The Chronicles of Barsetshire (297 page)

“Very said indeed,” said the lawyer. “I never pitied a man so much in my life, my lord.”

This was not exactly the line which the bishop was desirous of taking. “Of course he is to be pitied—of course he is. But from all I hear, Mr. Chadwick, I am afraid—I am afraid we must not acquit him.”

“As to that, my lord, he has to stand his trial, of course.”

“But, you see, Mr. Chadwick, regarding him as a beneficed clergyman—with a cure of souls—the question is whether I should be justified in leaving him where he is till his trial shall come on.”

“Of course your lordship knows best about that, but—”

“I know there is a difficulty. I know that. But I am inclined to think that in the interests of the parish I am bound to issue a commission of inquiry.”

“I believe your lordship has attempted to silence him, and that he has refused to comply.”

“I thought it better for everybody’s sake—especially for his own, that he should for a while be relieved from his duties; but he is an obstinate man, a very obstinate man. I made the attempt with all consideration for his feelings.”

“He is hard put to it, my lord. I know the man and his pride. The dean has spoken of him to me more than once, and nobody knows him so well as the dean. If I might venture to offer an opinion—”

“Good morning, Mr. Chadwick,” said Mrs. Proudie, coming into the room and taking her accustomed seat. “No, thank you, no; I will stay away from the fire, if you please. His lordship has spoken to you no doubt about this unfortunate, wretched man?”

“We are speaking of him now, my dear.”

“Something must of course be done to put a stop to the crying disgrace of having such a man preaching from a pulpit in this diocese. When I think of the souls of the people in that poor village, my hair literally stands on end. And then he is disobedient!”

“That is the worst of it,” said the bishop. “It would have been so much better for himself if he would have allowed me to provide quietly for the services till the trial be over.”

“I could have told you, my lord, that he would not do that, from what I knew of him,” said Mr. Chadwick.

“But he must do it,” said Mrs. Proudie. “He must be made to do it.”

“His lordship will find it difficult,” said Mr. Chadwick.

“I can issue a commission, you know, to the rural dean,” said the bishop mildly.

“Yes, you can do that. And Dr. Tempest in two months’ time will have named his assessors—”

“Dr. Tempest must not name them; the bishop must name them,” said Mrs. Proudie.

“It is customary to leave that to the rural dean,” said Mr. Chadwick. “The bishop no doubt can object to anyone named.”

“And can specially select any clergyman he pleases from the archdeaconry,” said the bishop. “I have known it done.”

“The rural dean in such case has probably been an old man, and not active,” said the lawyer.

“And Dr. Tempest is a very old man,” said Mrs. Proudie, “and in such a matter not at all trustworthy. He was one of the magistrates who took bail.”

“His lordship could hardly set him aside,” said the lawyer. “At any rate I would not recommend him to try. I think you might suggest a commission of five, and propose two of the number yourself. I do not think that in such a case Dr. Tempest would raise any question.”

At last it was settled in this way. Mr. Chadwick was to prepare a letter to Dr. Tempest, for the bishop’s signature, in which the doctor should be requested, as the rural dean to whom Mr. Crawley was subject, to hold a commission of five to inquire into Mr. Crawley’s conduct. The letter was to explain to Dr. Tempest that the bishop, moved by his solicitude for the souls of the people of Hogglestock, had endeavoured, “in a friendly way”, to induce Mr. Crawley to desist from his ministrations; but that having failed through Mr. Crawley’s obstinacy, he had no alternative but to proceed in this way. “You had better say that his lordship, as bishop of the diocese, can take no heed of the coming trial,” said Mrs. Proudie. “I think his lordship had better say nothing at all about the trial,” said Mr. Chadwick. “I think that will be best,” said the bishop.

“But if they report against him,” said Mr. Chadwick, “you can only then proceed in the ecclesiastical court—at your own expense.”

“He’ll hardly be so obstinate as that,” said the bishop.

“I’m afraid you don’t know him, my lord,” said the lawyer. The bishop, thinking of the scene which had taken place in that very room only yesterday, felt that he did know Mr. Crawley, and felt also that the hope which he had just expressed was one in which he himself put no trust. But something might turn up; and it was devoutly to be hoped that Dr. Tempest would take a long time over his inquiry. The assizes might come on as soon as it was terminated, or very shortly afterwards; and then everything might be well. “You won’t find Dr. Tempest very ready at it,” said Mr. Chadwick. The bishop in his heart was comforted by the words. “But he must be made to be ready to do his duty,” said Mrs. Proudie, imperiously. Mr. Chadwick shrugged his shoulders, then got up, spoke his farewell little speeches, and left the palace.

CHAPTER XXXV

Lily Dale Writes Two Words in her Book

John Eames saw nothing more of Lily Dale till he packed up his portmanteau, left his mother’s house, and went to stay for a few days with his old friend Lady Julia; and this did not happen till he had been above a week at Guestwick. Mrs. Dale repeatedly said that it was odd that Johnny did not come to see them; and Grace, speaking of him to Lily, asked why he did not come. Lily, in her funny way, declared that he would come soon enough. But even while she was joking there was something of half-expressed consciousness in her words—as though she felt it to be foolish to speak of his coming as she might of that of any other young man, before people who knew her whole story. “He’ll come quick enough. He knows, and I know, that his coming will do no good. Of course I shall be glad to see him. Why shouldn’t I be glad to see him? I’ve known him and liked him all my life. I liked him when there did not seem to be much about him to like, and now that he is clever, and agreeable, and good-looking—which he never was as a lad—why shouldn’t I go on liking him? He’s more like a brother to me than anybody else I’ve got. James,”—James was her brother-in-law, Dr. Crofts—”thinks of nothing but his patients and his babies, and my cousin Bernard is much too grand a person for me to take the liberty of loving him. I shall be very glad to see Johnny Eames.” From all which Mrs. Dale was led to believe that Johnny’s case was still hopeless. And how should it not be hopeless? Had Lily not confessed within the last week or two that she still loved Adolphus Crosbie?

Mrs. Eames also, and Mary, were surprised that John did not go over to Allington. “You haven’t seen Mrs. Dale yet, or the squire?” said his mother.

“I shall see them when I am at the cottage.”

“Yes—no doubt. But it seems strange that you should be here so long without going to them.”

“There’s time enough,” said he. “I shall have nothing else to do when I’m at the cottage.” Then, when Mary had spoken to him again in private, expressing a hope that there was “nothing wrong”, he had been very angry with his sister. “What do you mean by wrong? What rubbish you girls talk! and you never have any delicacy of feeling to make you silent.”

“Oh, John, don’t say such hard things as that of me!”

“But I do say them. You’ll make me swear among you some day that I will never see Lily Dale again. As it is, I wish I never had seen her—simply because I am so dunned about it.” In all of which I think that Johnny was manifestly wrong. When the humour was on him he was fond enough of talking about Lily Dale. Had he not taught her to do so, I doubt whether his sister would ever have mentioned Lily’s name to him. “I did not mean to dun you, John,” said Mary, meekly.

But at last he went to Lady Julia’s, and was no sooner there than he was ready to start for Allington. When Lady Julia spoke to him about Lily, he did not venture to snub her. Indeed, of all his friends, Lady Julia was the one with whom on this subject he allowed himself the most unrestricted confidence. He came over one day, just before dinner, and declared his intention of walking over to Allington immediately after breakfast on the following morning. “It’s the last time, Lady Julia,” he said.

“So you say, Johnny.”

“And so I mean it! What’s the good of a man frittering away his life? What’s the good of wishing for what you can’t get?”

“Jacob was not in such a hurry when he wished for Rachel.”

“That was all very well for an old patriarch who had seven or eight hundred years to live.”

“My dear John, you forget your Bible. Jacob did not live half as long as that.”

“He lived long enough, and slowly enough, to be able to wait fourteen years—and then he had something to comfort him in the meantime. And after all, Lady Julia, it’s more than seven years since I first thought Lily was the prettiest girl I ever saw.”

“How old are you now?”

“Twenty-seven—and she’s twenty-four.”

“You’ve time enough yet, if you’ll only be patient.”

“I’ll be patient for to-morrow, Lady Julia, but never again. Not that I mean to quarrel with her. I’m not such a fool as to quarrel with a girl because she can’t like me. I know how it all is. If that scoundrel had not come across my path just when he did—in that very nick of time, all might have been right betwixt her and me. I couldn’t have offered to marry her before, when I hadn’t as much income as would have found her in bread-and-butter. And then, just as better times came to me, he stepped in! I wonder whether it will be expected of me that I should forgive him?”

“As far as that goes, you have no right to be angry with him.”

“But I am—all the same.”

“And so was I—but not for stepping in, as you call it.”

“You and I are different, Lady Julia. I was angry with him for stepping in; but I couldn’t show it. Then he stepped out, and I did manage to show it. And now I shouldn’t wonder if he doesn’t step in again. After all, why should he have such a power? It was simply the nick of time which gave it to him.” That John Eames should be able to find some consolation in this consideration is devoutly to be hoped by us all.

There was nothing said about Lily Dale the next morning at breakfast. Lady Julia observed that John was dressed a little more neatly than usual—though the change was not such as to have called for her special observation, had she not known the business on which he was intent.

“You have nothing to send to the Dales?” he said, as he got up from the table.

“Nothing but my love, Johnny.”

“No worsted or embroidery work—or a pot of special jam for the squire?”

“No, sir, nothing; though I should like to make you carry a pair of panniers, if I could.”

“They would become me well,” said Johnny, “for I am going on an ass’s errand.” Then, without waiting for the word of affection which was on the old woman’s lips, he got himself out of the room, and started on his journey.

The walk was only three miles and the weather was dry and frosty, and he had come to the turn leading up to the church and the squire’s house almost before he remembered that he was near Allington. Here he paused for a moment to think. If he continued his way down by the “Red Lion” and through Allington Street, he must knock at Mrs. Dale’s door, and ask for admission by means of the servant—as would be done by any ordinary visitor. But he could make his way on to the lawn by going up beyond the wall of the churchyard and through the squire’s garden. He knew the path well—very well; and he thought that he might take so much liberty as that, both with the squire and Mrs. Dale, although his visits to Allington were not so frequent now as they used to be in the days of his boyhood. He did not wish to be admitted by the servant, and therefore he went through the gardens. Luckily he did not see the squire, who would have detained him, and he escaped from Hopkins, the old gardener, with little more than a word. “I’m going down to see the ladies, Hopkins; I suppose I shall find them?” And then, while Hopkins was arranging his spade so that he might lean upon it for a little chat, Johnny was gone and had made his way into the other garden. He had thought it possible that he might meet Lily out among the walks by herself, and such a meeting as this would have suited him better than any other. And as he crossed the little bridge which separated the gardens he thought of more than one such meeting—of one especial occasion on which he had first ventured to tell her in plain words that he loved her. But before that day Crosbie had come there, and at the moment in which he was speaking of his love she regarded Crosbie as an angel of light upon the earth. What hope could there have been for him then? What use was there in telling such a tale of love at that time? When he told it, he knew that Crosbie had been before him. He knew that Crosbie was at that moment the angel of light. But as he had never before been able to speak of his love, so was he then unable not to speak of it. He had spoken, and of course had been simply rebuked. Since that day Crosbie had ceased to be an angel of light, and he, John Eames, had spoken often. But he had spoken in vain, and now he would speak once again.

He went through the garden and over the lawn belonging to the Small House and saw no one. He forgot, I think, that ladies do not come out to pick roses when the ground is frozen, and that croquet is not often in progress with the hoar-frost on the grass. So he walked up to the little terrace before the drawing-room, and looking in saw Mrs. Dale, and Lily, and Grace at their morning work. Lily was drawing, and Mrs. Dale was writing, and Grace had her needle in her hand. As it happened, no one at first perceived him, and he had time to feel that after all he would have managed better if he had been announced in the usual way. As, however, it was now necessary that he should announce himself, he knocked at the window, and they all immediately looked up and saw him. “It’s my cousin John,” said Grace. “Oh, Johnny, how are you at last?” said Mrs. Dale. But it was Lily who, without speaking, opened the window for him, who was the first to give him her hand, and who led him through into the room.

“It’s a great shame my coming in this way,” said John, “and letting all the cold air in upon you.”

“We shall survive it,” said Mrs. Dale. “I suppose you have just come down from my brother-in-law?”

“No; I have not seen the squire as yet. I will do so before I go back, of course. But it seemed such a commonplace sort of thing to go round by the village.”

“We are very glad to see you, by whatever way you came—are we not, mamma?” said Lily.

“I’m not so sure of that. We were only saying yesterday that as you had been in the country a fortnight without coming to us, we did not think we would be at home when you did come.”

“But I have caught you, you see,” said Johnny.

And so they went on, chatting of old times and of mutual friends very comfortably for full an hour. And there was some serious conversation about Grace’s father and his affairs, and John declared his opinion that Mr. Crawley ought to go to his uncle, Thomas Toogood, not at all knowing that at that time Mr. Crawley himself had come to the same opinion. And John gave them an elaborate description of Sir Raffle Buffle, standing up with his back to the fire with his hat on his head, and speaking with a loud harsh voice, to show them the way in which he declared that that gentleman received his inferiors; and then bowing and scraping and rubbing his hands together and simpering with would-be softness—declaring that after that fashion Sir Raffle received his superiors. And they were very merry—so that no one would have thought that Johnny was a despondent lover, now bent on throwing the dice for his last stake; or that Lily was aware that she was in the presence of one lover, and that she was like to fall to the ground between two stools—having two lovers, neither of whom could serve her turn.

“How can you consent to serve him if he’s such a man as that?” said Lily, speaking of Sir Raffle.

“I do not serve him. I serve the Queen—or rather the public. I don’t take his wages, and he does not play his tricks with me. He knows that he can’t. He has tried it, and has failed. And he only keeps me where I am because I’ve had some money left me. He thinks it fine to have a private secretary with a fortune. I know that he tells people all manner of lies about it, making it out to be five times as much as it is. Dear Old Huffle Snuffle. He is such an ass; and yet he’s had wit enough to get to the top of the tree, and to keep himself there. He began the world without a penny. Now he has got a handle to his name, and he’ll live in clover all his life. It’s very odd, isn’t it, Mrs. Dale?”

“I suppose he does his work?”

“When men get so high as that, there’s no knowing whether they work or whether they don’t. There isn’t much for them to do, as far as I can see. They have to look beautiful, and frighten the young ones.”

“And does Sir Raffle look beautiful?” Lily asked.

“After a fashion, he does. There is something imposing about such a man till you’re used to it, and can see through it. Of course it’s all padding. There are men who work, no doubt. But among the bigwigs, and bishops and cabinet ministers, I fancy that the looking beautiful is the chief part of it. Dear me, you don’t mean to say it’s luncheon time?”

But it was luncheon time, and not only had he not as yet said a word of all that which he had come to say, but had not as yet made any move towards getting it said. How was he to arrange that Lily should be left alone with him? Lady Julia had said that she should not expect him back till dinner-time, and he had answered her lackadaisically, “I don’t suppose I shall be there above ten minutes. Ten minutes will say all I’ve got to say, and do all I’ve got to do. And then I suppose I shall go and cut names about upon bridges—eh, Lady Julia?” Lady Julia understood his words; for once, upon a former occasion, she had found him cutting Lily’s name on the rail of a wooden bridge in her brother’s grounds. But he had now been a couple of hours at the Small House, and had not said a word of that which he had come to say.

“Are you going to walk out with us after lunch?” said Lily.

“He will have had walking enough,” said Mrs. Dale.

“We’ll convoy him back part of the way,” said Lily.

“I’m not going yet,” said Johnny, “unless you turn me out.”

“But we must have our walk before it is dark,” said Lily.

“You might go up with him to your uncle,” said Mrs. Dale. “Indeed, I promised to go up myself, and so did you, Grace, to see the microscope. I heard Mr. Dale give orders that one of those long-legged reptiles should be caught on purpose for your inspection.”

Mrs. Dale’s little scheme for bringing the two together was very transparent, but it was not the less wise on that account. Schemes will often be successful, let them be ever so transparent. Little intrigues become necessary, not to conquer unwilling people, but people who are willing enough, who, nevertheless, cannot give way except under the machinations of an intrigue.

“I don’t think I’ll mind looking at the long-legged creature, to-day,” said Johnny.

“I must go, of course,” said Grace.

Lily said nothing at the moment, either about the long-legged creature or the walk. That which must be, must be. She knew well why John Eames had come there. She knew that the visits to his mother and to Lady Julia would never have been made, but that he might have this interview. And he had a right to demand, at any rate, as much as that. That which must be, must be. And therefore when both Mrs. Dale and Grace stoutly maintained their purpose of going up to the squire, Lily neither attempted to persuade John to accompany them, nor said that she would do so herself.