“You had better speak to your mother, Henry. She will explain to you what has taken place. Look at that plantation. You don’t remember it, but every tree there was planted since you were born. I bought that farm from old Mr. Thorne, when he was purchasing St. Ewold’s Downs, and it was the first bit of land I ever had of my own.”
“That is not in Plumstead, I think?”
“No: this is Plumstead, where we stand, but that’s in Eiderdown. The parishes run in and out here. I never bought any other land as cheap as I bought that.”
“And did old Thorne make a good purchase at St. Ewold’s?”
“Yes, I fancy he did. It gave him the whole of the parish, which was a great thing. It is astonishing how land has risen in value since that, and yet rents are not so very much higher. They who buy land now can’t have above two-and-a-half for their money.”
“I wonder people are so fond of land,” said the major.
“It is a comfortable feeling to know that you stand on your own ground. Land is about the only thing that can’t fly away. And then, you see, land gives so much more than the rent. It gives position and influence and political power, to say nothing about the game. We’ll go back now. I daresay your mother will be at home by this time.”
The archdeacon was striving to teach a great lesson to his son when he thus spoke of the pleasure which a man feels when he stands upon his own ground. He was bidding his son to understand how great was the position of an heir to a landed property, and how small the position of a man depending on what Dr. Grantly himself would have called a scratch income—an income made up of a few odds and ends, a share or two in this company and a share or two in that, a slight venture in foreign stocks, a small mortgage and such-like convenient but uninfluential driblets. A man, no doubt, may live at Pau on driblets; may pay his way and drink his bottle of cheap wine, and enjoy life after a fashion while reading
Galignani
and looking at the mountains. But—as it seemed to the archdeacon—when there was a choice between this kind of thing, and fox-covers at Plumstead, and a seat among the magistrates of Barsetshire, and an establishment full of horses, beeves, swine, carriages, and hayricks, a man brought up as his son had been brought up ought not to be very long in choosing. It never entered into the archdeacon’s mind that he was tempting his son; but Henry Grantly felt that he was having the good things of the world shown to him, and that he was being told that they should be his—for a consideration.
The major, in his present mood, looked at the matter from his own point of view, and determined that the consideration was too high. He was pledged not to give up Grace Crawley, and he would not yield on that point, though he might be tempted by all the fox-covers in Barsetshire. At this moment he did not know how far his father was prepared to yield, or how far it was expected that he should yield himself. He was told that he had to speak to his mother. He would speak to his mother, but, in the meantime, he could not bring himself to make a comfortable answer to his father’s eloquent praise of landed property. He could not allow himself to be enthusiastic on the matter till he knew what was expected of him if he chose to submit to be made a British squire. At present
Galignani
and the mountains had their charms for him. There was, therefore, but little conversation between the father and the son as they walked back to the rectory.
Late that night the major heard the whole story from his mother. Gradually, and as though unintentionally, Mrs. Grantly told him all she knew of the archdeacon’s visit to Framley. Mrs. Grantly was quite as anxious as was her husband to keep her son at home, and therefore she omitted in her story those little sneers against Grace which she herself had been tempted to make by the archdeacon’s fervour in the girl’s favour. The major said as little as was possible while he was being told of his father’s adventure, and expressed neither anger nor satisfaction till he had been made thoroughly to understand that Grace had pledged herself not to marry him as long as any suspicion should rest upon her father’s name.
“Your father is quite satisfied with her,” said Mrs. Grantly. “He thinks that she is behaving very well.”
“My father had no right to exact such a pledge.”
“But she made it of her own accord. She was the first to speak about Mr. Crawley’s supposed guilt. Your father never mentioned it.”
“He must have led to it; and I think he had no right to do so. He had no right to go to her at all.”
“Now don’t be foolish, Henry.”
“I don’t see that I am foolish.”
“Yes, you are. A man is foolish if he won’t take what he wants without asking exactly how he is to come by it. That your father should be anxious is the most natural thing in the world. You know how high he has always held his own head, and how much he thinks about the characters and the position of clergymen. It is not surprising that he should dislike the idea of such a marriage.”
“Grace Crawley would disgrace no family,” said the lover.
“That’s all very well for you to say, and I’ll take your word that it is so—that is as far as the young lady goes herself. And there’s your father almost as much in love with her as you are. I don’t know what you would have?”
“I would be left alone.”
“But what harm has been done you? From what you yourself have told me, I know that Miss Crawley has said the same thing to you that she has said to your father. You can’t but admire her for the feeling.”
“I admire her for everything.”
“Very well. We don’t say anything against that.”
“And I don’t mean to give her up.”
“Very well again. Let us hope that Mr. Crawley will be acquitted, and then all will be right. Your father never goes back from his promise. He is always better than his word. You’ll find that if Mr. Crawley is acquitted, or if he escapes in any way, your father will only be happy of an excuse to make much of the young lady. You should not be hard on him, Henry. Don’t you see that it is his one great desire to keep you near him. The sight of those odious bills nearly broke his heart.”
“Then why did he threaten me?”
“Henry, you are obstinate.”
“I am not obstinate, mother.”
“Yes, you are. You remember nothing, and you forget nothing. You expect everything to be made smooth for you, and will do nothing towards making things smooth for anybody else. You ought to promise to give up the sale. If the worst came to the worst, your father would not let you suffer in pocket for yielding to him so much.”
“If the worst comes to the worst, I wish to take nothing from my father.”
“You won’t put off the sale, then?”
The son paused a moment before he answered his mother, thinking over all the circumstances of his position. “I cannot do so as long as I am subject to my father’s threat,” he said at last. “What took place between my father and Miss Crawley can go for nothing with me. He has told me that his allowance to me is to be withdrawn. Let him tell me that he has reconsidered the matter.”
“But he has not withdrawn it. The last quarter was paid to your account only the other day. He does not mean to withdraw it.”
“Let him tell me so; let him tell me that my power of living at Cosby Lodge does not depend on my marriage—that my income will be continued to me whether I marry or no, and I’ll arrange matters with the auctioneer to-morrow. You can’t suppose that I should prefer to live in France.”
“Henry, you are too hard on your father.”
“I think, mother, he has been too hard upon me.”
“It is you that are to blame now. I tell you plainly that that is my opinion. If evil comes of it, it will be your own fault.”
“If evil come of it, I must bear it.”
“A son ought to give up something to his father—especially to a father so indulgent as yours.”
But it was of no use. And Mrs. Grantly when she went to her bed could only lament in her own mind over what, in discussing the matter afterwards with her sister, she called the cross-grainedness of men. “They are as like each other as two peas,” she said, “and though each of them wished to be generous, neither of them would condescend to be just.” Early on the following morning there was, no doubt, much said on the subject between the archdeacon and his wife before they met their son at breakfast; but neither at breakfast nor afterwards was there a word said between the father and the son that had the slightest reference to the subject in dispute between them. The archdeacon made no more speeches in favour of land, nor did he revert to the foxes. He was very civil to his son—too civil by half, as Mrs. Grantly continued to say to herself. And then the major drove himself away in his cart, going through Barchester, so that he might see his grandfather. When he wished his father good-bye, the archdeacon shook hands with him, and said something about the chance of rain. Had he not better take the big umbrella? The major thanked him courteously, and said that he did not think it would rain. Then he was gone. “Upon his own head be it,” said the archdeacon when his son’s step was heard in the passage leading to the back-yard. Then Mrs. Grantly got up quietly and followed her son. She found him settling himself in his dog-cart, while the servant who was to accompany him was still at the horse’s head. She went up close to him, and, standing by the wheel of the gig, whispered a word or two into his ear. “If you love me, Henry, you will postpone the sale. Do it for my sake.” There came across his face a look of great pain, but he answered her not a word.
The archdeacon was walking about the room striking one hand open with the other closed, clearly in a tumult of anger, when his wife returned to him. “I have done all that I can,” he said—”all that I can; more, indeed, than was becoming for me. Upon his own head be it. Upon his own head be it.”
“What is it you fear?” she asked.
“I fear nothing. But if he chooses to sell his things at Cosby Lodge he must abide the consequences. They shall not be replaced with my money.”
“What will it matter if he does sell them?”
“Matter! Do you think there is a single person in the county who will not know that his doing so is a sign that he has quarrelled with me?”
“But he has not quarrelled with you.”
“I can tell you, then, that in that case, I shall have quarrelled with him! I have not been a hard father, but there are some things which a man cannot bear. Of course you will take his part.”
“I am taking no part. I only want to see peace between you.”
“Peace!—yes; peace indeed. I am to yield in everything. I am to be nobody. Look here—as sure as ever an auctioneer’s hammer is raised at Cosby Lodge, I will alter the settlement of the property. Every acre shall go to Charles. There is my word for it.” The poor woman had nothing more to say—nothing more to say at that moment. She thought that at the present conjuncture her husband was less in the wrong than her son, but she could not tell him so lest she should strengthen him in his wrath.
Henry Grantly found his grandfather in bed, with Posy seated on the bed beside him. “My father told me that you were not quite well, and I thought that I would look in,” said the major.
“Thank you, my dear—it is very good of you. There is not much the matter with me, but I am not quite so strong as I was once.” And the old man smiled as he held his grandson’s hand.
“And how is cousin Posy?” said the major.
“Posy is quite well—isn’t she, my darling?” said the old man.
“Grandpa doesn’t go to the cathedral now,” said Posy; “so I come in to talk to him. Don’t I, grandpa?”
“And to play cat’s-cradle—only we have not had any cat’s-cradle this morning—have we, Posy?”
“Mrs. Baxter told me not to play this morning, because it’s cold for grandpa to sit up in bed,” said Posy.
When the major had been there about twenty minutes he was preparing to take his leave—but Mr. Harding, bidding Posy to go out of the room, told his grandson that he had a word to say to him. “I don’t like to interfere, Henry,” he said, “but I am afraid that things are not quite smooth at Plumstead.”
“There is nothing wrong between me and my mother,” said the major.
“God forbid that there should be; but, my dear boy, don’t let there be anything wrong between you and your father. He is a good man, and the time will come when you will be proud of his memory.”
“I am proud of him now.”
“Then be gentle with him—and submit yourself. I am an old man now—very fast going away from all those I love here. But I am happy in leaving my children because they have ever been gentle to me and kind. If I am permitted to remember them whither I am going, my thoughts of them will all be pleasant. Should it not be much to them that they have made by death-bed happy?”
The major could not but tell himself that Mr. Harding had been a man easy to please, easy to satisfy, and, in that respect, very different from his father. But of course he said nothing of this. “I will do my best,” he replied.
“Do, my boy. Honour thy father—that thy days may be long in the land.”
It seemed to the major as he drove away from Barchester that everybody was against him; and yet he was sure that he himself was right. He could not give up Grace Crawley; and unless he were to do so he could not live at Cosby Lodge.
CHAPTER LIX
A Lady Presents her Compliments to Miss L. D.
One morning, while Lily Dale was staying with Mrs. Thorne in London, there was brought up to her room, as she was dressing for dinner, a letter which the postman had just left for her. The address was written with a feminine hand, and Lily was at once aware that she did not know the writing. The angles were very acute, and the lines were very straight, and the vowels looked to be cruel and false, with their sharp points and their open eyes. Lily at once knew that it was the performance of a woman who had been taught to write at school, and not at home, and she became prejudiced against the writer before she opened the letter. When she had opened the letter and read it, her feelings towards the writer were not of a kindly nature. It was as follows:—
“A lady presents her compliments to Miss L. D., and earnestly implores Miss L. D. to give her an answer to the following question. Is Miss L. D. engaged to marry Mr. J. E.? The lady in question pledges herself not to interfere with Miss L. D. in any way, should the answer be in the affirmative. The lady earnestly requests that a reply to this question may be sent to M. D., Post-office, 455 Edgware Road. In order that L. D. may not doubt that M. D. has an interest in J. E., M. D. encloses the last note she received from him before he started for the Continent.” Then there was a scrap, which Lily well knew to be in the handwriting of John Eames, and the scrap was as follows—”Dearest M.—punctually at 8.30. Ever and always your unalterable J. E.” Lily, as she read this, did not comprehend that John’s note to M. D. had been in itself a joke.
Lily Dale had heard of anonymous letters before, but had never received one, or even seen one. Now that she had one in her hand, it seemed to her that there could be nothing more abominable than the writing of such a letter. She let it drop from her as though the receiving, and opening, and reading it had been a stain to her. As it lay on the ground at her feet, she trod upon it.
Of what sort could a woman be who wrote such a letter as that? Answer it! Of course she would not answer it. It never occurred to her for a moment that it could become her to answer it. Had she been at home or with her mother, she would have called her mother to her, and Mrs. Dale would have taken it from the ground, and have read it, and then destroyed it. As it was, she must pick it up herself. She did so, and declared to herself that there should be an end to it. It might be right that somebody should see it, and therefore she would show it to Emily Dunstable; after that it should be destroyed.
Of course the letter could have no effect upon her. So she told herself. But it did have a very strong effect, and probably the exact effect which the writer had intended that it should have. J. E. was, of course, John Eames. There was no doubt about that. What a fool the writer must have been to talk of L. D. in the letter, when the outside cover was plainly addressed to Miss Lilian Dale! But there are some people for whom the pretended mystery of initial letters has a charm, and who love the darkness of anonymous letters. As Lily thought of this, she stamped on the letter again. Who was the M. D. to whom she was required to send an answer—with whom John Eames corresponded in the most affectionate terms? She had resolved not even to ask herself a question about M. D., and yet she could not divert her mind from the inquiry. It was, at any rate, a fact that there must be some woman designated by the letters—some woman who had, at any rate, chosen to call herself M. D. And John Eames had called her M. There must, at any rate, be such a woman. This female, be she who she might, had thought it worth her while to make this inquiry about John Eames, and had manifestly learned something of Lily’s own history. And the woman had pledged herself not to interfere with John Eames, if L. D. would only condescend to say that she was engaged to him! As Lily thought of the proposition, she trod upon the letter for the third time. Then she picked it up, and having no place of custody under lock and key ready to her hand she put it in her pocket.
At night, before she went to bed, she showed the letter to Emily Dunstable. “Is it not surprising that any woman could bring herself to write such a letter?” said Lily.
But Miss Dunstable hardly saw it in the same light. “If anybody were to write me such a letter about Bernard,” said she, “I should show to him as a good joke.”
“That would be very different. You and Bernard, of course, understand each other.”
“And so will you and Mr. Eames—some day, I hope.”
“Never more than we do now, dear. The thing that annoys me is that such a woman as that should have even heard my name at all.”
“As long as people have got ears and tongues, people will hear other people’s names.”
Lily paused a moment, and then spoke again, asking another question. “I suppose this woman does know him? She must know him, because he has written to her.”
“She knows something about him, no doubt, and has some reason for wishing that you should quarrel with him. If I were you, I should take care not to gratify her. As for Mr. Eames’s note, it is a joke.”
“It is nothing to me,” said Lily.
“I suppose,” continued Emily, “that most gentlemen become acquainted with some people that they would not wish all their friends to know that they knew. They go about so much more than we do, and meet people of all sorts.”
“No gentleman should become intimately acquainted with a woman who could write such a letter as that,” said Lily. And as she spoke she remembered a certain episode to John Eames’s early life, which had reached her from a source which she had not doubted, and which had given her pain and offended her. She had believed that John Eames had in that case behaved very cruelly to a young woman, and had thought that her offence had come simply from that feeling. “But of course it is nothing to me,” she said. “Mr. Eames can choose his friends as he likes. I only wish that my name might not be mentioned to them.”
“It is not from him that she has heard it.”
“Perhaps not. As I said before, of course it does not signify; only there is something very disagreeable in the whole thing. The idea is so hateful! Of course this woman means me to understand that she considers herself to have a claim upon Mr. Eames, and that I stand in her way.”
“And why should you stand in her way?”
“I will stand in nobody’s way. Mr. Eames has a right to give his hand to anyone that he pleases. I, at any rate, can have no cause of offence against him. The only thing is that I do wish that my name could be left alone.” Lily, when she was in her own room again, did destroy the letter; but before she did so she read it again, and it became so indelibly impressed on her memory that she could not forget even the words of it. The lady who wrote had pledged herself, under certain conditions, “not to interfere with Miss L. D.” “Interfere with me!” Lily said to herself; “nobody can interfere with me; nobody has power to do so.” As she turned it over in her mind, her heart became hard against John Eames. No woman would have troubled herself to write such a letter without some cause for the writing. That the writer was vulgar, false, and unfeminine, Lily thought that she could perceive from the letter itself; but no doubt the woman knew John Eames, had some interest in the question of his marriage, and was entitled to some answer to her question—only was not entitled to such answer from Lily Dale.
For some weeks past now, up to the hour at which the anonymous letter had reached her hands, Lily’s heart had been growing soft and still softer towards John Eames; and now again it had become hardened. I think that the appearance of Adolphus Crosbie in the Park, that momentary vision of the real man by which the divinity of the imaginary Apollo had been dashed to the ground, had done a service to the cause of the other lover; of the lover who had never been a god, but who of late years had at any rate grown into the full dimensions of a man. Unfortunately for the latter, he had commenced his love-making when he was but little more than a boy. Lily, as she had thought of the two together, in the days of her solitude, after she had been deserted by Crosbie, had ever pictured to herself the lover whom she had preferred as having something god-like in his favour, as being far the superior in wit, in manner, in acquirement, and in personal advantage. There had been good-nature and true hearty love on the side of the other man; but circumstances had seemed to show that his good-nature was equal to all, and that he was able to share even his hearty love among two or three. A man of such a character, known by a girl from his boyhood as John Eames had been known by Lily Dale, was likely to find more favour as a friend than as a lover. So it had been between John Eames and Lily. While the untrue memory of what Crosbie was, or ever had been, was present to her, she could hardly bring herself to accept in her mind the idea of a lover who was less noble in his manhood than the false picture which that untrue memory was ever painting for her. Then had come before her eyes the actual man; and though he had been seen but for a moment, the false image had been broken into shivers. Lily had discovered that she had been deceived, and that her forgiveness had been asked, not by a god, but by an ordinary human being. As regarded the ungod-like man himself, this could make no difference. Having thought upon the matter deeply, she had resolved that she would not marry Mr. Crosbie, and had pledged herself to that effect to friends who never could have brought themselves to feel affection for him, even had she married him. But the shattering of the false image might have done John Eames a good turn. Lily knew that she had at any rate full permission from all her friends to throw in her lot with his—if she could persuade herself to do so. Mother, uncle, sister, brother-in-law, cousin—and now this new cousin’s bride that was to be—together with Lady Julia and a whole crowd of Allington and Guestwick friends, were in favour of such a marriage. There had been nothing against it but the fact that the other man had been dearer to her; and that other fact that poor Johnny lacked something—something of earnestness, something of manliness, something of that Phoebus divinity with which Crosbie had contrived to invest his own image. But, as I have said above, John had gradually grown, if not into divinity, at least into manliness; and the shattering of the false image had done him yeoman’s service. Now had come this accursed letter, and Lily, despite herself, despite her better judgment, could not sweep it away from her mind and make the letter as nothing to her. M. D. had promised not to interfere with her! There was no room for such interference, no possibility that such interference should take place. She hoped earnestly—so she told herself—that her old friend John Eames might have nothing to do with a woman so impudent and vulgar as must be this M. D.; but except as regarded old friendship, M. D. and John Eames, apart or together, could be as nothing to her. Therefore, I say that the letter had had the effect which the writer of it had desired.
All London was new to Lily Dale, and Mrs. Thorne was very anxious to show her everything that could be seen. She was to return to Allington before the flowers of May would have come, and the crowd and the glare and the fashion and the art of the Academy’s great exhibition must therefore remain unknown to her; but she was taken to see many pictures, and among others she was taken to see the pictures belonging to a certain nobleman who, with that munificence which is so amply enjoyed and so little recognised in England, keeps open house for the world to see the treasures which the wealth of his family had collected. The necessary order was procured, and on a certain brilliant April afternoon, Mrs. Thorne and her party found themselves in this nobleman’s drawing-room. Lily was with her, of course, and Emily Dunstable was there, and Bernard Dale, and Mrs. Thorne’s dear friend Mrs. Harold Smith, and Mrs. Thorne’s constant and useful attendant, Siph Dunn. They had nearly completed their delightful but wearying task of gazing at pictures, and Mrs. Harold Smith had declared that she would not look at another painting till the exhibition was open; three of the ladies were seated in the drawing-room, and Siph Dunn was standing before them, lecturing about art as though he had been brought up on the ancient masters; Emily and Bernard were lingering behind, and the others were simply delaying their departure till the truant lovers should have caught them. At this moment two gentlemen entered the room from the gallery, and the two gentlemen were Fowler Pratt and Adolphus Crosbie.
All the party except Mrs. Thorne knew Crosbie personally, and all of them except Mrs. Harold Smith knew something of the story of what had occurred between Crosbie and Lily. Siph Dunn had learned it all since the meeting in the park, having nearly learned it all from what he had seen with there with his eyes. But Mrs. Thorne, who knew Lily’s story, did not know Crosbie’s appearance. But there was his friend Fowler Pratt, who, as will be remembered, had dined with her but the other day; and she, with that outspoken and somewhat loud impulse which was natural to her, addressed him at once across the room, calling him by name. Had she not done so, the two men might probably have escaped through the room, in which case they would have met Bernard Dale and Emily Dunstable in the doorway. Fowler Pratt would have endeavoured so to escape, and to carry Crosbie with him, as he was quite alive to the expedience of saving Lily from such a meeting. But, as things turned out, escape from Mrs. Thorne was impossible.
“There’s Fowler Pratt,” she had said when they first entered, quite loud enough for Fowler Pratt to hear her. “Mr. Pratt, come here. How d’ye do? You dined with me last Tuesday, and you’ve never been to call.”
“I never recognise that obligation till after the middle of May,” said Mr. Pratt, shaking hands with Mrs. Thorne and Mrs. Smith, and bowing to Miss Dale.
“I don’t see the justice of that at all,” said Mrs. Thorne. “It seems to me that a good dinner is as much entitled to a morsel of pasteboard in April as at any other time. You won’t have another till you have called—unless you’re specially wanted.”
Crosbie would have gone on, but that in his attempt to do so he passed close by the chair on which Mrs. Harold Smith was sitting, and that he was accosted by her. “Mr. Crosbie,” she said, “I haven’t seen you for an age. Has it come to pass that you have buried yourself entirely?” He did not know how to extricate himself so as to move on at once. He paused, and hesitated, and then stopped, and made an attempt to talk to Mrs. Smith as though he were at his ease. The attempt was anything but successful; but having once stopped, he did not know how to put himself in motion again, so that he might escape. At this moment Bernard Dale and Emily Dunstable came up and joined the group; but neither of them had discovered who Crosbie was till they were close upon him.