The Last Chronicle of Barset

and was trying to serve Johnny⁠—as other people had tried to do, very ineffectually. When this suspicion came upon her she would shut her heart against her lover’s praises, and swear that she would stand by those two letters which she had written in her book at home. But the suspicion would not be always there, and there did come upon her a conviction that her lover was more esteemed among men and women than she had been accustomed to believe. Her cousin, Bernard Dale, who certainly was regarded in the world as somebody, spoke of him as his equal; whereas in former days Bernard had always regarded Johnny Eames as standing low in the world’s regard. Then Lily, when alone, would remember a certain comparison which she once made between Adolphus Crosbie and John Eames, when neither of the men had as yet pleaded his cause to her, and which had been very much in favour of the former. She had then declared that Johnny was a “mere clerk.” She had a higher opinion of him now⁠—a much higher opinion, even though he could never be more to her than a friend.

In these days Lily’s new ally, Emily Dunstable, seemed to Lily to be so happy! There was in Emily a complete realization of that idea of ante-nuptial blessedness of which Lily had often thought so much. Whatever Emily did she did for Bernard; and, to give Captain Dale his due, he received all the sweets which were showered upon him with becoming signs of gratitude. I suppose it is always the case at such times that the girl has the best of it, and on this occasion Emily Dunstable certainly made the most of her happiness.

“I do envy you,” Lily said one day. The acknowledgment seemed to have been extorted from her involuntarily. She did not laugh as she spoke, or follow up what she had said with other words intended to take away the joke of what she had uttered⁠—had it been a joke; but she sat silent, looking at the girl who was rearranging flowers which Bernard had brought to her.

“I can’t give him up to you, you know,” said Emily.

“I don’t envy you him, but ‘it,’ ” said Lily.

“Then go and get an ‘it’ for yourself. Why don’t you have an ‘it’ for yourself? You can have an ‘it’ tomorrow, if you like⁠—or two or three, if all that I hear is true.”

“No, I can’t,” said Lily. “Things have gone wrong with me. Don’t ask me anything more about it. Pray don’t. I shan’t speak of it if you do.”

“Of course I will not if you tell me I must not.”

“I do tell you so. I have been a fool to say anything about it. However, I have got over my envy now, and am ready to go out with your aunt. Here she is.”

“Things have gone wrong with me.” She repeated the same words to herself over and over again. With all the efforts which she had made she could not quite reconcile herself to the two letters which she had written in the book. This coming up to London, and riding in the Park, and going to the theatres, seemed to unsettle her. At home she had schooled herself down into quiescence, and made herself think that she believed that she was satisfied with the prospects of her life. But now she was all astray again, doubting about herself, hankering after something over and beyond that which seemed to be allotted to her⁠—but, nevertheless, assuring herself that she never would accept of anything else.

I must not, if I can help it, let the reader suppose that she was softening her heart to John Eames because John Eames was spoken well of in the world. But with all of us, in the opinion which we form of those around us, we take unconsciously the opinion of others. A woman is handsome because the world says so. Music is charming to us because it charms others. We drink our wines with other men’s palates, and look at our pictures with other men’s eyes. When Lily heard John Eames praised by all around her, it could not be but that she should praise him too⁠—not out loud, as others did, but in the silence of her heart. And then his constancy to her had been so perfect! If that other one had never come! If it could be that she might begin again, and that she might be spared that episode in her life which had brought him and her together!

“When is Mr. Eames going to be back?” Mrs. Thorne said at dinner one day. On this occasion the squire was dining at Mrs. Thorne’s house; and there were three or four others there⁠—among them a Mr. Harold Smith, who was in Parliament, and his wife, and John Eames’s especial friend, Sir Raffle Buffle. The question was addressed to the squire, but the squire was slow to answer, and it was taken up by Sir Raffle Buffle.

“He’ll be back on the 15th,” said the knight, “unless he means to play truant. I hope he won’t do that, as his absence has been a terrible inconvenience to me.” Then Sir Raffle explained that John Eames was his private secretary, and that Johnny’s journey to the Continent had been made with, and could not have been made without, his sanction. “When I came to hear the story, of course I told him that he must go. ‘Eames,’ I said, ‘take the advice of a man who knows the world. Circumstanced as you are, you are bound to go.’ And he went.”

“Upon my word that was very good-natured of you,” said Mrs. Thorne.

“I never keep a fellow to his desk who has really got important business elsewhere,” said Sir Raffle. “The country, I say, can afford to do as much as that for her servants. But then I like to know that the business is business. One doesn’t choose to