‘As soon as we got to the end of the shrubbery there were uncle Christopher and Bernard close to us; so I told Adolphus he might go on by himself.’
‘And who do you think has been there?’ said Bell. But Mrs Dale said nothing. Had time been given to her to use her own judgement, nothing should have been said at that moment as to Johnny’s visit.
‘Has anybody been here since I went? Whoever it was didn’t stay very long.’
‘Poor Johnny Eames,’ said Bell. Then the colour came up into Lily’s face, and she bethought herself in a moment that the old friend of her young days had loved her, that he, too, had had hopes as to his love, and that now he had heard tidings which would put an end to such hopes. She understood it all in a moment, but understood also that it was necessary that she should conceal such understanding.
‘Dear Johnny!’ she said. ‘Why did he not wait for me?’
‘We told him you were out,’ said Mrs Dale. ‘He will be here again before long, no doubt.’
‘And he knows –?’
‘Yes; I thought you would not object to my telling him.’
‘No, mamma; of course not. And he has gone back to Guestwick?’
There was no answer to this question, nor were there any further words then spoken about Johnny Eames. Each of these women understood exactly how the matter stood, and each knew that the others understood it. The young man was loved by them all, but not loved with that sort of admiring affection which had been accorded to Mr Crosbie. Johnny Eames could not have been accepted as a suitor by their pet. Mrs Dale and Bell both felt that. And yet they loved him for his love, and for that distant, modest respect which had restrained him from any speech regarding it. Poor Johnny! But he was young – hardly as yet out of his hobbledehoyhood – and he would easily recover this blow, remembering, and perhaps feeling to his advantage, some slight touch of its passing romance. It is thus women think of men who love young and love in vain.
But Johnny Eames himself, as he rode back to Guestwick, forgetful of his spurs, and with his gloves stuffed into his pocket, thought of the matter very differently. He had never promised to himself any success as to his passion for Lily, and had, indeed, always acknowledged that he could have no hope; but, now that she was actually promised to another man, and as good as married, he was not the less broken-hearted because his former hopes had not been high. He had never dared to speak to Lily of his love, but he was conscious that she knew it, and he did not now dare to stand before her as one convicted of having loved in vain. And then, as he rode back, he thought also of his other love, not with many of those pleasant thoughts which Lotharios3 and Don Juans may be presumed to enjoy when they contemplate their successes. ‘I suppose I shall marry her, and there’ll be an end of me,’ he said to himself, as the remembered a short note which he had once written to her in his madness. There had been a little supper at Mrs Roper’s, and Mrs Lupex and Amelia had made the punch. After supper, he had been by some accident alone with Amelia in the dining-parlour; and when, warmed by the generous god, he had declared his passion, she had shaken her head mournfully, and had fled from him to some upper region, absolutely refusing his proffered embrace. But on the same night, before his head had found its pillow, a note had come to him, half repentant, half affectionate, half repellent – ‘If, indeed, he would swear to her that his love was honest and manly, then, indeed, she might even yet – see him through the chink of the doorway with the purport of telling him that he was forgiven.’ Where-upon, a perfidious pencil being near to his hand, he had written the requisite words. ‘My only object in life is to call you my own for ever.’ Amelia had her misgivings whether such a promise, in order that it might be used as legal evidence, should not have been written in ink. It was a painful doubt; but nevertheless she was as good as her word, and saw him through the chink, forgiving him for his impetuosity in the parlour with, perhaps, more clemency than a mere pardon required. ‘By George! how well she looked with her hair all loose,’ he said to himself, as he at last regained his pillow, still warm with the generous god. But now, as he thought of that night, returning on his road from Allington to Guestwick, those loose floating locks were remembered by him with no strong feeling as to their charms. And he thought also of Lily Dale, as she when he had said farewell to her on that day before he first went up to London. ‘I shall care more about seeing you than anybody,’ he had said; and he had often thought of the words since, wondering whether she had understood them as meaning more than an assurance of ordinary friendship. And he remembered well the dress she had then worn. It was an old brown merino,4 which he had known before, and which, in truth, had nothing in it to recommend it specially to a lover’s notice. ‘Horrid old thing!’ had been Lily’s own verdict respecting the frock, even before that day. But she had hallowed it in his eyes, and he would have been only too happy to have worn a shred of it near his heart, as a talisman. How wonderful in its nature is that passion of which men speak when they acknowledge to themselves that they are in love. Of all things, it is, under one condition, the most foul, and under another, the most fair. As that condition is, a man shows himself either as a beast or as a god! And so we will let poor Johnny Eames ride back to Guestwick, suffering much in that he had loved basely – and suffering much, also, in that he had loved nobly.
Lily, as she had tripped along through the shrubbery, under her lover’s arm, looking up, every other moment, into his face, had espied her uncle and Bernard. ‘Stop,’ she had said, giving him a little pull at the arm; ‘I won’t go on. Uncle is always teasing me with some old-fashioned wit. And I’ve had quite enough of you today, sir. Mind you come over tomorrow before you go to your shooting.’ And so she had left him.
We may as well learn here what was the question in dispute between the uncle and cousin, as they were walking there on the broad gravel path behind the Great House. ‘Bernard,’ the old man had said, ‘I wish this matter could be settled between you and Bell.’
‘Is there any hurry about it, sir?’
‘Yes, there is hurry; or, rather, as I hate hurry in all things, I would say that there is ground for despatch. Mind, I do not wish to drive you. If you do not like your cousin, say so.’
‘But I do like her; only I have a sort of feeling that these things grow best by degrees. I quite share your dislike to being in a hurry.’
‘But time enough has been taken now. You see, Bernard, I am going to make a great sacrifice of income on your behalf.’
‘I am sure I am very grateful.’
‘I have no children, and have therefore always regarded you as my own. But there is no reason why my brother Philip’s daughter should not be as dear to me as my brother Orlando’s son.’
‘Of course not, sir; or, rather, his two daughters.’
‘You may leave that matter to me, Bernard. The younger girl is going to marry this friend of yours, and as he has a sufficient income to support a wife, I think that my sister-in-law has good reason to be satisfied by the match. She will not be expected to give up any part of her small income, as she must have done had Lily married a poor man.’
‘I suppose she could hardly give up much.’
‘People must guided by circumstances. I am not disposed to put myself in the place of a parent to them both. There is no reason why I should, and I will not encourage false hopes. If I knew that this matter between you and Bell was arranged, I should have reason to feel satisfied with what I was doing.’ From all which Bernard began to perceive that poor Crosbie’s expectations in the matter of money would not probably receive much gratification. But he also perceived – or thought that he perceived – a kind of threat in this warning from his uncle. ‘I have promised you eight hundred a year with your wife,’ the warning seemed to say. ‘But if you do not at once accept it, or let me feel that it will be accepted, it may be well for me to change my mind – especially as this other niece is about to be married. If I am to give you so large a fortune with Bell, I need do nothing for Lily. But if you do
not choose to take Bell and the fortune, why then –’ And so on. It was thus that Bernard read his uncle’s caution, as they walked together on the broad gravel path.
‘I have no desire to postpone the matter any longer,’ said Bernard. ‘I will propose to Bell at once, if you wish it.’
‘If your mind be quite made up, I cannot see why you should delay it.’
And then, having thus arranged that matter, they received their future relative with kind smiles and soft words.
CHAPTER 7
THE BEGINNING OF TROUBLES
LILY, As she parted with her lover in the garden, had required of him to attend upon her the next morning as he went to his shooting, and in obedience to this command he appeared on Mrs Dale’s lawn after breakfast, accompanied by Bernard and two dogs. The men had guns in their hands, and were got up with all proper sporting appurtenances, but it so turned out that they did not reach the stubble-fields on the farther side of the road until after luncheon. And may it not be fairly doubted whether croquet is not as good as shooting when a man is in love?
It will be said that Bernard Dale was not in love; but they who bring such accusation against him, will bring it falsely. He was in love with his cousin Bell according to this manner and fashion. It was not his nature to love Bell as John Eames loved Lily; but then neither would his nature bring him into such a trouble as that which the charms of Amelia Roper had brought upon the poor clerk from the Income-tax Office. Johnny was susceptible, as the word goes; whereas Captain Dale was a man who had his feelings well under control. He was not one to make a fool of himself about a girl, or to die of a broken heart; but, nevertheless, he would probably love his wife when he got a wife, and would be a careful father to his children.
They were very intimate with each other now – these four. It was Bernard and Adolphus, or sometimes Apollo, and Bell and Lily among them; and Crosbie found it to be pleasant enough. A new position of life had come upon him, and one exceeding pleasant; but, nevertheless, there were moments in which cold fits of a melancholy nature came upon him. He was doing the very thing which throughout all the years of his manhood he had declared to himself that he would not do. According to his plan of life he was to have eschewed marriage, and to have allowed himself to regard it as a possible event only under the circumstances of wealth, rank, and beauty all coming in his way together. As he had expected no such glorious prize, he had regarded himself as a man who would reign at the Beaufort and be potent at Sebright’s to the end of his chapter. But now –
It was the fact that he had fallen from his settled position, vanquished by a silver voice, a pretty wit, and a pair of moderately bright eyes. He was very fond of Lily, having in truth a stronger capability for falling in love than his friend Captain Dale; but was the sacrifice worth his while? This was the question which he asked himself in those melancholy moments; while he was lying in bed, for instance, awake in the morning, when he was shaving himself, and sometimes also when the squire was prosy after dinner. At such times as these, while he would be listening to Mr Dale, his self-reproaches would allow no one to bore him between Charing Cross and the far end of Bayswater – why should he listen to the long-winded stories of such a one as Squire Dale? If, indeed, the squire intended to be liberal to his niece, then it might be very well. But as yet the squire had given no sign of such intention, and Crosbie was angry with himself in that he had not had the courage to ask a question on that subject.
And thus the course of love was not all smooth to our Apollo. It was still pleasant for him when he was there on the croquet ground, or sitting in Mrs Dale’s drawing-room with all the privileges of an accepted lover. It was pleasant to him also as he sipped the squire’s claret, knowing that his coffee would soon be handed to him by a sweet girl who would have tripped across the two gardens on purpose to perform for him this service. There is nothing pleasanter than all this, although a man when so treated does feel himself to look like a calf at the altar, ready for the knife, with blue ribbons round his horns and neck. Crosbie felt that he was such a calf – and the more calf-like, in that he had not as yet dared to ask a question about his wife’s fortune. ‘I will have it out of the old fellow this evening,’ he said to himself, as he buttoned on his dandy shooting gaiters1 that morning.
‘How nice he looks in them,’ Lily said to her sister afterwards, knowing nothing of the thoughts which had troubled her lover’s mind while he was adorning his legs.
‘I suppose we shall come back this way,’ Crosbie said, as they prepared to move away on their proper business when lunch was over.
‘Well, not exactly!’ said Bernard. ‘We shall make our way round by Darvell’s farm, and so back by Gruddock’s. Are the girls going to dine up at the Great House today?’
The girls declared that they were not going to dine up at the Great House – that they did not intend going to the Great House at all that evening.
‘Then, as you won’t have to dress, you might as well meet us at Gruddock’s gate, at the back of the farmyard. We’ll be there exactly at half-past five.’
‘That is to say, we’re to be there at half-past five, and you’ll keep us waiting for three-quarters of an hour,’ said Lily. Nevertheless the arrangement as proposed was made, and the two ladies were not at all unwilling to make it. It is thus that the game is carried on among unsophisticated people who really live in the country. The farmyard gate at Farmer Gruddock’s has not a fitting sound as a trysting-place in romance, but for people who are in earnest in does as well as any oak in the middle glade of a forest. Lily Dale was quite in earnest – and so indeed was Adolphus Crosbie – only with him the earnest things have to wear in this vale of tears. With Lily it was as yet all rose-coloured. And Bernard Dale was also in earnest. Throughout this morning he had stood very near to Bell on the lawn, and had thought that his cousin did not receive his little whisperings with any aversion. Why should she? Lucky girl that she was, thus to have eight hundred a year pinned to her skirt!
‘I say, Dale,’ Crosbie said, as in the course of their day’s work they had come round upon Gruddock’s ground, and were preparing to finish off his turnips before they reached the farmyard gate. And now, as Crosbie spoke, they stood leaning on the gate, looking at the turnips while the two dogs squatted on their haunches. Crosbie had been very silent for the last mile or two, and had been making up his mind for his conversation. ‘I say, Dale – your uncle has never said a word to me yet as to Lily’s fortune.’
‘As to Lily’s fortune! The question is whether Lily has got a fortune.’
‘He can hardly expect that I am to take her without something. Your uncle is a man of the world and he knows –’
‘Whether or no my uncle is a man of the world, I will not say; but you are, Crosbie, whether he is or not. Lily, as you have always known, has nothing of her own.’
‘I am not talking of Lily’s own. I’m speaking of her uncle. I have been straightforward with him; and when I became attached to your cousin I declared what I meant at once.’
‘You should have asked him the question, if you thought there was any room for such a question.’
‘Thought there was any room! Upon my world, you are a cool fellow.’
‘Now look here, Crosbie; you may say what you like about my uncle, but you must not say a word against Lily.’
‘Who is going to say a word against her? You can little understand me if you don’t know that the protection of her name against evil words is already more my care than it is yours. I regard Lily as my own.’
‘I only meant to say, that any discontent you may feel as to her money, or want of money, you must refer to my uncle, and not to be family at the Small House.’
‘I am quite well aware of that.’
‘And thought you are quite at liberty to say what you like to me about my uncle, I cannot say that I can see that he has been to blame.’
‘He should have told me what her prospects are.’
‘But if she have got no prospects!
It cannot be an uncle’s duty to tell everybody that he does not mean to give his niece a fortune. In point of fact, why should you suppose that he has such an intention?’
‘Do you know that he has not? Because you once led me to believe that he would give his niece money.’
‘Now, Crosbie, it is necessary that you and I should understand each other in this matter –’
‘But did you not?’
‘Listen to me for a moment. I never said a word to world to you about my uncle’s intentions in any way, until after you had become fully engaged to Lily with the knowledge of us all. Then, when my belief on the subject could make no possible difference in your conduct, I told you that I thought my uncle would do something for her. I told you so because I did think so – and as your friend, I should have told you what I thought in any matter that concerned your interest.’
‘And now you have changed your opinion?’
‘I have changed my opinion; but very probably without sufficient ground.’
‘That’s hard upon me.’
‘It may be hard to bear disappointment; but you cannot say that anybody has ill-used you.’
‘And you don’t think he will give her anything?’
‘Nothing that will be of much moment to you.’
‘And I’m not to say that that’s hard? I think it confounded hard. Of course I must put off my marriage.’
‘Why do you not speak to my uncle?’
‘I shall do so. To tell the truth, I think it would have come better from him; but that is a matter of opinion. I shall tell him very plainly what I think about it; and if he is angry, why, I suppose I must leave his house; that will be all.’
‘Look here, Crosbie; do not begin your conversation with the purpose of angering him. He is not a bad-hearted man, but is very obstinate.’
‘I can be quite as obstinate as he is.’ And, then, without further parley, they went in among the turnips, and each swore against his luck as he missed his birds. There are certain phases of mind in which a man can neither ride nor shoot, nor play a stroke at billiards, nor remember a card at whist – and to such a phase of mind had come both Crosbie and Dale after their conversation over the gate.
The Small House at Allington Page 12