The Last Chronicle of Barset

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"That's sheer nonsense," said the archdeacon.

"It's not nonsense at all," said Mrs Grantly.

"Then I suppose I was to hold my tongue and say nothing?" said the
archdeacon; and as he spoke he banged the door between his
dressing-room and Mrs Grantly's bedroom.

On the first day of the new year Major Grantly spoke his mind to
his mother. The archdeacon had gone into Barchester, having in vain
attempted to induce his son to go with him. Mr Harding was in the
library reading a little and sleeping a little, and dreaming of
old days and old friends, and perhaps, sometimes, of the old wine.
Mrs Grantly was alone in a small sitting-room which she frequented
upstairs, when suddenly her son entered the room. "Mother," he said,
"I think it better to tell you that I am going to Allington."

"To Allington, Henry?" She knew very well who was at Allington, and
what must be the business which would take him there.

"Yes, mother. Miss Crawley is there, and there are circumstances
which make it incumbent on me to see her without delay."

"What circumstances, Henry?"

"As I intend to ask her to be my wife, I think it best to do so now.
I owe it to her and to myself that she should not think that I am
deterred by her father's position."

"But would it not be reasonable that you should be deterred by her
father's position?"

"No, I think not. I think it would be dishonest as well as
ungenerous. I cannot bring myself to brook such delay. Of course I am
alive to the misfortune which has fallen upon her,--upon her and me,
too, should she ever become my wife. But it is one of those burdens
which a man should have shoulders broad enough to bear."

"Quite so, if she were your wife, or even if you were engaged to her.
Then honour would require it of you, as well as affection. As it is,
your honour does not require it, and I think you should hesitate, for
all our sakes, and especially for Edith's."

"It will do Edith no harm; and, mother, if you alone were concerned,
I think you would feel that it would not hurt you."

"I was not thinking of myself, Henry."

"As for my father, the very threats which he has used make me
conscious that I have only to measure the price. He has told me that
he will stop my allowance."

"But that may not be the worst. Think how you are situated. You are
the younger son of a man who will be held to be justified in making
an elder son, if he thinks fit to do so."

"I can only hope that he will be fair to Edith. If you will tell him
that from me, it is all that I will ask you to do."

"But you will see him yourself?"

"No, mother; not till I have been to Allington. Then I will see him
again or not, just as he pleases. I shall stop at Guestwick, and
will write to you a line from thence. If my father decides on doing
anything, let me know at once, as it will be necessary that I should
get rid of the lease of my house."

"Oh, Henry!"

"I have thought a great deal about it, mother, and I believe I am
right. Whether I am right or wrong, I shall do it. I will not ask
you now for any promise or pledge; but should Miss Crawley become my
wife, I hope that you at least will not refuse to see her as your
daughter." Having so spoken, he kissed his mother, and was about to
leave the room; but she held him by his arm, and he saw that her
eyes were full of tears. "Dearest mother, if I grieve you I am sorry
indeed."

"Not me, not me, not me," she said.

"For my father, I cannot help it. Had he not threatened me I should
have told him also. As he has done so, you must tell him. But give
him my kindest love."

"Oh, Henry; you will be ruined. You will, indeed. Can you not wait?
Remember how headstrong your father is, and yet how good;--and how he
loves you! Think of all that he has done for you. When did he refuse
you anything?"

"He has been good to me, but in this I cannot obey him. He should not
ask me."

"You are wrong. You are indeed. He has a right to expect that you
will not bring disgrace upon the family."

"Nor will I;--except such disgrace as may attend upon poverty.
Good-by, mother. I wish you could have said one kind word to me."

"Have I not said a kind word?"

"Not as yet, mother."

"I would not for worlds speak unkindly to you. If it were not for
your father I would bid you bring whom you pleased home to me as your
wife; and I would be as a mother to her. And if this girl should
become your wife--"

"It shall not be my fault if she does not."

"I will try to love her--some day."

Then the major went, leaving Edith at the rectory, as requested by
his mother. His own dog-cart and servant were at Plumstead, and he
drove himself home to Cosby Lodge.

When the archdeacon returned the news was told to him at once. "Henry
has gone to Allington to propose to Miss Crawley," said Mrs Grantly.

"Gone,--without speaking to me!"

"He left his love, and said that it was useless his remaining, as he
knew he should only offend you."

"He has made his bed, and he must lie upon it," said the archdeacon.
And then there was not another word said about Grace Crawley on that
occasion.




CHAPTER XXIII

Miss Lily Dale's Resolution


The ladies at the Small House at Allington breakfasted always at
nine,--a liberal nine; and the postman whose duty it was to deliver
letters in that village at half-past eight, being also liberal in
his ideas as to time, always arrived punctually in the middle of
breakfast, so that Mrs Dale expected her letters, and Lily hers,
just before their second cup of tea, as though the letters formed
a part of the morning meal. Jane, the maidservant, always brought
them in, and handed them to Mrs Dale,--for Lily had in these days
come to preside at the breakfast table; and then there would be an
examination of the outsides before the envelopes were violated, and
as each knew pretty well all the circumstances of the correspondence
of the other, there would be some guessing as to what this or that
epistle might contain; and after that a reading out loud of passages,
and not unfrequently of the entire letter. But now, at the time
of which I am speaking, Grace Crawley was at the Small House, and
therefore the common practice was somewhat in abeyance.

On one of the first days of the new year Jane brought in the letters
as usual, and handed them to Mrs Dale. Lily was at the time occupied
with the teapot, but still she saw the letters, and had not her hands
so full as to be debarred from the expression of her usual anxiety.
"Mamma, I'm sure I see two there for me," she said. "Only one for
you, Lily," said Mrs Dale. Lily instantly knew from the tone of the
voice that some letter had come, which by the very aspect of the
handwriting had disturbed her mother. "There is one for you, my
dear," said Mrs Dale, throwing a letter across the table to Grace.
"And one for you, Lily, from Bell. The others are for me." "And whom
are you yours from, mamma?" asked Lily. "One is from Mrs Jones; the
other, I think, is a letter on business." Then Lily said nothing
further, but she observed that her mother only opened one of her
letters at the breakfast-table. Lily was very patient;--not by
nature, I think, but by exercise and practice. She had, once in
her life, been too much in a hurry; and having then burned herself
grievously, she now feared the fire. She did not therefore follow her
mother after breakfast, but sat with Grace over the fire, hemming
diligently at certain articles of clothing which were intended for
use in the Hogglestock parsonage. The two girls were making a set of
new shirts for Mr Crawley. "But I know he will ask where they come
from," said Grace; "and then mamma will be scolded." "But I hope
he'll wear them," said Lily. "Sooner of later he will," said Grace;
"because mamma manages generally to have her way at last." Then
they went on for an hour or so, talking about the home affairs at
Hogglestock. But during the whole time Lily's mind was intent upon
her mother's letter.

Nothing was said about it at lunch, and nothing when they walked out
after lunch, for Lily was very patient. But during the walk Mrs Dale
became aware that her daughter was uneasy. These two watched each
other unconsciously with a closeness which hardly allowed a glance of
the eye, certainly not a tone of the voice, to pass unobserved. To
Mrs Dale it was everything in the world that her daughter should be,
if not happy at heart, at least tranquil; and to Lily, who knew that
her mother was always thinking of her, and of her alone, her mother
was the only human divinity now worthy of adoration. But nothing was
said about the letter during the walk.

When they came home it was nearly dusk, and it was their habit to
sit up for a while without candles, talking, till the evening had in
truth set in and the unmistakable and enforced idleness of remaining
without candles was apparent. During this time, Lily, demanding
patience of herself all the while, was thinking what she would do, or
rather what she would say, about the letter. That nothing would be
done or said in the presence of Grace Crawley was a matter of course,
nor would she do or say anything to get rid of Grace. She would
be very patient; but she would, at last, ask her mother about the
letter.

And then, as luck would have it, Grace Crawley got up and left the
room. Lily still waited for a few minutes, and, in order that her
patience might be thoroughly exercised, she said a word or two about
her sister Bell; how the eldest child's whooping-cough was nearly
well, and how the baby was doing wonderful things with its first
tooth. But as Mrs Dale had already seen Bell's letter, all this was
not intensely interesting. At last Lily came to the point and asked
her question. "Mamma, from whom was that other letter which you got
this morning?"

Our story will perhaps be best told by communicating the letter to
the reader before it was discussed with Lily. The letter was as
follows:--


GENERAL COMMITTEE OFFICE,
-- January, 186--


I should have said that Mrs Dale had not opened the letter till she
had found herself in the solitude of her own bedroom; and that then,
before doing so, she had examined the handwriting with anxious eyes.
When she first received it she thought she knew the writer, but was
not sure. Then she had glanced at the impression over the fastening,
and had known at once from whom the letter had come. It was from Mr
Crosbie, the man who had brought so much trouble into her house, who
had jilted her daughter; the only man in the world whom she had a
right to regard as a positive enemy to herself. She had no doubt
about it, as she tore the envelope open; and yet, when the address
given made her quite sure, a new feeling of shivering came upon her,
and she asked herself whether it might not be better that she should
send his letter back to him without reading it. But she read it.


MADAM [the letter began],--

You will be very much surprised to hear from me, and I
am quite aware that I am not entitled to the ordinary
courtesy of an acknowledgement from you, should you be
pleased to throw my letter on one side as unworthy of your
notice. But I cannot refrain from addressing you, and must
leave it to you to reply or not, as you may think fit.

I will only refer to that episode of my life with which
you are acquainted, for the sake of acknowledging my great
fault and of assuring you that I did not go unpunished. It
would be useless for me now to attempt to explain to you
the circumstances which led me into that difficulty which
ended in so great a blunder; but I will ask you to believe
that my folly was greater than my sin.

But I will come to my point at once. You are, no doubt,
aware that I married a daughter of Lord De Courcy, and
that I was separated from my wife a few weeks after our
unfortunate marriage. It is now something over twelve
months since she died at Baden-Baden in her mother's
house. I never saw her since the day we first parted. I
have not a word to say against her. The fault was mine in
marrying a woman whom I did not love and had never loved.
When I married Lady Alexandrina I loved, not her, but your
daughter.

I believe I may venture to say to you that your daughter
once loved me. From the day on which I last wrote to you
that terrible letter which told you of my fate, I have
never mentioned the name of Lily Dale to human ears. It
has been too sacred for my mouth,--too sacred for the
intercourse of any friendship with which I have been
blessed. I now use it for the first time to you, in order
that I may ask whether it be possible that her old love
should ever live again. Mine has lived always,--has never
faded for an hour, making me miserable during the years
that have passed since I saw her, but capable of making me
very happy, if I may be allowed to see her again.

You will understand my purpose now as well as though I
were to write pages. I have no scheme formed in my head
for seeing your daughter again. How can I dare to form a
scheme, when I am aware that the chance of success must be
so strong against me? But if you will tell me that there
can be a gleam of hope, I will obey any commands that
you can put upon me in any way that you may point out. I
am free again,--and she is free. I love her with all my
heart, and seem to long for nothing in the world but that
she should become my wife. Whether any of her old love may
still abide with her, you will know. If it do, it may even
yet prompt her to forgive one who, in spite of falseness
of conduct, has yet been true to her in heart.

I have the honour to be, Madam,
Your most obedient servant,

ADOLPHUS CROSBIE.


This was the letter which Mrs Dale had received, and as to which she
had not as yet said a word to Lily, or even made up her mind whether
she would say a word or not. Dearly as the mother and daughter loved
each other, thorough as was the confidence between them, yet the
name of Adolphus Crosbie had not been mentioned between them oftener,
perhaps, than half-a-dozen times since the blow had been struck.
Mrs Dale knew that their feelings about the man were altogether
different. She, herself, not only condemned him for what he had done,
believing it to be impossible that any shadow of excuse could be
urged for his offence, thinking that the fault had shown the man to
be mean beyond redemption,--but she had allowed herself actually to
hate him. He had in one sense murdered her daughter, and she believed
that she could never forgive him. But, Lily, as her mother well knew,
had forgiven this man altogether, had made excuses for him which
cleansed his sin of all its blackness in her own eyes, and was to
this day anxious as ever for his welfare and his happiness. Mrs Dale
feared that Lily did in truth love him still. If it was so, was she
not bound to show her this letter? Lily was old enough to judge for
herself,--old enough, and wise enough too. Mrs Dale told herself
half-a-score of times that morning that she could not be justified in
keeping the letter from her daughter.

But yet much she much wished that the letter had never been written,
and would have given very much to be able to put it out of the way
without injustice to Lily. To her thinking it would be impossible
that Lily should be happy marrying such a man. Such a marriage now
would be, as Mrs Dale thought, a degradation to her daughter. A
terrible injury had been done to her; but such reparation as this
would, in Mrs Dale's eyes, only make the injury deeper. And yet Lily
loved the man; and, loving him, how could she resist the temptation
of his offer? "Mamma, from whom was that letter which you got this
morning?" Lily asked. For a few moments Mrs Dale remained silent.
"Mamma," continued Lily, "I think I know whom it was from. If you
tell me to ask nothing further, of course I will not."

"No, Lily; I cannot tell you that."

"Then, mamma, out with it at once. What is the use of shivering on
the brink?"

"It was from Mr Crosbie."

"I knew it. I cannot tell you why, but I knew it. And now, mamma;--am
I to read it?"

"You shall do as you please, Lily."

"Then I please to read it."

"Listen to me a moment first. For myself, I wish that the letter had
never been written. It tells badly for the man, as I think of it. I
cannot understand how any man could have brought himself to address
either you or me, after having acted as he acted."

"But, mamma, we differ about all that, you know."

"Now he has written, and there is the letter,--if you choose to read
it."

Lily had it in her hand, but she still sat motionless, holding it.
"You think, mamma, I ought not to read it?"

"You must judge for yourself, dearest."

"And if I do not read it, what shall you do, mamma?"

"I shall do nothing;--or, perhaps, I should in such a case
acknowledge it, and tell him that we have nothing more to say to
him."

"That would be very stern."

"He has done that which makes some sternness necessary."

Then Lily was again silent, and still she sat motionless, with the
letter in her hand. "Mamma," she said at last, "if you tell me not to
read it, I will give it back unread. If you bid me exercise my own
judgment, I shall take it upstairs and read it."

"You must exercise your own judgment," said Mrs Dale. Then Lily got
up from her chair and walked slowly out of the room, and went to her
mother's chamber. The thoughts which passed through Mrs Dale's mind
while her daughter was reading the letter were very sad. She could
find no comfort anywhere. Lily, she had told herself, would surely
give way to this man's renewed expressions of affection, and she, Mrs
Dale herself, would be called upon to give her child to a man whom
she could neither love nor respect;--who, for aught she knew, she
could never cease to hate. And she could not bring herself to believe
that Lily would be happy with such a man. As for her own life,
desolate as it would be,--she cared little for that. Mothers know
that their daughters will leave them. Even widowed mothers, mothers
with but one child left,--such a one as was this mother,--are aware
that they will be left alone, and they can bring themselves to
welcome the sacrifice of themselves with something of satisfaction.
Mrs Dale and Lily had, indeed, of late become bound together
especially, so that the mother had been justified in regarding the
link which joined them as being firmer than that by which most
daughters are bound to their mothers;--but in all that she would have
found no regret. Even now, in these very days, she was hoping that
Lily might yet be brought to give herself to John Eames. But she
could not, after all that was come and gone, be happy in thinking
that Lily should be given to Adolphus Crosbie.

When Mrs Dale went upstairs to her own room before dinner Lily was
not there; nor were they alone together again that evening except
for a moment, when Lily, as usual, went into her mother's room when
she was undressing. But neither of them then said a word about the
letter. Lily during dinner and throughout the evening had borne
herself well, giving no sign of special emotion, keeping to herself
entirely her own thoughts about the proposition made to her. And
afterwards she had progressed diligently with the fabrication of Mr
Crawley's shirts, as though she had no such letter in her pocket. And
yet there was not a moment in which she was not thinking of it. To
Grace, just before she went to bed, she did say one word. "I wonder
whether it can ever come to a person to be so placed that there can
be no doing right, let what will be done;--that, do or not do, as you
may, it must be wrong?"

"I hope you are not in such a condition," said Grace.

"I am something near it," said Lily, "but perhaps if I look long
enough I shall see the light."

"I hope it will be a happy light at last," said Grace, who thought
that Lily was referring only to John Eames.

At noon on the next day Lily had still said nothing to her mother
about the letter; and then what she said was very little. "When must
you answer Mr Crosbie, mamma?"

"When, my dear?"

"I mean how long may you take? It need not be to-day."

"No;--certainly not to-day."

"Then I will talk it over with you to-morrow. It wants some
thinking;--does it not, mamma?"

"It would not want much with me, Lily."

"But then, mamma, you are not I. Believing as I believe, feeling as I
feel, it wants some thinking. That's what I mean."

"I wish I could help you, my dear."

"You shall help me,--to-morrow." The morrow came and Lily was still
very patient; but she had prepared herself, and had prepared the time
also, so that in the hour of the gloaming she was alone with her
mother, and sure that she might remain alone with her for an hour or
so. "Mamma, sit there," she said; "I will sit down here, and then I
can lean against you and be comfortable. You can bear as much of me
as that,--can't you, mamma?" Then Mrs Dale put her arm over Lily's
shoulder, and embraced her daughter. "And now, mamma, we will talk
about this wonderful letter."

"I do not know, dear, that I have anything to say about it."

"But you must have something to say about it, mamma. You must bring
yourself to have something to say,--to have a great deal to say."

"You know what I think as well as though I talked for a week."

"That won't do, mamma. Come, you must not be hard with me."

"Hard, Lily!"

"I don't mean that you will hurt me, or not give me any food,--or
that you will not go on caring about me more than anything else in
the whole world ten times over;--" And Lily as she spoke tightened
the embrace of her mother's arm round her neck. "I'm not afraid
you'll be hard in that way. But you must soften your heart so as to
be able to mention his name and talk about him, and tell me what I
ought to do. You must see with my eyes, and hear with my ears, and
feel with my heart;--and then, when I know that you have done that,
I must judge with your judgment."

"I wish you to use your own."

"Yes;--because you won't see with my eyes and hear with my ears.
That's what I call being hard. Though you should feed me with blood
from your breast, I should call you a hard pelican, unless you could
give me also the sympathy which I demand from you. You see, mamma, we
have never allowed ourselves to speak of this man."

"What need has there been, dearest?"

"Only because we have been thinking of him. Out of the full heart the
mouth speaketh;--that is, the mouth does so when the full heart is
allowed to have its own way comfortably."

"There are things which should be forgotten."

"Forgotten, mamma!"

"The memory of which should not be fostered by much talking."

"I have never blamed you, mamma; never, even in my heart. I have
known how good and gracious and sweet you have been. But I have often
accused myself of cowardice because I have not allowed his name to
cross my lips either to you or to Bell. To talk of forgetting such an
accident as that is a farce. And as for fostering the memory of it--!
Do you think that I have ever spent a night from that time to this
without thinking of him? Do you imagine that I have ever crossed
our own lawn, or gone down through the garden-path there, without
thinking of the times when he and I walked there together? There
needs no fostering for such memories as those. They are weeds which
will grow rank and strong though nothing be done to foster them.
There is the earth and the rain, and that is enough for them. You
cannot kill them if you would, and they certainly will not die
because you are careful not to hoe and rake the ground."

"Lily, you forget how short the time has been as yet."

"I have thought it very long; but the truth is, mamma, that this
non-fostering of memories, as you call it, has not been the real
cause of our silence. We have not spoken of Mr Crosbie because we
have not thought alike about him. Had you spoken you would have
spoken with anger, and I could not endure to hear him abused. That
has been it."

"Partly so, Lily."

"Now we must talk of him, and you must not abuse him. We must talk of
him, because something must be done about his letter. Even it be left
unanswered, it cannot be so left without discussion. And yet you must
say no evil of him."

"Am I to think that he behaved well?"

"No, mamma; you are not to think that; but you are to look upon his
fault as a fault that has been forgiven."

"It cannot be forgiven, dear."

"But, mamma, when you go to heaven--"

"My dear!"

"But you will go to heaven, mamma, and why should I not speak of it?
You will go to heaven, and yet I suppose you have been very wicked,
because we are all very wicked. But you won't be told of your
wickedness there. You won't be hated there, because you were this or
that when you were here."

"I hope not, Lily; but isn't your argument almost profane?"

"No; I don't think so. We ask to be forgiven just as we forgive. That
is the way in which we hope to be forgiven, and therefore it is the
way in which we ought to forgive. When you say that prayer at night,
mamma, do you ever ask yourself whether you have forgiven him?"