The Small House at Allington

by Anthony Trollope

  But there was, perhaps, more in the general impression made by these girls, and in the whole tone of their appearance, than in the absolute loveliness of their features or the grace of their figures. There was about them a dignity of demeanour devoid of all stiffness or pride, and a maidenly modesty which gave itself no airs. In them was always apparent that sense of security which women should receive from an unconscious dependence on their own mingled purity and weakness. These two girls were never afraid of men – never looked as though they were so afraid. And I may say that they had little cause for that kind of fear to which I allude. It might be the lot of either of them to be ill-used by a man, but it was hardly possible that either of them should ever be insulted by one. Lily, as may, perhaps, have been already seen, could be full of play, but in her play she never so carried herself that anyone could forget what was due to her.

  And now Lily Dale was engaged to be married, and the days of her playfulness were over. It sounds sad, this sentence against her, but I fear that it must be regarded as true. And when I think that it is true – when I see that the sportiveness and kitten-like gambols of girlhood should be over, and generally are over, when a girl has given her troth, it becomes a matter of regret to me that the feminine world should be in such a hurry after matrimony. I have, however, no remedy to offer for the evil; and, indeed, am aware that the evil, if there be an evil, is not well expressed in the words I have used. The hurry is not for matrimony, but for love. Then, the love once attained, matrimony seizes it for its own, and the evil is accomplished.

  And Lily Dale was engaged to be married to Adolphus Crosbie – to Apollo Crosbie, as she still called him, confiding her little joke to his own ears. And to her he was an Apollo, as a man who is loved should be to be girl who loves him. He was handsome, graceful, clever, self-confident, and always cheerful when she asked him to be cheerful. But he had also his more serious moments, and could talk to her of serious matters. He would read to her, and explain to her things which had hitherto been too hard for her young intelligence. His voice, too, was pleasant, and well under command. It could be pathetic if pathos were required, or ring with laughter as merry as her own. Was not such a man fit to be an Apollo to such a girl, when once the girl had acknowledged to herself that she loved him?

  She had acknowledged it to herself, and had acknowledged it to him – as the reader will perhaps say without much delay. But the courtship had so been carried on that no delay had been needed. All the world had smiled upon it. When Mr Crosbie had first come among them at Allington, as Bernard’s guest, during those few days of his early visit, it had seemed as though Bell had been chiefly noticed by him. And Bell in her own quiet way had accepted his admiration, saying nothing of it and thinking but very little. Lily was heart-free at the time, and had ever been so. No first shadow from Love’s wing had as yet been thrown across the pure tablets of her bosom. With Bell it was not so – not so in absolute strictness. Bell’s story, too, must be told, but not on this page. But before Crosbie had come among them, it was a thing fixed in her mind that such love as she had felt must be overcome and annihilated. We may say that it had been overcome and annihilated, and that she would have sinned in no way had she listened to vows from this new Apollo. It is almost sad to think that such a man might have had the love of either of such girls, but I fear that I must acknowledge that it was so. Apollo, in the plentitude of his power, soon changed his mind; and before the end of his first visit, had transferred the distant homage which he was then paying from the elder to the younger sister. He afterwards returned, as the squire’s guest, for a longer sojourn among them, and at the end of the first month had already been accepted as Lily’s future husband.

  It was beautiful to see how Bell changed in her mood towards Crosbie and towards her sister as soon as she perceived how the affair was going. She was not long in perceiving it, having caught the first glimpses of the idea on that evening when they both dined at the Great House, leaving their mother alone to eat or to neglect the peas. For some six or seven weeks Crosbie had been gone, and during that time Bell had been much more open in speaking of him than her sister. She had been present when Crosbie had bid them good-bye, and had listened to his eagerness as he declared to Lily that he should be back again at Allington. Lily had taken this very quietly, as though it had not belonged at all to herself; but Bell had seen something of the truth, and, believing in Crosbie as an earnest, honest man, had spoken kind words of him, fostering any little aptitude for love which might already have formed itself in Lily’s bosom.

  ‘But he is such an Apollo, you know,’ Lily had said.

  ‘He is a gentleman; I can see that.’

  ‘Oh, yes; a man can’t be an Apollo unless he’s a gentleman.’

  ‘And he’s very clever.’

  ‘I suppose he is clever.’ There was nothing more said about his being a mere clerk. Indeed, Lily had changed her mind on that subject. Johnny Eames was a mere clerk; whereas Crosbie, if he was to be called a clerk at all, was a clerk of some very special denomination. There may be a great difference between one clerk and another! A Clerk of the Council and a parish clerk are very different persons. Lily had got some such idea as this into her head as she attempted in her own mind to rescue Mr Crosbie from the lower orders of the Government service.

  ‘I wish he were not coming,’ Mrs Dale had said to her eldest daughter.

  ‘I thing you are wrong, mamma.’

  ‘But if she should become fond of him, and then –’

  ‘Lily will never become really fond of any man till he shall have given her proper reason. And if he admires her, why should they not come together?’

  ‘But she is so young, Bell.’

  ‘She is nineteen; and if they were engaged, perhaps, they might wait for a year or so. But it’s no good talking in that way, mamma. If you were to tell Lily not to give him encouragement, she would not speak to him.’

  ‘I should not think of interfering.’

  ‘No, mamma; and therefore it must take its course. For myself, I like Mr Crosbie very much.’

  ‘So do I my dear.’

  ‘And so does my uncle. I wouldn’t have Lily take a love of my uncle’s choosing.’

  ‘I should hope not.’

  ‘But it must be considered a good thing if she happens to choose one of his liking.’

  In this way the matter had been talked over between the mother and her elder daughter. Then Mr Crosbie had come; and before the end of the first month his declared admiration for Lily had proved the correctness of her sister’s foresight. And during that short courtship all had gone well with the lovers. The squire from the first had declared himself satisfied with the match, informing Mrs Dale, in his cold manner, that Mr Crosbie was a gentleman with an income sufficient for matrimony.

  ‘It would be close enough in London,’ Mrs Dale had said.

  ‘He has more than my brother had when he married’ said the squire.

  ‘If he will only make her as happy as your brother made me – while it lasted!’ said Mrs Dale, as she turned away her face to conceal a tear that was coming. And then there was nothing more said about it between the squire and his sister-in-law. The squire spoke no word as to assistance in money matters – did not even suggest that he would lend a hand to the young people at starting, as an uncle in such a position might surely have done. It may well be conceived that Mrs Dale herself said nothing on the subject. And, indeed, it may be conceived, also, that the squire, let his intentions be what they might, would not divulge them to Mrs Dale. This was uncomfortable, but the position was one that was well understood between them.

  Bernard Dale was still at Allington, and had remained there through the period of Crosbie’s absence. Whatever words Mrs Dale might choose to speak on the matter would probably be spoken to him; but, then, Bernard could be quite as close as his uncle. When Crosbie returned, he and Bernard had, of course, lived much together; and, as was natural, there came to be close discussion between them
as to the two girls, when Crosbie allowed it to be understood that his liking for Lily was becoming strong.

  ‘You know, I suppose, that my uncle wishes me to marry the elder one,’ Bernard had said.

  ‘I have guessed as much.’

  ‘And I suppose the match will come off. She’s a pretty girl, and as good as gold.’

  ‘Yes, she is.’

  ‘I don’t pretend to be very much in love with her. It’s not my way, you know. But, some of these days, I shall ask her to have me, and I suppose it’ll all to go right. The governor has distinctly promised to allow me eight hundred a year off the estate, and to take us in for three months every year if we wish it. I told him simply that I couldn’t do it for less, and he agreed with me.’

  ‘You and he get on very well together.’

  ‘Oh, yes! There’s never been any fal-lal between us about love, and duty, and all that. I think we understand each other, and that’s everything. He knows the comfort of standing well with the heir, and I know the comfort of standing well with the owner.’ It must be admitted, I think, that there was a great deal of sound, common sense about Bernard Dale.

  ‘What will he do for the younger sister?’ asked Crosbie; and, as he asked the important question, a close observer might have perceived that there was some slight tremor in his voice.

  ‘Ah! that’s more than I can tell you. If I were you, I should ask him. The governor is a plain man, and likes plain business.’

  ‘I suppose you couldn’t ask him?’

  ‘No; I don’t think I could. It is my belief that he will not let her go by any means empty-handed.’

  ‘Well, I should suppose not.’

  ‘But remember this, Crosbie – I can say nothing to you on which you are to depend. Lily, also, is as good as gold; and, as you seem to be fond of her, I should ask the governor, if I were you, in so many words. what he intends to do. Of course, it’s against my interest, for every shilling he gives Lily will ultimately come out of my pocket. But I’m not the man to care about that, as you know.’

  What might be Crosbie’s knowledge of this subject we will not here inquire; but we may say that it would have mattered very little to him out of whose pocket the money came, so long as it went into his own. When he felt quite sure of Lily – having, in fact, received Lily’s permission to speak to her uncle, and Lily’s promise that she would herself speak to her mother – he did tell the squire what was his intention. This he did in an open, manly way, as though he felt that in asking for much he also offered to give much.

  ‘I have nothing to say against it,’ said the squire.

  ‘And I have your permission to consider myself as engaged to her?’

  ‘If you have hers and her mother’s. Of course you are aware that I have no authority over her.’

  ‘She would not marry without your sanction.’

  ‘She is very good to think so much of her uncle,’ said the squire; and his words as he spoke them sounded very cold in Crosbie’s ears. After that Crosbie said nothing about money, having to confess to himself that he was afraid to do so. ‘And what would be the use?’ said he to himself, wishing to make excuses for what he felt to be weak in his own conduct. ‘If he should refuse to give her a shilling I could not go back from it now.’ And then some ideas ran across his mind as to the injustice to which men are subjected in this matter of matrimony. A man has to declare himself before it is fitting that he should make any inquiry about a lady’s money; and then, when he has declared himself, any such inquiry is unavailing. Which consideration somewhat cooled the ardour of his happiness. Lily Dale was very pretty, very nice, very refreshing in her innocence, her purity, and her quick intelligence. No amusement could be more deliciously amusing than that of making love to Lily Dale. Her way of flattering her lover without any intension of flattery on her part, had put Crosbie into a seventh heaven. In all his experience he had known nothing like it. ‘You may be sure of this,’ she had said – ‘I shall love you with all my heart and all my strength.’1 It was very nice; – but then what were they to live upon? Could it be that he, Adolphus Crosbie, should settle down on the north side of the New Road,2 as a married man, with eight hundred a year? If indeed the squire would be as good to Lily as he had promised to be to Bell, then indeed things might be made to arrange themselves.

  But there was no such drawback on Lily’s happiness. Her ideas about money were rather vague, but they were very honest. She knew she had none of her own, but supposed it was a husband’s duty to find what would be needful. She knew she had none of her own, and was therefore aware that she ought not to expect luxuries in the little household that was to be prepared for her. She hoped, for his sake, that her uncle might give some assistance, but was quite prepared to prove that she could be good poor man’s wife. In the old colloquies on such matters between her and her sister she had always declared that some decent income should be considered as indispensable before love could be entertained. But eight hundred a year had been considered as doing much more than fulfilling this stipulation. Bell had had high-flown notions as to the absolute glory of poverty. She had declared that income should not be considered at all. If she had loved a man, she would allow herself to be engaged to him, even though he had no income. Such had been their theories; and, as regarded money, Lily was quite contented with the way in which she had carried out her own.

  In these beautiful days there was nothing to check her happiness. Her mother and sister united in telling her that she had done well – that she was happy in her choice, and justified in her love. On that first day, when she told her mother all, she had been made exquisitely blissful by the way in which her tidings had been received.

  ‘Oh! mamma, I must tell you something,’ she said, coming up to her mother’s bedroom, after a long ramble with Mr Crosbie through those Allington fields.

  ‘Is it about Mr Crosbie?’

  ‘Yes, mamma.’ And then the rest had been said through the medium of warm embraces and happy tears rather than by words.

  As she sat in her mother’s room, hiding her face on her mother’s shoulders, Bell had come, and had knelt at her feet.

  ‘Dear Lily,’ she had said, ‘I am so glad.’ And then Lily remembered how she had, as it were, stolen her lover from her sister, and she put her arms round Bell’s neck and kissed her.

  ‘I knew how it was going to be from the very first,’ said Bell. ‘Did I not, mamma?’

  ‘I’m sure I didn’t,’ said Lily. ‘I never thought such a thing was possible.’

  ‘But we did – mamma and I.’

  ‘Did you?’ said Lily.

  ‘Bell told me that it was to be so,’ said Mrs Dale. ‘But I could hardly bring myself at first to think that he was good enough for my darling.’

  ‘Oh, mamma! you must not say that. You must think that he is good enough for anything.’

  ‘I will think that he is very good.’

  ‘Who could be better? And then, when you remember all that he is to give up for my sake! – And what can I do for him in return? What have I got to give him?’

  Neither Mrs Dale nor Bell could look at the matter in this light, thinking that Lily gave quite as much as she received. But they both declared that Crosbie was perfect, knowing that by such assurances only could they now administer to Lily’s happiness; and Lily, between them, was made perfect in her happiness, receiving all manner of encouragement in her love, and being nourished in her passion by the sympathy and approval of her mother and sister.

  And then had come that visit from Johnny Eames. As the poor fellow marched out of the room, giving them no time to say farewell, Mrs Dale and Bell looked at each other sadly; but they were unable to concoct any arrangement, for Lily had run across the lawn, and was already on the ground before the window.