The Last Chronicle of Barset Part 137

"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 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 often 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 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 Lx.x.x.

MISS DEMOLINES DESIRES TO BECOME A FINGER-POST.

John Eames had pa.s.sed 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 other 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 that 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 loud to himself certain pa.s.sages 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 c.o.c.k" 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 amus.e.m.e.nts 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 p.r.o.nounced after two mutton chops at "The c.o.c.k,"

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 with swallowing three slices of very thin bread and b.u.t.ter.

"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 to him during 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 p.r.o.nounce 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."