“I daresay you deserved it, my dear.”
“No, I did not, mamma. Ask Grace if I did.”
“Was she not saucy to Mrs. Boyce, Miss Crawley?”
“She said that Mr. Boyce scratches his nose in church,” said Grace.
“So he does; and goes to sleep, too.”
“If you told Mrs. Boyce that, Lily, I think she was quite right to scold you.”
Such was Miss Lily Dale, with whom Grace Crawley was staying;—Lily Dale with whom Mr. John Eames, of the Income-tax Office, had been so long and so steadily in love, that he was regarded among his fellow-clerks as a miracle of constancy,—who had, herself, in former days been so unfortunate in love as to have been regarded among her friends in the country as the most illused of women. As John Eames had been able to be comfortable in life,—that is to say, not utterly a wretch,—in spite of his love, so had she managed to hold up her head, and live as other young women live, in spite of her misfortune. But as it may be said also that his constancy was true constancy, although he knew how to enjoy the good things of the world, so also had her misfortune been a true misfortune, although she had been able to bear it without much outer show of shipwreck. For a few days,—for a week or two, when the blow first struck her, she had been knocked down, and the friends who were nearest to her had thought that she would never again stand erect upon her feet. But she had been very strong, stout at heart, of a fixed purpose, and capable of resistance against oppression. Even her own mother had been astonished, and sometimes almost dismayed, by the strength of her will. Her mother knew well how it was with her now; but they who saw her frequently, and who did not know her as her mother knew her,—the Mrs. Boyces of her acquaintance,—whispered among themselves that Lily Dale was not so soft of heart as people used to think.
On the next day, Christmas Day, as the reader will remember, Grace Crawley was taken up to dine at the big house with the old squire. Mrs. Dale’s eldest daughter, with her husband, Dr. Crofts, was to be there; and also Lily’s old friend, who was also especially the old friend of Johnny Eames, Lady Julia De Guest. Grace had endeavoured to be excused from the party, pleading many pleas. But the upshot of all her pleas was this,—that while her father’s position was so painful she ought not to go out anywhere. In answer to this, Lily Dale, corroborated by her mother, assured her that for her father’s sake she ought not to exhibit any such feeling; that in doing so, she would seem to express a doubt as to her father’s innocence. Then she allowed herself to be persuaded, telling her friend, however, that she knew the day would be very miserable to her. “It will be very humdrum, if you please,” said Lily. “Nothing can be more humdrum than Christmas at the Great House. Nevertheless, you must go.”
Coming out of church, Grace was introduced to the old squire. He was a thin, old man, with grey hair, and the smallest possible grey whiskers, with a dry, solemn face; not carrying in his outward gait much of the customary jollity of Christmas. He took his hat off to Grace, and said some word to her as to hoping to have the pleasure of seeing her at dinner. It sounded very cold to her, and she became at once afraid of him. “I wish I was not going,” she said to Lily, again. “I know he thinks I ought not to go. I shall be so thankful if you will but let me stay.”
Grace Crawley is introduced to Squire Dale.
“Don’t be foolish, Grace. It all comes from your not knowing him, or understanding him. And how should you understand him? I give you my word that I would tell you if I did not know that he wishes you to go.”
She had to go. “Of course I haven’t a dress fit. How should I?” she said to Lily. “How wrong it is of me to put myself up to such a thing as this.”
“Your dress is beautiful, child. We are none of us going in evening dresses. Pray believe that I will not make you do wrong. If you won’t trust me, can’t you trust mamma?”
Of course she went. When the three ladies entered the drawing-room of the Great House they found that Lady Julia had arrived just before them. Lady Julia immediately took hold of Lily, and led her apart, having a word or two to say about the clerk in the Income-tax Office. I am not sure but what the dear old woman sometimes said a few more words than were expedient, with a view to the object which she had so closely at heart. “John is to be with us the first week in February,” she said. “I suppose you’ll see him before that, as he’ll probably be with his mother a few days before he comes to me.”
“I daresay we shall see him quite in time, Lady Julia,” said Lily.
“Now, Lily, don’t be illnatured.”
“I’m the most goodnatured young woman alive, Lady Julia, and as for Johnny, he is always made as welcome at the Small House as violets in March. Mamma purrs about him when he comes, asking all manner of flattering questions as though he were a cabinet minister at least, and I always admire some little knicknack that he has got, a new ring, or a stud, or a button. There isn’t another man in all the world whose buttons I’d look at.”
“It isn’t his buttons, Lily.”
“Ah, that’s just it. I can go as far as his buttons. But come, Lady Julia, this is Christmastime, and Christmas should be a holiday.”
In the meantime Mrs. Dale was occupied with her married daughter and her son-in-law, and the squire had attached himself to poor Grace. “You have never been in this part of the country before, Miss Crawley,” he said.
“No, sir.”
“It is rather pretty just about here, and Guestwick Manor is a fine place in its way, but we have not so much natural beauty as you have in Barsetshire. Chaldicote Chase is, I think, as pretty as anything in England.”
“I never saw Chaldicote Chase, sir. It isn’t pretty at all at Hogglestock, where we live.”
“Ah, I forgot. No; it is not very pretty at Hogglestock. That’s where the bricks come from.”
“Papa is clergyman at Hogglestock.”
“Yes, yes; I remember. Your father is a great scholar. I have often heard of him. I am so sorry he should be distressed by this charge they have made. But it will all come right at the assizes. They always get at the truth there. I used to be intimate with a clergyman in Barsetshire of the name of Grantly;”—Grace felt that her ears were tingling, and that her face was red;—”Archdeacon Grantly. His father was bishop of the diocese.”
“Yes, sir. Archdeacon Grantly lives at Plumstead.”
“I was staying once with an old friend of mine, Mr. Thorne of Ullathorne, who lives close to Plumstead, and saw a good deal of them. I remember thinking Henry Grantly was a very nice lad. He married afterwards.”
“Yes, sir; but his wife is dead now, and he has got a little girl,—Edith Grantly.”
“Is there no other child?”
“No, sir; only Edith.”
“You 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 newfangled; 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