “Yes: I just walked over to say good-bye to them.”

  “Did you find them all well?”

  “I only saw one. The other two were out”

  “Mrs. Dale, was it?”

  “No; it was Lily.”

  “Sitting alone, thinking of her fine London lover, of course? I suppose we ought to look upon her as a very lucky girl. I have no doubt she thinks herself so.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” said Johnny.

  “I believe he’s a very good young man,” said the doctor; “but I can’t say I quite liked his manner.”

  “I should think not,” said Johnny.

  “But then in all probability he did not like mine a bit better, or perhaps yours either. And if so it’s all fair.”

  “I don’t see that it’s a bit fair. He’s a snob,” said Eames; “and I don’t believe that I am.” He had taken a glass or two of the earl’s “severe Falernian,” and was disposed to a more generous confidence, and perhaps also to stronger language, than might otherwise have been the case.

  “No; I don’t think he is a snob,” said Crofts. “Had he been so, Mrs. Dale would have perceived it.”

  “You’ll see,” said Johnny, touching up the earl’s horse with energy as he spoke. “You’ll see. A man who gives himself airs is a snob; and he gives himself airs. And I don’t believe he’s a straightforward fellow. It was a bad day for us all when he came among them at Allington.”

  “I can’t say that I see that.”

  “I do. But mind, I haven’t spoken a word of this to anyone. And I don’t mean. What would be the good? I suppose she must marry him now?”

  “Of course she must.”

  “And be wretched all her life. Oh-h-h-h!” and he muttered a deep groan. “I’ll tell you what it is, Crofts. He is going to take the sweetest girl out of this country that ever was in it, and he don’t deserve her.”

  “I don’t think she can be compared to her sister,” said Crofts slowly.

  “What; not Lily?” said Eames, as though the proposition made by the doctor were one that could not hold water for a minute.

  “I have always thought that Bell was the more admired of the two,” said Crofts.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Eames. “I have never yet set my eyes on any human creature whom I thought so beautiful as Lily Dale. And now that beast is going to marry her! I’ll tell you what, Crofts; I’ll manage to pick a quarrel with him yet.” Whereupon the doctor, seeing the nature of the complaint from which his companion was suffering, said nothing more, either about Lily or about Bell.

  Soon after this Eames was at his own door, and was received there by his mother and sister with all the enthusiasm due to a hero. “He has saved the earl’s life!” Mrs. Eames had exclaimed to her daughter on reading Lord De Guest’s note. “Oh, goodness!” and she threw herself back upon the sofa almost in a fainting condition.

  “Saved Lord De Guest’s life!” said Mary.

  “Yes—under Providence,” said Mrs. Eames, as though that latter fact added much to her son’s good deed.

  “But how did he do it?”

  “By cool courage and good feeling—so his lordship says. But I wonder how he really did do it?”

  “Whatever way it was, he’s torn all his clothes and lost his hat,” said Mary.

  “I don’t care a bit about that,” said Mrs. Eames. “I wonder whether the earl has any interest at the Income-tax. What a thing it would be if he could get Johnny a step. It would be seventy pounds a year at once. He was quite right to stay and dine when his lordship asked him. And so Dr. Crofts is there. It couldn’t have been anything in the doctoring way, I suppose.”

  “No, I should say not; because of what he says of his trousers.” And so the two ladies were obliged to wait for John’s return.

  “How did you do it, John?” said his mother, embracing him, as soon as the door was opened.

  “How did you save the earl’s life?” said Mary, who was standing behind her mother.

  “Would his lordship really have been killed, if it had not been for you?” asked Mrs. Eames.

  “And was he very much hurt?” asked Mary.

  “Oh, bother,” said Johnny, on whom the results of the day’s work, together with the earl’s Falernian, had made some still remaining impression. On ordinary occasions, Mrs. Eames would have felt hurt at being so answered by her son; but at the present moment she regarded him as standing so high in general favour that she
took no offence. “Oh, Johnny, do tell us. Of course we must be very anxious to know it all.”

  “There’s nothing to tell, except that a bull ran at the earl, as I was going by; so I went into the field and helped him, and then he made me stay and dine with him.”

  “But his lordship says that you saved his life,” said Mary.

  “Under Providence,” added their mother.

  “At any rate, he has given me a gold watch and chain,” said Johnny, drawing the present out of his pocket. “I wanted a watch badly. All the same, I didn’t like taking it.”

  “It would have been very wrong to refuse,” said his mother. “And I am so glad you have been so fortunate. And look here, Johnny: when a friend like that comes in your way, don’t turn your back on him.” Then, at last, he thawed beneath their kindness, and told them the whole of the story. I fear that in recounting the earl’s efforts with the spud, he hardly spoke of his patron with all that deference which would have been appropriate.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  Mr. Plantagenet Palliser

  A week passed over Mr. Crosbie’s head at Courcy Castle without much inconvenience to him from the well-known fact of his matrimonial engagement. Both George de Courcy and John de Courcy had in their different ways charged him with his offence, and endeavoured to annoy him by recurring to the subject; but he did not care much for the wit or malice of George or John de Courcy. The countess had hardly alluded to Lily Dale after those few words which she said on the first day of his visit, and seemed perfectly willing to regard his doings at Allington as the occupation natural to a young man in such a position. He had been seduced down to a dull country house, and had, as a matter of course, taken to such amusements as the place afforded. He had shot the partridges and made love to the young lady, taking those little recreations as compensation for the tedium of the squire’s society. Perhaps he had gone a little too far with the young lady; but then no one knew better than the countess how difficult it is for a young man to go far enough without going too far. It was not her business to make herself a censor on a young man’s conduct. The blame, no doubt, rested quite as much with Miss Dale as with him. She was quite sorry that any young lady should be disappointed; but if girls will be imprudent, and set their caps at men above their mark, they must encounter disappointment. With such language did Lady de Courcy speak of the affair among her daughters, and her daughters altogether agreed with her that it was out of the question that Mr. Crosbie should marry Lily Dale. From Alexandrina he encountered during the week none of that raillery which he had expected. He had promised to explain to her before he left the castle all the circumstances of his acquaintance with Lily, and she at last showed herself determined to demand the fulfilment of this promise; but, previous to that, she said nothing to manifest either offence or a lessened friendship. And I regret to say, that in the intercourse which had taken place between them, that friendship was by no means less tender that it had been in London.

  “And when will you tell me what you promised?” she asked him one afternoon, speaking in a low voice, as they were standing together at the window of the billiard-room, in that idle half-hour which always occurs before the necessity for dinner preparation has come. She had been riding and was still in her habit, and he had returned from shooting. She knew that she looked more than ordinarily well in her tall straight hat and riding gear, and was wont to hang about the house, walking skilfully with her upheld drapery, during this period of the day. It was dusk, but not dark, and there was no artificial light in the billiard-room. There had been some pretence of knocking about the balls, but it had been only pretence. “Even Diana,” she had said, “could not have played billiards in a habit.” Then she had put down her mace, and they had stood talking together in the recess of a large bow-window.

  “And what did I promise?” said Crosbie.

  “You know well enough. Not that it is a matter of any special interest to me; only, as you undertook to promise, of course my curiosity has been raised.”

  “If it be of no special interest” said Crosbie, “you will not object to absolve me from my promise.”

  “That is just like you,” she said. “And how false you men always are. You made up your mind to buy my silence on a distasteful subject by pretending to offer me your future confidence; and now you tell me that you do not mean to confide in me.”

  “You begin by telling me that the matter is one that does not in the least interest you.”

  “That is so false again! You know very well what I meant. Do you remember what you said to me the day you came? and am I not bound to tell you after that, that your marriage with this or that young lady is not matter of special interest to me? Still, as your friend—”

  “Well, as my friend!”

  “I shall be glad to know— But I am not going to beg for your confidence; only I tell you this fairly, that no man is so mean in my eyes as a man who fights under false colours.”

  “And am I fighting under false colours?”

  “Yes, you are.” And now, as she spoke, the Lady Alexandrina blushed beneath her hat; and dull as was the remaining light of the evening, Crosbie, looking into her face, saw her heightened colour. “Yes, you are. A gentleman is fighting under false colours who comes into a house like this, with a public rumour of his being engaged, and then conducts himself as though nothing of the kind existed. Of course, it is not anything to me specially; but that is fighting under false colours. Now, sir, you may redeem the promise you made me when you first came here—or you may let it alone.”

  It must be acknowledged that the lady was fighting her battle with much courage, and also with some skill. In three or four days Crosbie would be gone; and this victory, if it were ever to be gained, must be gained in those three or four days. And if there were to be no victory, then it would be only fair that Crosbie should be punished for his duplicity, and that she should be avenged as far as any revenge might be in her power. Not that she meditated any deep revenge, or was prepared to feel any strong anger. She liked Crosbie as well as she had ever liked any man. She believed that he liked her also. She had no conception of any very strong passion, but conceived that a married life was more pleasant than one of single bliss. She had no doubt that he had promised to make Lily Dale his wife, but so had he previously promised her, or nearly so. It was a fair game, and she would win it if she could. If she failed, she would show her anger; but she would show it in a mild, weak manner—turning up her nose at Lily before Crosbie’s face, and saying little things against himself behind his back. Her wrath would not carry her much beyond that.

  “Now, sir, you may redeem the promise you made me when you first came here—or you may let it alone.” So she spoke, and then she turned her face away from him, gazing out into the darkness.

  “Alexandrina!” he said.

  “Well, sir? But you have no right to speak to me in that style. You know that you have no right to call me by my name in that way!”

  “You mean that you insist upon your title?”

  “All ladies insist on what you call their title, from gentlemen, except under the privilege of greater intimacy than you have the right to claim. You did not call Miss Dale by her Christian name till you had obtained permission, I suppose?”

  “You used to let me call you so.”

  “Never! Once or twice, when you have done so, I have not forbidden it, as I should have done. Very well, sir, as you have nothing to tell me, I will leave you. I must confess that I did not think you were such a coward.” And she prepared to go, gathering up the skirts of her habit, and taking up the whip which she had laid on the window-sill.

  “Stay a moment, Alexandrina,” he said; “I am not happy, and you should not say words intended to make me more miserable.”

  “And why are you unhappy?”

  “Because— I will tell you instantly, if I may believe that I am telling you only, and not the whole household.”

  “Of course I shall not talk of it to others. Do yo
u think that I cannot keep a secret?”

  “It is because I have promised to marry one woman, and because I love another. I have told you everything now; and if you choose to say again that I am fighting under false colours I will leave the castle before you can see me again.”

  “Mr. Crosbie!”

  “Now you know it all, and may imagine whether or no I am very happy. I think you said it was time to dress—suppose we go?” And without further speech the two went off to their separate rooms.

  Crosbie, as soon as he was alone in his chamber, sat himself down in his arm-chair, and went to work striving to make up his mind as to his future conduct. It must not be supposed that the declaration just made by him had been produced solely by his difficulty at the moment. The atmosphere of Courcy Castle had been at work upon him for the last week past. And every word that he had heard, and every word that he had spoken, had tended to destroy all that was good and true within him, and to foster all that was selfish and false. He had said to himself a dozen times during that week that he never could be happy with Lily Dale, and that he never could make her happy. And then he had used the old sophistry in his endeavour to teach himself that it was right to do that which he wished to do. Would it not be better for Lily that he should desert her, than marry her against the dictates of his own heart? And if he really did not love her, would he not be committing a greater crime in marrying her than in deserting her? He confessed to himself that he had been very wrong in allowing the outer world to get such a hold upon him that the love of a pure girl like Lily could not suffice for his happiness. But there was the fact, and he found himself unable to contend against it. If by any absolute self-sacrifice he could secure Lily’s well-being, he would not hesitate for a moment. But would it be well to sacrifice her as well as himself?