“He will be very comfortable without any such word,” said Lily, laughing.
“But he is not comfortable; of that you may be very sure.”
“Yours ever and unalterably, J. E.,” said Lily to herself.
“You do not doubt his affection?” continued Mrs. Arabin.
“I neither doubt it nor credit it.”
“Then I think you wrong him. And the reason why I have ventured to come to you is that you may know the impression which he has made upon one who was but the other day a stranger to him. I am sure that he loves you.”
“I think he is light of heart.”
“Oh, no, Miss Dale.”
“And how am I to become his wife unless I love him well enough myself? Mrs. Arabin, I have made up my mind about it. I shall never become any man’s wife. Mamma and I are all in all together, and we shall remain together.” As soon as these words were out of her mouth, she hated herself for having spoken them. There was a maudlin, missish, namby-mamby sentimentality about them which disgusted her. She specially desired to be straightforward, resolute of purpose, honest-spoken, and free from all touch of affectation. And yet she had excused herself from marrying John Eames after the fashion of a sick schoolgirl. “It is no good talking about it any more,” she said, getting up from her chair quickly.
“You are not angry with me;—or at any rate you will forgive me?”
“I’m quite sure you have meant to be very good, and I am not a bit angry.”
“And you will see him before you go?”
“Oh, yes; that is if he likes to come today, or early tomorrow. I go home tomorrow. I cannot refuse him, because he is such an old friend—almost like a brother. But it is of no use, Mrs. Arabin.” Then Mrs. Arabin kissed her and left her, telling her that Mr. Eames would come to her that afternoon at half-past five. Lily promised that she would be at home to receive him.
“Won’t you ride with us for the last time?” said Emily Dunstable when Lily gave notice that she would not want the horse on that afternoon.
“No; not today.”
“You’ll never have another opportunity of riding with Emily Dunstable,” said the bride elect;—“at least I hope not.”
“Even under those circumstances I must refuse, though I would give a guinea to be with you. John Eames is coming here to say goodbye.”
“Oh; then indeed you must not come with us. Lily, what will you say to him?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh, Lily, think of it.”
“I have thought of it. I have thought of nothing else. I am tired of thinking of it. It is not good to think of anything so much. What does it matter?”
“It is very good to have someone to love one better than all the world besides.”
“I have someone,” said Lily, thinking of her mother, but not caring to descend again to the mawkish weakness of talking about her.
“Yes; but someone to be always with you, to do everything for you, to be your very own.”
“It is all very well for you,” said Lily, “and I think that Bernard is the luckiest fellow in the world; but it will not do for me. I know in what college I’ll take my degree, and I wish they’d let me write the letters after my name as the men do.”
“What letters, Lily?”
“O.M., for Old Maid. I don’t see why it shouldn’t be as good as B.A. for Bachelor of Arts. It would mean a great deal more.”
LXXVII
The Shattered Tree
When Mrs. Arabin saw Johnny in the middle of that day, she could hardly give him much encouragement. And yet she felt by no means sure that he might not succeed even yet. Lily had been very positive in her answers, and yet there had been something, either in her words or in the tone of her voice, which had made Mrs. Arabin feel that even Lily was not quite sure of herself. There was still room for relenting. Nothing, however, had been said which could justify her in bidding John Eames simply “to go in and win.”
“I think he is light of heart,” Lily had said. Those were the words which, of all that had been spoken, most impressed themselves on Mrs. Arabin’s memory. She would not repeat them to her friend, but she would graft upon them such advice as she had to give him.
And this she did, telling him that she thought that perhaps Lily doubted his actual earnestness.
“I would marry her this moment,” said Johnny. But that was not enough, as Mrs. Arabin knew, to prove his earnestness. Many men, fickle as weathercocks, are ready to marry at the moment—are ready to marry at the moment, because they are fickle, and think so little about it.
“But she hears, perhaps, of your liking other people,” said Mrs. Arabin.
“I don’t care a straw for any other person,” said Johnny. “I wonder whether if I was to shut myself up in a cage for six months, it would do any good?”
“If she had the keeping of the cage, perhaps it might,” said Mrs. Arabin. She had nothing more to say to him on that subject, but to tell him that Miss Dale would expect him that afternoon at half-past five. “I told her that you would come to wish her goodbye, and she promised to see you.”
“I wish she’d say she wouldn’t see me. Then there would be some chance,” said Johnny.
Between him and Mrs. Arabin the parting was very affectionate. She told him how thankful she was for his kindness in coming to her, and how grateful she would ever be—and the dean also—for his attention to her. “Remember, Mr. Eames, that you will always be most welcome at the deanery of Barchester. And I do hope that before long you may be there with your wife.” And so they parted.
He left her at about two, and went to Mr. Toogood’s office in
