The Last Chronicle of Barset. Anthony Trollope
know him, then?”
“Yes, sir; I know Major Grantly,—and Edith. I never saw Archdeacon Grantly.”
“Then, my dear, you never saw a very famous pillar of the church. I remember when people used to talk a great deal about Archdeacon Grantly; but when his time came to be made a bishop, he was not sufficiently new-fangled; and so he got passed by. He is much better off as he is, I should say. Bishops have to work very hard, my dear.”
“Do they, sir?”
“So they tell me. And the archdeacon is a wealthy man. So Henry Grantly has got an only daughter? I hope she is a nice child, for I remember liking him well.”
“She is a very nice child, indeed, Mr. Dale. She could not be nicer. And she is so lovely.” Then Mr. Dale looked into his young companion’s face, struck by the sudden animation of her words, and perceived for the first time that she was very pretty.
After this Grace became accustomed to the strangeness of the faces round her, and managed to eat her dinner without much perturbation of spirit. When after dinner the squire proposed to her that they should drink the health of her papa and mamma, she was almost reduced to tears, and yet she liked him for doing it. It was terrible to her to have them mentioned, knowing as she did that every one who mentioned them must be aware of their misery,—for the misfortune of her father had become notorious in the country; but it was almost more terrible to her that no allusion should be made to them; for then she would be driven to think that her father was regarded as a man whom the world could not afford to mention. “Papa and mamma,” she just murmured, raising her glass to her lips. “Grace, dear,” said Lily from across the table, “here’s papa and mamma, and the young man at Marlborough who is carrying everything before him.” “Yes; we won’t forget the young man at Marlborough,” said the squire. Grace felt this to be good-natured, because her brother at Marlborough was the one bright spot in her family,—and she was comforted.
“And we will drink the health of my friend, John Eames,” said Lady Julia.
“John Eames’ health,” said the squire, in a low voice.
“Johnny’s health,” said Mrs. Dale; but Mrs. Dale’s voice was not very brisk.
“John’s health,” said Dr. Crofts and Mrs. Crofts in a breath.
“Here’s the health of Johnny Eames,” said Lily; and her voice was the clearest and the boldest of them all. But she made up her mind that if Lady Julia could not be induced to spare her for the future, she and Lady Julia must quarrel. “No one can understand,” she said to her mother that evening, “how dreadful it is,—this being constantly told before one’s family and friends that one ought to marry a certain young man.”
“She didn’t say that, my dear.”
“I should much prefer that she should, for then I could get up on my legs and answer her off the reel.” Of course everybody there understood what she meant,—including old John Bates, who stood at the sideboard and coolly drank the toast himself.
“He always does that to all the family toasts on Christmas Day. Your uncle likes it.”
“That wasn’t a family toast, and John Bates had no right to drink it.”
After dinner they all played cards,—a round game,—and the squire put in the stakes. “Now, Grace,” said Lily, “you are the visitor and you must win, or else uncle Christopher won’t be happy. He always likes a young lady visitor to win.”
“But I never played a game of cards in my life.”
“Go and sit next to him and he’ll teach you. Uncle Christopher, won’t you teach Grace Crawley? She never saw a Pope Joan board in her life before.”
“Come here, my dear, and sit next to me. Dear, dear, dear; fancy Henry Grantly having a little girl. What a handsome lad he was. And it seems only yesterday.” If it was so that Lily had said a word to her uncle about Grace and the major, the old squire had become on a sudden very sly. Be that as it may, Grace Crawley thought that he was a pleasant old man; and though, while talking to him about Edith, she persisted in not learning to play Pope Joan, so that he could not contrive that she should win, nevertheless the squire took to her very kindly, and told her to come up with Lily and see him sometimes while she was staying at the Small House. The squire in speaking of his sister-in-law’s cottage always called it the Small House.
“Only think of my winning,” said Lady Julia, drawing together her wealth. “Well, I’m sure I want it bad enough, for I don’t at all know whether I’ve got any income of my own. It’s all John Eames’ fault, my dear, for he won’t go and make those people settle it in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.” Poor Lily, who was standing on the hearth-rug, touched her mother’s arm. She knew that Johnny’s name was lugged in with reference to Lady Julia’s money altogether for her benefit. “I wonder whether she ever had a Johnny of her own,” she said to her mother, “and, if so, whether she liked it when her friends sent the town-crier round to talk about him.”
“She means to be good-natured,” said Mrs. Dale.
“Of course she does. But it is such a pity when people won’t understand.”
“My uncle didn’t bite you after all, Grace,” said Lily to her friend as they were going home at night, by the pathway which led from the garden of one house to the garden of the other.
“I like Mr. Dale very much,” said Grace. “He was very kind to me.”
“There is some queer-looking animal of whom they say that he is better than he looks, and I always think of that saying when I think of my uncle.”
“For shame, Lily,” said her mother. “Your uncle, for his age, is as good a looking man as I know. And he always looks like just what he is,—an English gentleman.”
“I didn’t mean to say a word against his dear old face and figure, mamma; but his heart, and mind, and general disposition, as they come out in experience and days of trial, are so much better than the samples of them which he puts out on the counter for men and women to judge by. He wears well, and he washes well,—if you know what I mean, Grace.”
“Yes; I think I know what you mean.”
“The Apollos of the world,—I don’t mean in outward looks, mamma,—but the Apollos in heart, the men,—and the women too,—who are so full of feeling, so soft-natured, so kind, who never say a cross word, who never get out of bed on the wrong side in the morning,—it so often turns out that they won’t wash.”
Such was the expression of Miss Lily Dale’s experience.
Chapter XVII.
Mr. Crawley Is Summoned to Barchester.
When Mr. Thumble reported himself and his failure at the palace, he strove hard to avoid seeing Mrs. Proudie, but not successfully. He knew something of the palace habits, and did manage to reach the bishop alone on the Sunday evening, justifying himself to his lordship for such an interview by the remarkable circumstances of the case and the importance of his