The Last Chronicle of Barset [283]
had he observed it at all, would neither have been flattered or angry. A great many young ladies about London did call him Siph, and to him it was quite natural that they should do so. He was an Irishman, living on the best of everything in the world, with apparently no fortune of his own, and certainly never earning anything. Everybody liked him, and it was admitted on all sides that there was no safer friend in the world, either for young ladies or young men, than Mr Onesiphorus Dunn. He did not borrow money, and he did not encroach. He did like being asked out to dinner, and he did think that they to whom he gave the light of his countenance in town owed him the return of a week's run in the country. He neither shot, nor hunted, nor fished, nor read, and yet he was never in the way in any house. He did play billiards, and whist, and croquet--very badly. He was a good judge of wine, and would occasionally condescend to look after the bottling of it on behalf of some very intimate friend. He was a great friend of Mrs Thorne's, with whom he always spent ten days in the autumn at Chaldicotes.
Bernard and Emily were not insatiable lovers, but, nevertheless, Mrs Thorne had thought it proper to provide a fourth in the riding-parties, and had put Mr Dunn on this duty. 'Don't bother yourself about it, Siph,' she had said; 'only if those lovers should go off philandering out of sight, our little country lassie might find herself to be nowhere in the Park.' Siph had promised to make himself useful, and had done so. There had generally been so large a number in their party that the work imposed on Mr Dunn had been very light. Lily had never found out that he had been especially consigned to her as her own cavalier, but had seen quite enough of him to be aware that he was a pleasant companion. To her, thinking, as she ever was thinking, about Johnny Eames, Siph was much more agreeable than might have been a younger man who would have endeavoured to make her think about himself.
Thus when she found herself riding alone in Rotten Row with Siph Dunn, she was neither disconcerted nor displeased. He had been talking to her about Lord De Guest, whom he had known--for Siph knew everybody--and Lily had begun to wonder whether he knew John Eames. She was making up her mind that she would say something about the Crawley matter--not intending of course to mention John Eames's name--when suddenly her tongue was paralysed and she could not speak. At that moment they were standing near a corner, where a turning path made an angle in the iron rails, Mr Dunn having proposed that they should wait there for a few minutes before they returned home, as it was probable that Bernard and Miss Dunstable might come up. They had been there for some five or ten minutes, and Lily had asked her first question about the Crawleys--inquiring of Mr Dunn whether he had heard of a terrible accusation which had been made against a clergyman in Barsetshire--when on a sudden her tongue was paralysed. As they were standing, Lily's horse was turned towards the diverging path, whereas Mr Dun was looking the other way, towards Achilles and Apsley house. Mr Dunn was nearer the railings, but though they were thus looking different ways they were so placed that each could see the face of the other. Then, on a sudden, coming slowly towards her along the diverging path and leaning on the arm of another man, she saw--Adolphus Crosbie.
She had never seen him since a day on which she had parted from him with many kisses--with warm, pressing, eager kisses--of which she had been nowhat ashamed. He had then been to her almost as her husband. She had trusted him entirely, and had thrown herself into his arms with full reliance. There is often much of reticence on the part of a woman towards a man to whom she is engaged, something also of shamefacedness occasionally. There exists a shadow of doubt, at least of that hesitation which shows that in spite of vows the woman knows that a change may come, and that provision for such possible steps backward should always be within her
Bernard and Emily were not insatiable lovers, but, nevertheless, Mrs Thorne had thought it proper to provide a fourth in the riding-parties, and had put Mr Dunn on this duty. 'Don't bother yourself about it, Siph,' she had said; 'only if those lovers should go off philandering out of sight, our little country lassie might find herself to be nowhere in the Park.' Siph had promised to make himself useful, and had done so. There had generally been so large a number in their party that the work imposed on Mr Dunn had been very light. Lily had never found out that he had been especially consigned to her as her own cavalier, but had seen quite enough of him to be aware that he was a pleasant companion. To her, thinking, as she ever was thinking, about Johnny Eames, Siph was much more agreeable than might have been a younger man who would have endeavoured to make her think about himself.
Thus when she found herself riding alone in Rotten Row with Siph Dunn, she was neither disconcerted nor displeased. He had been talking to her about Lord De Guest, whom he had known--for Siph knew everybody--and Lily had begun to wonder whether he knew John Eames. She was making up her mind that she would say something about the Crawley matter--not intending of course to mention John Eames's name--when suddenly her tongue was paralysed and she could not speak. At that moment they were standing near a corner, where a turning path made an angle in the iron rails, Mr Dunn having proposed that they should wait there for a few minutes before they returned home, as it was probable that Bernard and Miss Dunstable might come up. They had been there for some five or ten minutes, and Lily had asked her first question about the Crawleys--inquiring of Mr Dunn whether he had heard of a terrible accusation which had been made against a clergyman in Barsetshire--when on a sudden her tongue was paralysed. As they were standing, Lily's horse was turned towards the diverging path, whereas Mr Dun was looking the other way, towards Achilles and Apsley house. Mr Dunn was nearer the railings, but though they were thus looking different ways they were so placed that each could see the face of the other. Then, on a sudden, coming slowly towards her along the diverging path and leaning on the arm of another man, she saw--Adolphus Crosbie.
She had never seen him since a day on which she had parted from him with many kisses--with warm, pressing, eager kisses--of which she had been nowhat ashamed. He had then been to her almost as her husband. She had trusted him entirely, and had thrown herself into his arms with full reliance. There is often much of reticence on the part of a woman towards a man to whom she is engaged, something also of shamefacedness occasionally. There exists a shadow of doubt, at least of that hesitation which shows that in spite of vows the woman knows that a change may come, and that provision for such possible steps backward should always be within her