The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  “I know, Butterwell, that I’ve no right to ask for it. I feel that. Of course I should pay you what interest you please.”

  “Money’s about seven now,” said Butterwell.

  “I’ve not the slightest objection to seven per cent.,” said Crosbie.

  “But that’s on security,” said Butterwell.

  “You can name your own terms,” said Crosbie.

  Mr. Butterwell got out of his chair, and walked about the room with his hands in his pockets. He was thinking at the moment of what Mrs. Butterwell would say to him. “Will an answer do to-morrow morning?” he said. “I would much rather have it to-day,” said Crosbie. Then Mr. Butterwell took another turn about the room. “I suppose I must let you have it,” he said.

  “Butterwell,” said Crosbie, “I’m eternally obliged to you. It’s hardly too much to say that you’ve saved me from ruin.”

  “Of course I was joking about interest,” said Butterwell. “Five per cent. is the proper thing. You’d better let me have a little acknowledgement. I’ll give you the first half to-morrow.”

  They were genuine tears which filled Crosbie’s eyes, as he seized hold of the senior’s hands. “Butterwell,” he said, “what am I to say to you?”

  “Nothing at all—nothing at all.”

  “Your kindness makes me feel that I ought not to have come to you.”

  “Oh, nonsense. By-the-by, would you mind telling Thompson to bring those papers to me which I gave him yesterday? I promised Optimist I would read them before three, and it’s past two now.” So saying he sat himself down at his table, and Crosbie felt that he was bound to leave the room.

  Mr. Butterwell, when he was left alone, did not read the papers which Thompson brought him; but sat, instead, thinking of his five hundred pounds. “Just put them down,” he said to Thompson. So the papers were put down, and there they lay all that day and all the next. Then Thompson took them away again, and it is to be hoped that somebody read them. Five hundred pounds! It was a large sum of money, and Crosbie was a man for whom Mr. Butterwell in truth felt no very strong affection. “Of course he must have it now,” he said to himself. “But where should I be if anything happened to him?” And then he remembered that Mrs. Butterwell especially disliked Mr. Crosbie—disliked him because she knew that he snubbed her husband. “But it’s hard to refuse, when one man has known another for more than ten years.” Then he comforted himself somewhat with the reflection, that Crosbie would no doubt make himself more pleasant for the future than he had done lately, and with a second reflection, that Crosbie’s life was a good life—and with a third, as to his own great goodness, in assisting a brother officer. Nevertheless, as he sat looking out of the omnibus window, on his journey home to Putney, he was not altogether comfortable in his mind. Mrs. Butterwell was a very prudent woman.

  But Crosbie was very comfortable in his mind on that afternoon. He had hardly dared to hope for success, but he had been successful. He had not even thought of Butterwell as a possible fountain of supply, till his mind had been brought back to the affairs of his office, by the voice of Sir Raffle Buffle at the corner of the street. The idea that his bill would be dishonoured, and that tidings of his insolvency would be conveyed to the Commissioners at his Board, had been dreadful to him. The way in which he had been treated by Musselboro and Dobbs Broughton had made him hate City men, and what he supposed to be City ways. Now there had come to him a relief which suddenly made everything feel light. He could almost think of Mr. Mortimer Gazebee without disgust. Perhaps after all there might be some happiness yet in store for him. Might it not be possible that Lily would yet accept him in spite of the chilling letter—the freezing letter which he had received from Lily’s mother? Of one thing he was quite certain. If ever he had the opportunity of pleading his own cause with her, he certainly would tell her everything respecting his own money difficulties.

  In that last resolve I think we may say that he was right. If Lily would ever listen to him again at all, she certainly would not be deterred from marrying him by his own story of his debts.

  CHAPTER XLV

  Lily Dale Goes to London

  One morning towards the end of March the squire rapped at the window of the drawing-room of the Small House, in which Mrs. Dale and her daughter were sitting. He had a letter in his hand, and both Lily and her mother knew that he had come down to speak about the contents of the letter. It was always a sign of good-humour on the squire’s part, this rapping at the window. When it became necessary to him in his gloomy moods to see his sister-in-law, he would write a note to her, and she would go across to him at the Great House. At other times, if, as Lily would say, he was just then neither sweet nor bitter, he would go round to the front door and knock, and be admitted after the manner of ordinary people; but when he was minded to make himself thoroughly pleasant he would come and rap at the drawing-room window, as he was doing now.

  “I’ll let you in, uncle; wait a moment,” said Lily, as she unbolted the window which opened out upon the lawn. “It’s dreadfully cold, so come in as fast as you can.”

  “It’s not cold at all,” said the squire. “It’s more like spring than any morning we’ve had yet. I’ve been sitting without a fire.”

  “You won’t catch us without one for the next two months; will he, mamma? You have got a letter, uncle. Is it for us to see?”

  “Well—yes; I’ve brought it down to show you. Mary, what do you think is going to happen?”

  A terrible idea occurred to Mrs. Dale at that moment, but she was much too wise to give it expression. Could it be possible that the squire was going to make a fool of himself and get married? “I am very bad at guessing,” said Mrs. Dale. “You had better tell us.”

  “Bernard is going to be married,” said Lily.

  “How did you know?” said the squire.

  “I didn’t know. I only guessed.”

  “Then you’ve guessed right,” said the squire, a little annoyed at having his news thus taken out of his mouth.

  “I am so glad,” said Mrs. Dale; “and I know from your manner that you like the match.”

  “Well—yes. I don’t know the young lady, but I think that upon the whole I do like it. It’s quite time, you know, that he got married.”

  “He’s not thirty yet,” said Mrs. Dale.

  “He will be, in a month or two.”

  “And who is it, uncle?”

  “Well—as you’re so good at guessing, I suppose you can guess that?”

  “It’s not that Miss Partridge he used to talk about?”

  “No; it’s not Miss Partridge—I’m glad to say. I don’t believe that the Partridges have a shilling among them.”

  “Then I suppose it’s an heiress,” said Mrs. Dale.

  “No; not an heiress; but she will have some money of her own. And she has connexions in Barsetshire, which makes it pleasant.”

  “Connexions in Barsetshire! Who can it be?” said Lily.

  “Her name is Emily Dunstable,” said the squire, “and she is the niece of that Miss Dunstable who married Dr. Thorne and who lives at Chaldicotes.”

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

  “Never mind how it was got,” said the squire, angrily. “Miss Dunstable married most respectably, and has always made a most excellent use of her money.”

  “And will Bernard’s wife have all her fortune?” asked Lily.

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

  “And quite enough, too,” said Mrs. Dale.

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

  “I am
delighted to hear it,” said Mrs. Dale.

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

  “What! And turn you out?” said Mrs. Dale.

  “That would not matter,” said the squire.

  “You’d have to come and live with us,” said Lily, taking him by the hand.

  “It doesn’t matter much now where I live,” said the squire.

  “Bernard will never consent to that,” said Mrs. Dale.

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

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

  “Not in the least; only it sounds so odd. I do hope she’s a nice girl.”

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

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

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

  “Oh, uncle Christopher, I should so like it,” said Lily.

  “If your mamma does not object.”

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

  “Bernard says that Miss Dunstable particularly wants to see you.”

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

  “We must see about that!”

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

  “About a month, probably,” said the squire.

  “Oh, mamma; what will you do?”

  “Never mind me, Lily.”

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

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

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

  “I don’t see that, my dear.”

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

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

  “I told them to have dinner for us at half-past six.”

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

  “I don’t suppose Bernard will be here to-night,” said the squire. “He did not say that he would, and as for Miss Dunstable, I promised to take you to her aunt’s house to-morrow.”

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

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