The Last Chronicle of Barset

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"We don't know where Calvary was," said the dean.

"I fancy that I should know,--should know enough," said the illogical
and unreasonable Mr Crawley. "Is it true that you can look over from
the spot on which He stood as He came across the brow of the hill,
and see the huge stones of the temple placed there by Solomon's
men,--as He saw them,--right across the brook Cedron, is it not?"

"It is all there, Crawley,--just as your knowledge of it tells you."

"In the privilege of seeing those places I can almost envy a man
his--money." The last words he uttered after a pause. He had been
about to say that under such temptation he could almost envy a man
his promotion; but he bethought himself that on such an occasion as
this it would be better that he should spare the dean. "And now, if
you wish it, we will go in. I fancy that I see my wife at the window,
as though she were waiting for us." So saying, he strode on along the
little path, and the dean was fain to follow him, even though he had
said so little of all that he had intended to say.

As soon as he was with Mrs Crawley he repeated his apology about the
cheque, and found himself better able to explain himself than he
could do when he was alone with her husband. "Of course, it has been
our fault," he said.

"Oh, no," said Mrs Crawley, "how can you have been in fault when your
only object was to do us good?" But, nevertheless, the dean took the
blame upon his own shoulders, or, rather upon those of his wife, and
declared himself to be responsible for all the trouble about the
cheque.

"Let it go," said Crawley, after sitting awhile in silence; "let it
pass."

"You cannot wonder, Crawley," said the dean, "that I should have felt
myself obliged to speak of it."

"For the future it will be well that it should be forgotten," said
Crawley; "or, if not forgotten, treated as though forgotten. And now,
dean, what must I do about the living?"

"Just resume it, as though nothing happened."

"But that may hardly be done without the bishop's authority. I speak,
of course, with deference to your higher and better information on
such subjects. My experience in the taking up and laying down of
livings has not been extended. But it seemeth to me that though it
may certainly be in your power to nominate me again to the perpetual
curacy of this parish,--presuming your patronage to be unlimited and
not to reach you in rotation only,--yet the bishop may demand to
institute again, and must so demand, unless he pleases to permit that
my letter to him shall be revoked and cancelled."

"Of course he will not do anything of that kind. He must know the
circumstances as well as you and I do."

"At present they tell me he is much afflicted by the death of his
wife, and, therefore, can hardly be expected to take immediate
action. There came here on the last Sunday one Mr Snapper, his
lordship's chaplain."

"We all know Snapper," said the dean. "Snapper is not a bad little
fellow."

"I say nothing of his being bad, my friend, but merely mention the
fact that on Sunday morning last he performed the service in our
church. On the Sunday previous, one Mr Thumble was here."

"We all know Thumble, too," said the dean; "or, at least, know
something about him."

"He has been a thorn in our sides," said Mrs Crawley, unable to
restrain the expression of her dislike when Mr Thumble's name was
mentioned.

"Nay, my dear, nay;--do not allow yourself the use of language so
strong against a brother. Our flesh at that time was somewhat prone
to fester, and little thorns made us very sore."

"He is a horrible man," said Jane, almost in a whisper; but the words
were distinctly audible by the dean.

"They need not come any more," said Arabin.

"That is where I fear we differ. I think they must come,--or some
others in their place,--till the bishop shall have expressed his
pleasure to the contrary. I have submitted myself to his lordship,
and, having done so, I feel that I cannot again go up into my pulpit
till he shall have authorised me to do so. For a time, Arabin, I
combatted the bishop, believing,--then as now,--that he put forth his
hand against me after a fashion which the law had not sanctioned. And
I made bold to stand in his presence and to tell him that I would not
obey him, except in things legal. But afterwards, when he proceeded
formally, through the action of a commission, I submitted myself. And
I regard myself still as being under submission."

It was impossible to shake him. Arabin remained there for more than
an hour, trying to pass on to another subject, but being constantly
brought back by Mr Crawley himself to the fact of his own dependent
position. Nor would he condescend to supplicate the bishop. It was,
he surmised, the duty of Dr Tempest, together with the other four
clergymen, to report to the bishop on the question of the alleged
theft; and then doubtless the bishop, when he had duly considered
the report, and,--as Mr Crawley seemed to think was essentially
necessary,--had sufficiently recovered from the grief of his wife's
death, would, at his leisure, communicate his decision to Mr
Crawley. Nothing could be more complete than Mr Crawley's humility in
reference to the bishop; and he never seemed to be tired of declaring
that he had submitted himself!

And then the dean, finding it to be vain to expect to be left alone
with Mr Crawley for a moment,--in vain also to wait for a proper
opening for that which he had to say,--rushed violently at his other
subject. "And now, Mrs Crawley," he said. "Mrs Arabin wishes you all
to come over to the deanery for a while and stay with us."

"Mrs Arabin is too kind," said Mrs Crawley, looking across at her
husband.

"We should like it of all things," said the dean, with perhaps more
of good nature than of truth. "Of course you must have been knocked
about a good deal."

"Indeed we have," said Mrs Crawley.

"And till you are somewhat settled again, I think that the change of
scene would be good for all of you. Come, Crawley, I'll talk to you
every evening about Jerusalem for as long as you please;--and then
there will perhaps come back to us something of the pleasantness of
old days." As she heard this Mrs Crawley's eyes became full of tears,
and she could not altogether hide them. What she had endured during
the last four months had almost broken her spirit. The burden had at
last been too heavy for her strength. "You cannot fancy, Crawley,
how often I have thought of the old days and wished that they might
return. I have found it very hard to get an opportunity of saying so
much to you; but I will say it now."

"It may hardly be as you say," said Crawley, grimly.

"You mean that the old days can never be brought back?"

"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.

"Non 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.

John had now risen from his chair, and coming up to her took her by
the arm and spoke a word. "Compose yourself," he said. He spoke in
his most affectionate voice, and he stood very close to her.

"How easy it is to bid me to do that," said Madalina. "Tell the sea
to compose itself when it rages."