The marriage of our old friends, Dr. Thorne and Miss Dunstable, was the third on the list, but that did not take place till the latter end of September. The lawyers on such an occasion had no inconsiderable work to accomplish, and though the lady was not coy, nor the gentleman slow, it was not found practicable to arrange an earlier wedding. The ceremony was performed at St. George’s, Hanover Square, and was not brilliant in any special degree. London at the time was empty, and the few persons whose presence was actually necessary were imported from the country for the occasion. The bride was given away by Dr. Easyman, and the two bridesmaids ware ladies who had lived with Miss Dunstable as companions. Young Mr. Gresham and his wife were there, as was also Mrs. Harold Smith, who was not at all prepared to drop her old friend in her new sphere of life.
“We shall call her Mrs. Thorne instead of Miss Dunstable, and I really think that will be all the difference,” said Mrs. Harold Smith.
To Mrs. Harold Smith that probably was all the difference, but it was not so to the persons most concerned.
According to the plan of life arranged between the doctor and his wife she was still to keep up her house in London, remaining there during such period of the season as she might choose, and receiving him when it might appear good to him to visit her; but he was to be the master in the country. A mansion at the Chase was to be built, and till such time as that was completed, they would keep on the old house at Greshamsbury. Into this, small as it was, Mrs. Thorne—in spite of her great wealth—did not disdain to enter. But subsequent circumstances changed their plans. It was found that Mr. Sowerby could not or would not live at Chaldicotes; and, therefore, in the second year of their marriage, that place was prepared for them. They are now well known to the whole county as Dr. and Mrs. Thorne of Chaldicotes—of Chaldicotes, in distinction to the well-known Thornes of Ullathorne in the eastern division. Here they live respected by their neighbours, and on terms of alliance both with the Duke of Omnium and with Lady Lufton.
“Of course those dear old avenues will be very sad to me,” said Mrs. Harold Smith, when at the end of a London season she was invited down to Chaldicotes; and as she spoke she put her handkerchief up to her eyes.
“Well, dear, what can I do?” said Mrs. Thorne. “I can’t cut them down; the doctor would not let me.”
“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Harold Smith, sighing; and in spite of her feeling she did visit Chaldicotes.
But it was October before Lord Lufton was made a happy man—that is, if the fruition of his happiness was a greater joy than the anticipation of it. I will not say that the happiness of marriage is like the Dead Sea fruit—an apple which, when eaten, turns to bitter ashes in the mouth. Such pretended sarcasm would be very false. Nevertheless, is it not the fact that the sweetest morsel of love’s feast has been eaten, that the freshest, fairest blush of the flower has been snatched and has passed away, when the ceremony at the altar has been performed, and legal possession has been given? There is an aroma of love, an undefinable delicacy of flavour, which escapes and is gone before the church portal is left, vanishing with the maiden name, and incompatible with the solid comfort appertaining to the rank of wife. To love one’s own spouse, and to be loved by her, is the ordinary lot of man, and is a duty exacted under penalties. But to be allowed to love youth and beauty that is not one’s own—to know that one is loved by a soft being who still hangs cowering from the eye of the world as though her love were all but illicit—can it be that a man is made happy when a state of anticipation such as this is brought to a close? No; when the husband walks back from the altar, he has already swallowed the choicest dainties of his banquet. The beef and pudding of married life are then in store for him—or perhaps only the bread and cheese. Let him take care lest hardly a crust remain—or perhaps not a crust.
But before we finish, let us go back for one moment to the dainties—to the time before the beef and pudding were served—while Lucy was still at the parsonage, and Lord Lufton still staying at Framley Court. He had come up one morning, as was now frequently his wont, and, after a few minutes’ conversation, Mrs. Robarts had left the room—as not unfrequently on such occasions was her wont. Lucy was working and continued her work, and Lord Lufton for a moment or two sat looking at her; then he got up abruptly, and, standing before her, thus questioned her—”Lucy,” said he.
“Well, what of Lucy now? Any particular fault this morning?”
“Yes, a most particular fault. When I asked you, here, in this room, on this very spot, whether it was possible that you should love me—why did you say that it was impossible?”
Lucy, instead of answering at the moment, looked down upon the carpet, to see if his memory were as good as hers. Yes; he was standing on the exact spot where he had stood before. No spot in all the world was more frequently clear before her own eyes.
“Do you remember that day, Lucy?” he said again.
“Yes, I remember it,” she said.
“Why did you say it was impossible?
“Did I say impossible?”
She knew that she had said so. She remembered how she had waited till he had gone, and that then, going to her own room, she had reproached herself with the cowardice of the falsehood. She had lied to him then; and now—how was she punished for it?
“Well, I suppose it was possible,” she said.
“But why did you say so when you knew it would make me so miserable?”
“Miserable! nay, but you went away happy enough! I thought I had never seen you look better satisfied.”
“Lucy!”
“You had done your duty, and had had such a lucky escape! What astonishes me is that you should have ever come back again. But the pitcher may go to the well once too often, Lord Lufton.”
“But will you tell me the truth now?”
“What truth?”
“That day, when I came to you—did you love me at all then?”
“We’ll let bygones be bygones, if you please.”
“But I swear you shall tell me. It was such a cruel thing to answer me as you did, unless you meant it. And yet you never saw me again till after my mother had been over for you to Mrs. Crawley’s.”
“It was absence that made me—care for you.”
“Lucy, I swear I believe you loved me then.”
“Ludovic, some conjurer must have told you that.”
She was standing as she spoke, and, laughing at him, she held up her hands and shook her head. But she was now in his power, and he had his revenge—his revenge for her past falsehood and her present joke. How could he be more happy when he was made happy by having her all his own, than he was now?
And in these days there again came up that petition as to her riding—with very different result now than on that former occasion. There were ever so many objections, then. There was no habit, and Lucy was—or said that she was—afraid; and then, what would Lady Lufton say? But now Lady Lufton thought it would be quite right; only were they quite sure about the horse? Was Ludovic certain that the horse had been ridden by a lady? And Lady Meredith’s habits were dragged out as a matter of course, and one of them chipped and snipped and altered, without any compunction. And as for fear, there could be no bolder horsewoman than Lucy Robarts. It was quite clear to all Framley that riding was the very thing for her. “But I never shall be happy, Ludovic, till you have got a horse properly suited for her,” said Lady Lufton.
And then, also, came the affair of her wedding garments, of her trousseau—as to which I cannot boast that she showed capacity or steadiness at all equal to that of Lady Dumbello. Lady Lufton, however, thought it a very serious matter; and as, in her opinion, Mrs. Robarts did not go about it with sufficient energy, she took the matter mainly into her own hands, striking Lucy dumb by her frowns and nods, deciding on everything herself, down to the very tags of the boot-ties.
“My dear, you really must allow me to know what I am about;” and Lady Lufton patted her on the arm as she spoke. “I did it all for Justinia, and
she never had reason to regret a single thing that I bought. If you’ll ask her, she’ll tell you so.”
Lucy did not ask her future sister-in-law, seeing that she had no doubt whatever as to her future mother-in-law’s judgement on the articles in question. Only the money! And what could she want with six dozen pocket-handkerchiefs all at once? There was no question of Lord Lufton’s going out as Governor-General to India! But twelve dozen pocket-handkerchiefs had not been too many for Griselda’s imagination.
And Lucy would sit alone in the drawing-room at Framley Court, filling her heart with thoughts of that evening when she had first sat there. She had then resolved, painfully, with inward tears, with groanings of her spirit, that she was wrongly placed in being in that company. Griselda Grantly had been there, quite at her ease, petted by Lady Lufton, admired by Lord Lufton; while she had retired out of sight, sore at heart, because she felt herself to be no fit companion to those around her. Then he had come to her, making matters almost worse by talking to her, bringing the tears into her eyes by his good-nature, but still wounding her by the feeling that she could not speak to him at her ease.
But things were at a different pass with her now. He had chosen her—her out of all the world, and brought her there to share with him his own home, his own honours, and all that he had to give. She was the apple of his eye, and the pride of his heart. And the stern mother, of whom she had stood so much in awe, who at first had passed her by as a thing not to be noticed, and had then sent out to her that she might be warned to keep herself aloof, now hardly knew in what way she might sufficiently show her love, regard, and solicitude.
I must not say that Lucy was not proud in these moments—that her heart was not elated at these thoughts. Success does beget pride, as failure begets shame. But her pride was of that sort which is in no way disgraceful to either man or woman, and was accompanied by pure true love, and a full resolution to do her duty in that state of life to which it had pleased her God to call her. She did rejoice greatly to think that she had been chosen, and not Griselda. Was it possible that having loved she should not so rejoice, or that, rejoicing, she should not be proud of her love?
They spent the whole winter abroad, leaving the dowager Lady Lufton to her plans and preparations for their reception at Framley Court; and in the following spring they appeared in London, and there set up their staff. Lucy had some inner tremblings of the spirit, and quiverings about the heart, at thus beginning her duty before the great world, but she said little or nothing to her husband on the matter. Other women had done as much before her time, and by courage had gone through with it. It would be dreadful enough, that position in her own house with lords and ladies bowing to her, and stiff members of Parliament for whom it would be necessary to make small talk; but, nevertheless, it was to be endured. The time came, and she did endure it. The time came, and before the first six weeks were over she found that it was easy enough. The lords and ladies got into their proper places and talked to her about ordinary matters in a way that made no effort necessary, and the members of Parliament were hardly more stiff than the clergymen she had known in the neighbourhood of Framley.
She had not been long in town before she met Lady Dumbello. At this interview also she had to overcome some little inward emotion. On the few occasions on which she had met Griselda Grantly at Framley they had not much progressed in friendship, and Lucy had felt that she had been despised by the rich beauty. She also in her turn had disliked, if she had not despised, her rival. But how would it be now? Lady Dumbello could hardly despise her, and yet it did not seem possible that they should meet as friends. They did meet, and Lucy came forward with a pretty eagerness to give her hand to Lady Lufton’s late favourite. Lady Dumbello smiled slightly—the same old smile which had come across her face when they two had been first introduced in the Framley drawing-room; the same smile without the variation of a line—took the offered hand, muttered a word or two, and then receded. It was exactly as she had done before. She had never despised Lucy Robarts. She had accorded to the parson’s sister the amount of cordiality with which she usually received her acquaintance; and now she could do no more for the peer’s wife. Lady Dumbello and Lady Lufton have known each other ever since, and have occasionally visited at each other’s houses, but the intimacy between them has never gone beyond this.
The dowager came up to town for about a month, and while there was contented to fill a second place. She had no desire to be the great lady in London. But then came the trying period when they commenced their life together at Framley Court. The elder lady formally renounced her place at the top of the table—formally persisted in renouncing it though Lucy with tears implored her to resume it. She said also, with equal formality—repeating her determination over and over again to Mrs. Robarts with great energy—that she would in no respect detract by interference of her own from the authority of the proper mistress of the house; but, nevertheless, it is well known to everyone at Framley that old Lady Lufton still reigns paramount in the parish.
“Yes, my dear; the big room looking into the little garden to the south was always the nursery; and if you ask my advice, it will still remain so. But, of course, any room you please—”
And the big room looking into the little garden to the south is still the nursery at Framley Court.
THE END
THE SMALL HOUSE AT ALLINGTON
First published in serial form in Cornhill Magazine beginning in 1862 and in book form in 1864
Contents
VOLUME I
I. The Squire of Allington
II. The Two Pearls of Allington
III. The Widow Dale of Allington
IV. Mrs. Roper’s Boarding-House
V. About L. D.
VI. Beautiful Days
VII. The Beginning of Troubles
VIII. It Cannot Be
IX. Mrs. Dale’s Little Party
X. Mrs. Lupex and Amelia Roper
XI. Social Life
XII. Lilian Dale Becomes a Butterfly
XIII. A Visit to Guestwick
XIV. John Eames Takes a Walk
XV. The Last Day
XVI. Mr. Crosbie Meets an Old Clergyman on His Way to Courcy Castle
XVII. Courcy Castle
XVIII. Lily Dale’s First Love-Letter
XIX. The Squire Makes a Visit to the Small House
XX. Dr. Crofts
XXI. John Eames Encounters Two Adventures, and Displays Great Courage in Both
XXII. Lord De Guest at Home
XXIII. Mr. Plantagenet Palliser
XXIV. A Mother-in-Law and a Father-in-Law
XXV. Adolphus Crosbie Spends an Evening at His Club
XXVI. Lord de Courcy in the Bosom of His Family
XXVII. “On My Honour, I Do Not Understand It”
XXVIII. The Board
XXIX. John Eames Returns to Burton Crescent
XXX. “Is It from Him?”
VOLUME II
XXXI. The Wounded Fawn
XXXII. Pawkins’s in Jermyn Street
XXXIII. “The Time Will Come”
XXXIV. The Combat
XXXV. Vae Victis
XXXVI. “See, the Conquering Hero Comes”
XXXVII. An Old Man’s Complaint
XXXVIII. Doctor Crofts Is Called In
XXXIX. Doctor Crofts Is Turned Out
XL. Preparations for the Wedding
XLI. Domestic Troubles
XLII. Lily’s Bedside
XLIII. Fie, Fie!
XLIV. Valentine’s Day at Allington
XLV. Valentine’s Day in London
XLVI. John Eames at His Office
XLVII. The New Private Secretary
XLVIII. Nemesis
XLIX. Preparations for Going
L. Mrs. Dale Is Thankful for a Good Thing
LI. John Eames Does Things Which He Ought Not to Have Done
LII. The First Visit to the Guestwick Bridge
LIII. Loquitur Hopkins
LIV. The Second Visit to the Guestwick Bridge
LV. Not Very Fie Fie after All
LVI. Showing How Mr. Crosbie Became Again a Happy Man
LVII. Lilian Dale Vanquishes Her Mother
LVIII. The Fate of the Small House
LIX. John Eames Becomes a Man
LX. Conclusion
VOLUME I
CHAPTER I
The Squire of Allington
Of course there was a Great House at Allington. How otherwise should there have been a Small House? Our story will, as its name imports, have its closest relations with those who lived in the less dignified domicile of the two; but it will have close relations also with the more dignified, and it may be well that I should, in the first instance, say a few words as to the Great House and its owner.
The squires of Allington had been squires of Allington since squires, such as squires are now, were first known in England. From father to son, and from uncle to nephew, and, in one instance, from second cousin to second cousin, the sceptre had descended in the family of the Dales; and the acres had remained intact, growing in value and not decreasing in number, though guarded by no entail and protected by no wonderful amount of prudence or wisdom. The estate of Dale of Allington had been coterminous with the parish of Allington for some hundreds of years; and though, as I have said, the race of squires had possessed nothing of superhuman discretion, and had perhaps been guided in their walks through life by no very distinct principles, still there had been with them so much of adherence to a sacred law, that no acre of the property had ever been parted from the hands of the existing squire. Some futile attempts had been made to increase the territory, as indeed had been done by Kit Dale, the father of Christopher Dale, who will appear as our squire of Allington when the persons of our drama are introduced. Old Kit Dale, who had married money, had bought outlying farms—a bit of ground here and a bit there—talking, as he did so, much of political influence and of the good old Tory cause. But these farms and bits of ground had gone again before our time. To them had been attached no religion. When old Kit had found himself pressed in that matter of the majority of the Nineteenth Dragoons, in which crack regiment his second son made for himself quite a career, he found it easier to sell than to save—seeing that that which he sold was his own and not the patrimony of the Dales. At his death the remainder of these purchases had gone. Family arrangements required completion, and Christopher Dale required ready money. The outlying farms flew away, as such new purchases had flown before; but the old patrimony of the Dales remained untouched, as it had ever remained.
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