“Assuredly they cannot. But it was not that that I meant. It may not be that I and mine should transfer ourselves to your roof and sojourn there.”
“Why should you not?”
“The reasons are many, and on the face of things. The reason, perhaps, the most on the face of it is to be found in my wife’s gown, and in my coat.” This Mr. Crawley said very gravely, looking neither to the right nor to the left nor at the face of any of them, nor at his own garment, nor at hers, but straight before him; and when he had so spoken he said not a word further—not going on to dilate on his poverty as the dean expected that he would do.
“At such a time such reasons should stand for nothing,” said the dean.
“And why not now as they always do, and always must till the power of tailors shall have waned, and the daughters of Eve shall toil and spin no more? Like to like is true, and should be held to be true, of all societies and of all compacts for co-operation and mutual living. Here, where, if I may venture to say so, you and I are like to like—for the new gloss of your coat;”—the dean, as it happened, had on at the moment a very old coat, his oldest coat, selected perhaps with some view to this special visit—”does not obtrude itself in my household, as would be the threadbare texture of mine in yours—I can open my mouth to you and converse with you at my ease; you are now to me that Frank Arabin who has so comforted me and so often confuted me; whom I may perhaps on an occasion have confuted—and perhaps have comforted. But were I sitting with you in your library in Barchester, my threadbare coat would be too much for me. I should be silent, if not sullen. I should feel the weight of all my poverty, and the greater weight of all your wealth. For my children, let them go. I have come to know that they will be better away from me.”
“Papa!” said Jane.
“Papa does not mean it,” said Grace, coming up to him and standing close to him.
There was silence amongst them for a few moments, and then the master of the house shook himself—literally shook himself, till he had shaken off the cloud. He had taken Grace by the hand, and thrusting out the other arm had got it round Jane’s waist. “When a man has girls, Arabin,” he said, “as you have, but not big girls yet like Grace here, of course he knows that they will fly away.”
“I shall not fly away,” said Jane.
“I don’t know what papa means,” said Grace.
Upon the whole the dean thought it the pleasantest visit he had ever made to Hogglestock, and when he got home he told his wife that he believed that the accusation made against Mr. Crawley had done him good. “I could not say a word in private to her,” he said, “but I did promise that you would go in and see her.” On the very next day Mrs. Arabin went over, and I think that the visit was a comfort to Mrs. Crawley.
CHAPTER LXXX
Miss Demolines Desires to Become a Finger-post
John Eames had passed Mrs. Thorne in the hall of her own house almost without noticing her as he took his departure from Lily Dale. She had told him as plainly as words could speak that she could not bring herself to be his wife—and he had believed her. He had sworn to himself that if he did not succeed now he would never ask her again. “It would be foolish and unmanly to do so,” he said to himself as he rushed along the street towards his club. No! That romance was over. At last there had come an end to it! “It has taken a good bit out of me,” he said, arresting his steps suddenly that he might stand still and think of it all. “By George, yes! A man doesn’t go through that kind of thing without losing some of the caloric. I couldn’t do it again if an angel came in my way.” He went to his club, and tried to be jolly. He ordered a good dinner, and got some man to come and dine with him. For an hour or so he held himself up, and did appear to be jolly. But as he walked home at night, and gave himself time to think over what had taken place with deliberation, he stopped in the gloom of a deserted street and leaning against the rails burst into tears. He had really loved her and she was never to be his. He had wanted her—and it is so painful a thing to miss what you want when you have done your very best to obtain it! To struggle in vain always hurts the pride; but the wound made by the vain struggle for a woman is sorer than any wound so made. He gnashed his teeth, and struck the iron railings with his stick—and then he hurried home, swearing that he would never give another thought to Lily Dale. In the dead of the night, thinking of it still, he asked himself whether it would not be a fine thing to wait another ten years, and then go to her again. In such a way would he not make himself immortal as a lover beyond any Jacob or any Leander?
The next day he went to his office and was very grave. When Sir Raffle complimented him on being back before his time, he simply said that when he had accomplished that for which he had gone, he had, of course, come back. Sir Raffle could not get a word out from him about Mr. Crawley. He was very grave, and intent upon his work. Indeed he was so serious that he quite afflicted Sir Raffle—whose mock activity felt itself to be confounded by the official zeal of his private secretary. During the whole of that day Johnny was resolving that there could be no cure for his malady but hard work. He would not only work hard at the office if he remained there, but he would take to heavy reading. He rather thought that he would go deep into Greek and do a translation, or take up the exact sciences and make a name for himself that way. But as he had enough for the life of a secluded literary man without his salary, he rather thought he would give up his office altogether. He had a mutton chop at home that evening, and spent his time in endeavouring to read out aloud to himself certain passages from the Iliad—for he had bought a Homer as he returned from his office. At nine o’clock he went, half-price, to the Strand Theatre. How he met there his old friend Boulger and went afterwards to “The Cock” and had a supper need not here be told with more accurate detail.
On the evening of the next day he was bound by his appointment to go to Porchester Terrace. In the moments of his enthusiasm about Homer he had declared to himself that he would never go near Miss Demolines again. Why should he? All that kind of thing was nothing to him now. He would simply send her his compliments and say that he was prevented by business from keeping his engagement. She, of course, would go on writing to him for a time, but he would simply leave her letters unanswered, and the thing, of course, would come to an end at last. He afterwards said something to Boulger about Miss Demolines—but that was during the jollity of their supper—and he then declared that he would follow out that little game. “I don’t see why a fellow isn’t to amuse himself, eh, Boulger, old boy?” Boulger winked and grinned, and said that some amusements were dangerous. “I don’t think that there is any danger there,” said Johnny. “I don’t believe she is thinking of that kind of thing herself—not with me at least. What she likes is the pretence of a mystery; and as it is amusing I don’t see why a fellow shouldn’t indulge her.” But that determination was pronounced after two mutton chops at “The Cock”, between one and two o’clock in the morning. On the next day he was cooler and wiser. Greek he thought might be tedious as he discovered that he would have to begin again from the very alphabet. He would therefore abandon that idea. Greek was not the thing for him, but he would take up the sanitary condition of the poor in London. A fellow could be of some use in that way. In the meantime he would keep his appointment with Miss Demolines, simply because it was an appointment. A gentleman should always keep his word to a lady!
He did keep his appointment with Miss Demolines, and was with her almost precisely at the hour she had named. She received him with a mysterious tranquillity which almost perplexed him. He remembered, however, that the way to enjoy the society of Miss Demolines was to take her in all her moods with perfect seriousness, and was therefore very tranquil himself. On the present occasion she did not rise as he entered the room, and hardly spoke as she tendered to him the tips of her fingers to be touched. As she said almost nothing, he said nothing at all, but sank into a chair and stretched his legs out comfortably before him. It had been always understood between them that she was to bear the burden of the conversation.
“You’ll have a cup of tea?” she said.
“Yes—if you do.” Then the page brought the tea, and John Eames amused himself by swallowing three slices of very thin bread and butter.
“None for me—thanks,” said Madalina. “I rarely eat after dinner, and not often much then. I fancy that I should best like a world in which there was no eating.”
“A good dinner is a very good thing,” said John. And then there was again silence. He was aware that some great secret was to be told him this evening, but he was much too discreet to show any curiosity upon that subject. He sipped his tea to the end, and then, having got up to put his cup down, stood on the rug with his back to the fire. “Have you been out to-day?” he asked.
“Indeed I have.”
“And you are tired?”
“Very tired!”
“Then perhaps I had better not keep you up.”
“Your remaining will make no difference in that respect. I don’t suppose that I shall be in bed for the next four hours. But do as you like about going.”
“I am in no hurry,” said Johnny. Then he sat down again, stretched out his legs and made himself comfortable.
“I have been to see that woman,” said Madalina after a pause.
“What woman?”
“Maria Clutterbuck—as I must always call her; for I cannot bring myself to pronounce the name of that poor wretch who was done to death.”
“He blew his brains out in delirium tremens,” said Johnny.
“And what made him drink?” said Madalina with emphasis. “Never mind. I decline altogether to speak of it. Such a scene as I have had! I was driven at last to tell her what I thought of her. Anything so callous, so heartless, so selfish, so stone-cold, and so childish, I never saw before! That Maria was childish and selfish I always knew—but I thought there was some heart—a vestige of heart. I found to-day that there was none—none. If you please we won’t speak of her any more.”
“Certainly not,” said Johnny.
“You need not wonder that I am tired and feverish.”
“That sort of thing is fatiguing, I dare say. I don’t know whether we do not lose more than we gain by those strong emotions.”
“I would rather die and go beneath the sod at once, than live without them,” said Madalina.
“It’s a matter of taste,” said Johnny.
“It is there that that poor wretch is so deficient. She is thinking now, this moment, of nothing but her creature comforts. That tragedy has not even stirred her pulses.”
“If her pulses were stirred ever so, that would not make her happy.”
“Happy! Who is happy? Are you happy?”
Johnny thought of Lily Dale and paused before he answered. No; certainly he was not happy. But he was not going to talk about his unhappiness to Miss Demolines! “Of course I am—as jolly as a sandboy,” he said.
“Mr. Eames,” said Madalina raising herself on her sofa, “if you can not express yourself in language more suitable to the occasion and to the scene than that, I think that you had better—”
“Hold my tongue.”
“Just so—though I should not have chosen myself to use words so abruptly discourteous.”
“What did I say—jolly as a sandboy? There is nothing wrong in that. What I meant was, that I think that this world is a very good sort of world, and that a man can get along in it very well if he minds his
p
‘s and
q
‘s.”
“But suppose it’s a woman?”
“Easier still.”
“And suppose she does not mind her
p
‘s and
q
‘s?”
“Women always do.”
“Do they? Your knowledge of women goes as far as that, does it? Tell me fairly—do you think you know anything about women?” Madalina, as she asked the question, looked full into his face, and shook her locks and smiled. When she shook her locks and smiled, there was a certain attraction about her of which John Eames was fully sensible. She could throw a special brightness into her eyes, which, though it probably betokened nothing beyond ill-natured mischief, seemed to convey a promise of wit and intellect.
“I don’t mean to make any boast about it,” said Johnny.
“I doubt whether you know anything. The pretty simplicity of your excellent Lily Dale has sufficed for you.”
“Never mind about her,” said Johnny impatiently.
“I do not mind about her in the least. But an insight into that sort of simplicity will not teach the character of a real woman. You cannot learn the flavour of wines by sipping sherry and water. For myself I do not think that I am simple. I own it fairly. If you must have simplicity, I cannot be to your taste.”
“Nobody likes partridge always,” said Johnny, laughing.
“I understand you, sir. And though what you say is not complimentary, I am willing to forgive that fault for its truth. I don’t consider myself to be always partridge, I can assure you. I am as changeable as the moon.”
“And as fickle?”
“I say nothing about that, sir. I leave you to find that out. It is a man’s business to discover that for himself. If you really do know aught of women—”
“I did not say that I did.”
“But if you do, you will perhaps have discovered that a woman may be as changeable as the moon, and yet as true as the sun—that she may flit from flower to flower, quite unheeding while no passion exists, but that a passion fixes her at once. Do you believe me?” Now she looked into his eyes again, but did not smile and did not shake her locks.
“Oh, yes—that’s true enough. And when they have a lot of children, then they become steady as milestones.”
“Children!” said Madalina, getting up and walking about the room.
“They do have them, you know,” said Johnny.
“Do you mean to say, sir, that I should be a milestone?”
“A finger-post,” said Johnny, “to show a fellow the way he ought to go.”
She walked twice across the room without speaking. Then she came and stood opposite to him, still without speaking—and then she walked about again. “What could a woman better be, than a finger-post, as you call it, with such a purpose?”
“Nothing better, of course—though a milestone to tell a fellow his distances, is very good.”
“Psha!”
“You don’t like the idea of being a milestone.”
“No!”
“Then you can make up your mind to be a finger-post.”
“John, shall I be finger-post for you?” She stood and looked at him for a moment or two, with her eyes full of love, as though she were going to throw herself into his arms. And she would have done so, no doubt, instantly, had he risen to his legs. As it was, after having gazed at him for the moment with her love-laden eyes, she flung herself on the sofa, and hid her face among the cushions.
He had felt that it was coming for the last quarter of an hour—and he had felt, also, that he was quite unable to help himself. He did not believe that he should ever be reduced to marrying Miss Demolines, but he did see plainly enough that he was getting into trouble; and yet, for his life, he could not help himself. The moth who flutters round the light knows that he is being burned, and yet he cannot fly away from it. When Madalina had begun to talk to him about women in general, and then about herself, and had told him that such a woman as herself—even one so liable to the disturbance of violent emotions—might yet be as true and honest as the sun, he knew that he ought to get up and make his escape. He did not exactly know how the catastrophe would come, but he was quite sure that if he remained there he would be called upon in some way for a declaration of his sentiments—and that the call would be one which all his wit would not enable him to answer with any comfort. It was very well jesting about milestones, but every jest brought him nearer to the precipice. He perceived that however ludicrous might be the image which his words produced, she was clever enough in some way to turn that image to her own purpose. He had called a woman a finger-post, and forthwith she had offered to come to him and be a finger-post to him for life! What was he to say to her? It was clear that he must say something. As at this moment she was sobbing violently, he could not pass the offer by as a joke. Women will say that his answer should have been very simple, and his escape very easy. But men will understand that it is not easy to reject even a Miss Demolines when she offers herself for matrimony. And, moreover—as Johnny bethought himself at this crisis of his fate—Lady Demolines was no doubt at the other side of the drawing-room door, ready to stop him, should he attempt to run away. In the meantime the sobs on the sofa became violent, and still more violent. He had not even yet made up his mind what to do, when Madalina, springing to her feet, stood before him, with her curls wildly waving and her arms extended. “Let it be as though it were unsaid,” she exclaimed. John Eames had not the slightest objection; but, nevertheless, there was a difficulty even in this. Were he simply to assent to this latter proposition, it could not be but that the feminine nature of Miss Demolines would be outraged by so uncomplimentary an acquiescence. He felt that he ought at least to hesitate a little—to make some pretence at closing upon the rich offer that had been made to him; only that were he to show any such pretence the rich offer would, no doubt, be repeated. His Madalina had twitted him in the earlier part of their interview with knowing nothing of the nature of women. He did know enough to feel assured that any false step on his part now would lead him into very serious difficulties. “Let it be as though it were unsaid! Why, oh why, have I betrayed myself?” exclaimed Madalina.