The Small House at Allington, Anthony Trollope [best ebook reader for chromebook .txt] 📗

throw them away at once, I suppose. I’ve often thought about it. Do you believe the Prime Minister ever has his shoes sent to a cobbler?”

“Perhaps a regular shoemaker will condescend to mend a Prime Minister’s shoes.”

“You do think they are mended then? But who orders it? Does he see himself when there’s a little hole coming, as I do? Does an archbishop allow himself so many pairs of gloves in a year?”

“Not very strictly, I should think.”

“Then I suppose it comes to this, that he has a new pair whenever he wants them. But what constitutes the want? Does he ever say to himself that they’ll do for another Sunday? I remember the bishop coming here once, and he had a hole at the end of his thumb. I was going to be confirmed, and I remember thinking that he ought to have been smarter.”

“Why didn’t you offer to mend it?”

“I shouldn’t have dared for all the world.”

The conversation had commenced itself in a manner that did not promise much assistance to Mrs. Dale’s project. When Lily got upon any subject, she was not easily induced to leave it, and when her mind had twisted itself in one direction, it was difficult to untwist it. She was now bent on a consideration of the smaller social habits of the high and mighty among us, and was asking her mother whether she supposed that the royal children ever carried halfpence in their pockets, or descended so low as fourpenny-bits.

“I suppose they have pockets like other children,” said Lily.

But her mother stopped her suddenly⁠—

“Lily, dear, I want to say something to you about John Eames.”

“Mamma, I’d sooner talk about the Royal Family just at present.”

“But, dear, you must forgive me if I persist. I have thought much about it, and I’m sure you will not oppose me when I am doing what I think to be my duty.”

“No, mamma; I won’t oppose you, certainly.”

“Since Mr. Crosbie’s conduct was made known to you, I have mentioned his name in your hearing very seldom.”

“No, mamma, you have not. And I have loved you so dearly for your goodness to me. Do not think that I have not understood and known how generous you have been. No other mother ever was so good as you have been. I have known it all, and thought of it every day of my life, and thanked you in my heart for your trusting silence. Of course, I understand your feelings. You think him bad and you hate him for what he has done.”

“I would not willingly hate anyone, Lily.”

“Ah, but you do hate him. If I were you, I should hate him; but I am not you, and I love him. I pray for his happiness every night and morning, and for hers. I have forgiven him altogether, and I think that he was right. When I am old enough to do so without being wrong, I will go to him and tell him so. I should like to hear of all his doings and all his success, if it were only possible. How, then, can you and I talk about him? It is impossible. You have been silent and I have been silent⁠—let us remain silent.”

“It is not about Mr. Crosbie that I wish to speak. But I think you ought to understand that conduct such as his will be rebuked by all the world. You may forgive him, but you should acknowledge⁠—”

“Mamma, I don’t want to acknowledge anything;⁠—not about him. There are things as to which a person cannot argue.” Mrs. Dale felt that this present matter was one as to which she could not argue. “Of course, mamma,” continued Lily, “I don’t want to oppose you in anything, but I think we had better be silent about this.”

“Of course I am thinking only of your future happiness.”

“I know you are; but pray believe me that you need not be alarmed. I do not mean to be unhappy. Indeed, I think I may say I am not unhappy; of course I have been unhappy⁠—very unhappy. I did think that my heart would break. But that has passed away, and I believe I can be as happy as my neighbours. We’re all of us sure to have some troubles, as you used to tell us when we were children.”

Mrs. Dale felt that she had begun wrong, and that she would have been able to make better progress had she omitted all mention of Crosbie’s name. She knew exactly what it was that she wished to say⁠—what were the arguments which she desired to expound before her daughter; but she did not know what language to use, or how she might best put her thoughts into words. She paused for a while, and Lily went on with her work as though the conversation was over. But the conversation was not over.

“It was about John Eames, and not about Mr. Crosbie, that I wished to speak to you.”

“Oh, mamma!”

“My dear, you must not hinder me in doing what I think to be a duty. I heard what he said to you and what you replied, and of course I cannot but have my mind full of the subject. Why should you set yourself against him in so fixed a manner?”

“Because I love another man.” These words she spoke out loud, in a steady, almost dogged tone, with a certain show of audacity⁠—as though aware that the declaration was unseemly, but resolved that, though unseemly, it must be made.

“But, Lily, that love, from its very nature, must cease; or, rather, such love is not the same as that you felt when you thought that you were to be his wife.”

“Yes, it is. If she died, and he came to me in five years’ time, I would still take him. I should think myself constrained to take him.”

“But she is not dead, nor likely to die.”

“That makes no difference. You don’t understand me, mamma.”

“I think I do, and I want you to understand me also. I