The Chronicles of Barsetshire (221 page)

“And what is the truth?”

“I was part engaged to that other girl before; and then, when I came to think of it, I knew that I was not fit to marry Miss Dale. I know I have behaved badly; but, Pratt, thousands have done the same thing before.”

“I can only say that I have not been so unfortunate as to reckon any of those thousands among my friends.”

“You mean to tell me, then, that you are going to turn your back on me?” said Crosbie.

“I haven’t said anything of the kind. I certainly won’t undertake to defend you, for I don’t see that your conduct admits of defence. I will see this gentleman if you wish it, and tell him anything that you desire me to tell him.”

At this moment the servant returned with a note for Crosbie. Mr. Dale had called for paper and envelope, and sent up to him the following missive—”Do you intend to come down to me? I know that you are in the house.” “For heaven’s sake go to him,” said Crosbie. “He is well aware that I was deceived about his niece—that I thought he was to give her some fortune. He knows all about that, and that when I learned from him that she was to have nothing—”

“Upon my word, Crosbie, I wish you could find another messenger.”

“Ah! you do not understand,” said Crosbie in his agony. “You think that I am inventing this plea about her fortune now. It isn’t so. He will understand. We have talked all this over before, and he knew how terribly I was disappointed. Shall I wait for you here, or will you come to my lodgings? Or I will go down to the Beaufort, and will wait for you there.” And it was finally arranged that he should get himself out of this club and wait at the other for Pratt’s report of the interview.

“Do you go down first,” said Crosbie.

“Yes: I had better,” said Pratt. “Otherwise you may be seen. Mr. Dale would have his eye upon you, and there would be a row in the house.” There was a smile of sarcasm on Pratt’s face as he spoke which angered Crosbie even in his misery, and made him long to tell his friend that he would not trouble him with this mission—that he would manage his own affairs himself; but he was weakened and mentally humiliated by the sense of his own rascality, and had already lost the power of asserting himself, and of maintaining his ascendancy. He was beginning to recognise the fact that he had done that for which he must endure to be kicked, to be kicked morally if not materially; and that it was no longer possible for him to hold his head up without shame.

Pratt took Mr. Dale’s note in his hand and went down into the stranger’s room. There he found the squire standing, so that he could see through the open door of the room to the foot of the stairs down which Crosbie must descend before he could leave the club. As a measure of first precaution the ambassador closed the door; then he bowed to Mr. Dale, and asked him if he would take a chair.

“I wanted to see Mr. Crosbie,” said the squire.

“I have your note to that gentleman in my hand,” said he. “He has thought it better that you should have this interview with me—and under all the circumstances perhaps it is better.”

“Is he such a coward that he dare not see me?”

“There are some actions, Mr. Dale, that will make a coward of any man. My friend Crosbie is, I take it, brave enough in the ordinary sense of the word, but he has injured you.”

“It is all true, then?”

“Yes, Mr. Dale; I fear it is all true.”

“And you call that man your friend! Mr. —; I don’t know what your name is.”

“Pratt—Fowler Pratt. I have known Crosbie for fourteen years—ever since he was a boy; and it is not my way, Mr. Dale, to throw over an old friend under any circumstances.”

“Not if he committed a murder.”

“No; not though he committed a murder.”

“If what I hear is true, this man is worse than a murderer.”

“Of course, Mr. Dale, I cannot know what you have heard. I believe that Mr. Crosbie has behaved very badly to your niece, Miss Dale; I believe that he was engaged to marry her, or, at any rate, that some such proposition had been made.”

“Proposition! Why, sir, it was a thing so completely understood that everybody knew it in the county. It was so positively fixed that there was no secret about it. Upon my honour, Mr. Pratt, I can’t as yet understand it. If I remember right, it’s not a fortnight since he left my house at Allington—not a fortnight. And that poor girl was with him on the morning of his going as his betrothed bride. Not a fortnight since! And now I’ve had a letter from an old family friend telling me that he is going to marry one of Lord de Courcy’s daughters! I went instantly off to Courcy, and found that he had started for London. Now, I have followed him here; and you tell me it’s all true.”

“I am afraid it is, Mr. Dale; too true.”

“I don’t understand it; I don’t, indeed. I cannot bring myself to believe that the man who was sitting the other day at my table should be so great a scoundrel. Did he mean it all the time that he was there?”

“No; certainly not. Lady Alexandrina de Courcy was, I believe, an old friend of his—with whom, perhaps, he had had some lover’s quarrel. On his going to Courcy they made it up, and this is the result.”

“And that is to be sufficient for my poor girl?”

“You will, of course, understand that I am not defending Mr. Crosbie. The whole affair is very sad—very sad, indeed. I can only say, in his excuse, that he is not the first man who has behaved badly to a lady.”

“And that is his message to me, is it? And that is what I am to tell my niece? You have been deceived by a scoundrel. But what then? You are not the first! Mr. Pratt, I give you my word as a gentleman, I do not understand it. I have lived a good deal out of the world, and am, therefore, perhaps; more astonished than I ought to be.”

“Mr. Dale, I feel for you—”

“Feel for me! What is to become of my girl? And do you suppose that I will let this other marriage go on; that I will not tell the De Courcys, and all the world at large, what sort of a man this is—that I will not get at him to punish him? Does he think that I will put up with this?”

“I do not know what he thinks; I must only beg that you will not mix me up in the matter—as though I were a participator in his offence.”

“Will you tell him from me that I desire to see him?”

“I do not think that that would do any good.”

“Never mind, sir; you have brought me his message; will you have the goodness now to take back mine to him?”

“Do you mean at once—this evening—now?”

“Yes, at once—this evening—now—this minute.”

“Ah; he has left the club; he is not here now; he went when I came to you.”

“Then he is a coward as well as a scoundrel.” In answer to which assertion, Mr. Fowler Pratt merely shrugged his shoulders.

“He is a coward as well as a scoundrel. Will you have the kindness to tell your friend from me that he is a coward and a scoundrel—and a liar, sir.”

“If it be so, Miss Dale is well quit of her engagement.”

“That is your consolation, is it? That may be all very well nowadays; but when I was a young man, I would sooner have burnt out my tongue than have spoken in such a way on such a subject. I would, indeed. Good-night, Mr. Pratt. Pray make your friend understand that he has not yet seen the last of the Dales; although, as you hint, the ladies of that family will no doubt have learned that he is not fit to associate with them.” Then, taking up his hat, the squire made his way out of the club.

“I would not have done it,” said Pratt to himself, “for all the beauty, and all the wealth, and all the rank that ever were owned by a woman.”

CHAPTER XXVI

Lord de Courcy in the Bosom of His Family

Lady Julia De Guest had not during her life written many letters to Mr. Dale of Allington, nor had she ever been very fond of him. But when she felt certain how things were going at Courcy, or rather, as we may say, how they had already gone, she took pen in hand, and set herself to work, doing, as she conceived, her duty by her neighbour.

MY DEAR MR. DALE [she said], I believe I need make no secret of having known that your niece Lilian is engaged to Mr. Crosbie, of London. I think it proper to warn you that if this be true Mr. Crosbie is behaving himself in a very improper manner here. I am not a person who concerns myself much in the affairs of other people; and under ordinary circumstances, the conduct of Mr. Crosbie would be nothing to me—or, indeed, less than nothing; but I do to you as I would wish that others should do unto me. I believe it is only too true that Mr. Crosbie has proposed to Lady Alexandrina de Courcy, and been accepted by her. I think you will believe that I would not say this without warrant, and if there be anything in it, it may be well, for the poor young lady’s sake, that you should put yourself in the way of learning the truth.

Believe me to be yours sincerely, JULIA DE GUEST

Courcy Castle, Thursday

The squire had never been very fond of any of the De Guest family, and had, perhaps, liked Lady Julia the least of them all. He was wont to call her a meddling old woman—remembering her bitterness and pride in those now long bygone days in which the gallant major had run off with Lady Fanny. When he first received this letter, he did not, on the first reading of it, believe a word of its contents. “Cross-grained old harridan,” he said out loud to his nephew. “Look what that aunt of yours has written to me.” Bernard read the letter twice, and as he did so his face became hard and angry.

“You don’t mean to say you believe it?” said the squire.

“I don’t think it will be safe to disregard it.”

“What! you think it possible that your friend is doing as she says?”

“It is certainly possible. He was angry when he found that Lily had no fortune.”

“Heavens, Bernard! And you can speak of it in that way?”

“I don’t say that it is true; but I think we should look to it. I will go to Courcy Castle and learn the truth.”

The squire at last decided that he would go. He went to Courcy Castle, and found that Crosbie had started two hours before his arrival. He asked for Lady Julia, and learned from her that Crosbie had actually left the house as the betrothed husband of Lady Alexandrina.

“The countess, I am sure, will not contradict it, if you will see her,” said Lady Julia. But this the squire was unwilling to do. He would not proclaim the wretched condition of his niece more loudly than was necessary, and therefore he started on his pursuit of Crosbie. What was his success on that evening we have already learned.

Both Lady Alexandrina and her mother heard of Mr. Dale’s arrival at the castle, but nothing was said between them on the subject. Lady Amelia Gazebee heard of it also, and she ventured to discuss the matter with her sister.

“You don’t know exactly how far it went, do you?”

“No; yes—not exactly, that is,” said Alexandrina.

“I suppose he did say something about marriage to the girl?”

“Yes, I’m afraid he did.”

“Dear, dear! It’s very unfortunate. What sort of people are those Dales? I suppose he talked to you about them.”

“No, he didn’t; not very much. I daresay she is an artful, sly thing! It’s a great pity men should go on in such a way.”

“Yes, it is,” said Lady Amelia. “And I do suppose that in this case the blame has been more with him than with her. It’s only right I should tell you that.”

“But what can I do?”

“I don’t say you can do anything; but it’s as well you should know.”

“But I don’t know, and you don’t know; and I can’t see that there is any use talking about it now. I knew him a long while before she did, and if she has allowed him to make a fool of her, it isn’t my fault.”

“Nobody says it is, my dear.”

“But you seem to preach to me about it. What can I do for the girl? The fact is, he don’t care for her a bit, and never did.”

“Then he shouldn’t have told her that he did.”

“That’s all very well, Amelia; but people don’t always do exactly all that they ought to do. I suppose Mr. Crosbie isn’t the first man that has proposed to two ladies. I dare say it was wrong, but I can’t help it. As to Mr. Dale coming here with a tale of his niece’s wrongs, I think it very absurd—very absurd indeed. It makes it look as though there had been a scheme to catch Mr. Crosbie, and it’s my belief that there was such a scheme.”

“I only hope that there’ll be no quarrel.”

“Men don’t fight duels nowadays, Amelia.”

“But do you remember what Frank Gresham did to Mr. Moffat when he behaved so badly to poor Augusta?”

“Mr. Crosbie isn’t afraid of that kind of thing. And I always thought that Frank was very wrong—very wrong indeed. What’s the good of two men beating each other in the street?”

“Well; I’m sure I hope there’ll be no quarrel. But I own I don’t like the look of it. You see the uncle must have known all about it, and have consented to the marriage, or he would not have come here.”

“I don’t see that it can make any difference to me, Amelia.”

“No, my dear, I don’t see that it can. We shall be up in town soon, and I will see as much as possible of Mr. Crosbie. The marriage, I hope, will take place soon.”

“He talks of February.”

“Don’t put it off, Alley, whatever you do. There are so many slips, you know, in these things.”

“I’m not a bit afraid of that,” said Alexandrina, sticking up her head.

“I dare say not; and you may be sure that we will keep an eye on him. Mortimer will get him up to dine with us as often as possible, and as his leave of absence is all over, he can’t get out of town. He’s to be here at Christmas, isn’t he?”

“Of course he is.”

“Mind you keep him to that. And as to these Dales, I would be very careful, if I were you, not to say anything unkind of them to anyone. It sounds badly in your position.” And with this last piece of advice Lady Amelia Gazebee allowed the subject to drop.

On that day Lady Julia returned to her own home. Her adieux to the whole family at Courcy Castle were very cold, but about Mr. Crosbie and his lady-love at Allington she said no further word to any of them. Alexandrina did not show herself at all on the occasion, and indeed had not spoken to her enemy since that evening on which she had felt herself constrained to retreat from the drawing-room.

“Good-bye,” said the countess. “You have been so good to come, and we have enjoyed it so much.”

“I thank you very much. Good-morning,” said Lady Julia, with a stately courtesy.

“Pray remember me to your brother. I wish we could have seen him; I hope he has not been hurt by the—the bull.” And then Lady Julia went her way.

“What a fool I have been to have that woman in the house,” said the countess, before the door was closed behind her guest’s back.

“Indeed you have,” said Lady Julia, screaming back through the passage. Then there was a long silence, then a suppressed titter, and after that a loud laugh.

“Oh, mamma, what shall we do?” said Lady Amelia.

“Do!” said Margaretta; “why should we do anything? She has heard the truth for once in her life.”

“Dear Lady Dumbello, what will you think of us?” said the countess, turning round to another guest, who was also just about to depart. “Did anyone ever know such a woman before?”

“I think she’s very nice,” said Lady Dumbello, smiling.

“I can’t quite agree with you there,” said Lady Clandidlem. “But I do believe she means to do her best. She is very charitable, and all that sort of thing.”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Rosina. “I asked her for a subscription to the mission for putting down the Papists in the west of Ireland, and she refused me point-blank.”

“Now, my dear, if you’re quite ready,” said Lord Dumbello, coming into the room. Then there was another departure; but on this occasion the countess waited till the doors were shut, and the retreating footsteps were no longer heard. “Have you observed,” said she to Lady Clandidlem, “that she has not held her head up since Mr. Palliser went away?”

“Indeed I have,” said Lady Clandidlem. “As for poor Dumbello, he’s the blindest creature I ever saw in my life.”

“We shall hear of something before next May,” said Lady de Courcy, shaking her head; “but for all that she’ll never be Duchess of Omnium.”

“I wonder what your mamma will say of me when I go away to-morrow,” said Lady Clandidlem to Margaretta, as they walked across the hall together.

“She won’t say that you are going to run away with any gentleman,” said Margaretta.

“At any rate not with the earl,” said Lady Clandidlem. “Ha, ha, ha! Well, we are all very good-natured, are we not? The best is that it means nothing.”

Thus by degrees all the guests went, and the family of the De Courcys was left to the bliss of their own domestic circle. This, we may presume, was not without its charms, seeing that there were so many feelings in common between the mother and her children. There were drawbacks to it, no doubt, arising perhaps chiefly from the earl’s bodily infirmities. “When your father speaks to me,” said Mrs. George to her husband, “he puts me in such a shiver that I cannot open my mouth to answer him.”

“You should stand up to him,” said George. “He can’t hurt you, you know. Your money’s your own; and if I’m ever to be the heir, it won’t be by his doing.”

“But he gnashes his teeth at me.”

“You shouldn’t care for that, if he don’t bite. He used to gnash them at me; and when I had to ask him for money I didn’t like it; but now I don’t mind him a bit. He threw the peerage at me one day, but it didn’t go within a yard of my head.”

“If he throws anything at me, George, I shall drop upon the spot.”

But the countess had a worse time with the earl than any of her children. It was necessary that she should see him daily, and necessary also that she should say much that he did not like to hear, and make many petitions that caused him to gnash his teeth. The earl was one of those men who could not endure to live otherwise than expensively, and yet was made miserable by every recurring expense. He ought to have known by this time that butchers, and bakers, and corn-chandlers, and coal-merchants will not supply their goods for nothing; and yet it always seemed as though he had expected that at this special period they would do so. He was an embarrassed man, no doubt, and had not been fortunate in his speculations at Newmarket or Homburg; but, nevertheless, he had still the means of living without daily torment; and it must be supposed that his self-imposed sufferings, with regard to money, rose rather from his disposition than his necessities. His wife never knew whether he were really ruined, or simply pretending it. She had now become so used to her position in this respect, that she did not allow fiscal considerations to mar her happiness. Food and clothing had always come to her—including velvet gowns, new trinkets, and a man-cook—and she presumed that they would continue to come. But that daily conference with her husband was almost too much for her. She struggled to avoid it; and, as far as the ways and means were concerned, would have allowed them to arrange themselves, if he would only have permitted it. But he insisted on seeing her daily in his own sitting-room; and she had acknowledged to her favourite daughter, Margaretta, that those half-hours would soon be the death of her. “I sometimes feel,” she said, “that I am going mad before I can get out.” And she reproached herself, probably without reason, in that she had brought much of this upon herself. In former days the earl had been constantly away from home, and the countess had complained. Like many other women, she had not known when she was well off. She had complained, urging upon her lord that he should devote more of his time to his own hearth. It is probable that her ladyship’s remonstrances had been less efficacious than the state of his own health in producing that domestic constancy which he now practised; but it is certain that she looked back with bitter regret to the happy days when she was deserted, jealous, and querulous. “Don’t you wish we could get Sir Omicron to order him to the German Spas?” she had said to Margaretta. Now Sir Omicron was the great London physician, and might, no doubt, do much in that way.

But no such happy order had as yet been given; and, as far as the family could foresee, paterfamilias intended to pass the winter with them at Courcy. The guests, as I have said, were all gone, and none but the family were in the house when her ladyship waited upon her lord one morning at twelve o’clock, a few days after Mr. Dale’s visit to the castle. He always breakfasted alone, and after breakfast found in a French novel and a cigar what solace those innocent recreations were still able to afford him. When the novel no longer excited him and when he was saturated with smoke, he would send for his wife. After that, his valet would dress him. “She gets it worse than I do,” the man declared in the servants’ hall, “and minds it a deal more. I can give warning, and she can’t.”

“Better? No, I ain’t better,” the husband said, in answer to his wife’s inquiries. “I never shall be better while you keep that cook in the kitchen.”

“But where are we to get another if we send him away?”

“It’s not my business to find cooks. I don’t know where you’re to get one. It’s my belief you won’t have a cook at all before long. It seems you have got two extra men into the house without telling me.”

“We must have servants, you know, when there is company. It wouldn’t do to have Lady Dumbello here, and no one to wait on her.”

“Who asked Lady Dumbello? I didn’t.”

“I’m sure, my dear, you liked having her here.”

“D—— Lady Dumbello!” and then there was a pause. The countess had no objection whatsoever to the above proposition, and was rejoiced that that question of the servants was allowed to slip aside, through the aid of her ladyship.