The Small House at Allington

by Anthony Trollope

  ‘No; how could I ask her, when I hadn’t bread to give her?’

  ‘And you never told her – that you were in love with her, I mean, and all that kind of thing.’

  ‘She knows it now,’ said Johnny; ‘I went to say good-bye to her the other day – when I thought she was going to be married. I could not help telling her then.’

  ‘But it seems to me, my dear fellow, that you ought to be very much obliged to Crosbie – that is to say, if you’ve a mind to –’

  ‘I know what you mean, my lord. I am not a bit obliged to him. It’s my belief that all this will about kill her. As to myself, if I thought she’s ever have me –’

  Then he was again silent, and the earl could see that the tears were in his eyes.

  ‘I think I begin to understand it,’ said the earl, ‘and I’ll give you a bit of advice. You come down and spend your Christmas with me at Guestwick.’

  ‘Oh, my lord!’

  ‘Never mind my-lording me, but do as I tell you. I tell you. Lady Julia sent you a message, though I forgot all about it till now. She wants to thank you herself for what you did in the field.’

  ‘That’s all nonsense, my lord.’

  ‘Very well; you can tell her so. You may take my word for this too – my sister hates Crosbie quite as much as you do. I think she’d “pitch into him”, as you call it, herself, if she knew how. You come down to Guestwick for the Christmas, and then go over to Allington and tell them all plainly what you mean.’

  ‘I couldn’t say a word to her now.’

  ‘Say it to the squire, then. Go to him, and tell him what you mean – holding your head up like a man. Don’t talk to me about swells. The man who means honestly is the best swell I know. He’s the only swell I recognize. Go to old Dale, and say you come from me – from Guestwick Manor. Tell him that if he’ll put a little stick under the pot to make it boil, I’ll put a bigger one. He’ll understand what that means.’

  ‘Oh, on, my lord.’

  ‘But I say, oh, yes;’ and the earl, who was now standing on the rug before the fire, dug his hands deep down into his trousers’ pockets. ‘I’m very fond of that girl, and would do much for her. You ask Lady Julia if I didn’t say so to her before I ever knew of your casting a sheep’s-eye that way. And I’ve a sneaking kindness for you too, Master Johnny. Lord bless you, I knew your father as well as I ever knew any man; and to tell the truth, I believe I helped to ruin him. He held land of me, you know, and there can’t be any doubt that he did ruin himself. He knew no more about a beast when he’d done, than – than – than that waiter If he’d gone on to this day he wouldn’t have been any wiser.’

  Johnny sat silent, with his eyes full of tears. What was he to say to his friend?

  ‘You come down with me,’ continued the earl, ‘and you’ll find we’ll make it all straight. I dare say you’re right about not speaking to the girl just at present. But tell everything to the uncle, and then to the mother. And, above all things, never think that you’re not good enough yourself. A man should never think that. My belief is that in life people will take you very much at your own reckoning. If you are made of dirt, like that fellow Crosbie, you’ll be found out at last, no doubt. But then I don’t think you are made of dirt.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘And so do I. You can come down, I suppose, with me the day after tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I have had all my leave.’

  ‘Shall I write to old Buffle, and ask it as a favour?’

  ‘No,’ said Johnny; ‘I shouldn’t like that. But I’ll see tomorrow, and then I’ll let you know. I can go down by the mail-train on Saturday, at any rate.’

  ‘That won’t be comfortable. See and come with me if you can. Now, good-night, my dear fellow, and remember this – when I say a thing I mean it. I think I may boast that I never yet went yet went back from my word.’

  The earl as he spoke gave his left hand to his guest, and looking somewhat grandly up over the young man’s head, he tapped his own breast thrice with his right hand. As he went through the little scene, John Eames felt that he was every inch an earl.

  ‘I don’t know what to say to you, my lord.’

  ‘Say nothing – not a word more to me. But say to yourself that faint heart never won fair lady. Good-night, my dear boy, good-night. I dine out tomorrow, but you can call and let me know at about six.’

  Eames then left the room without another word, and walked out into the cold air of Jermyn Street. The moon was clear and bright, and the pavement in the shining light seemed to be as clean as a lady’s hand. All the world was altered to him since he had entered Pawkin’s Hotel. Was it then possible that Lily Dale might even yet become his wife? Could it be true that he, even now, was in a position to go boldly to the Squire of Allington, and tell him what were his views with reference to Lily? And how far would he be justified in taking the earl at his word? Some incredible amount of wealth would be required before he could marry Lily Dale. Two or three hundred pounds a year at the very least! The earl could not mean him to understand that any such sum as that would be made up with such an object Nevertheless he resolved as he walked home to Burton Crescent that he would go down to Guestwick, and that he would obey the earl’s behest. As regarded Lily herself he felt that nothing could be said to her for many a long day as yet.

  ‘Oh, John, how late you are!’ said Amelia, slipping out from the back parlour as he let himself in with his latch key.

  ‘Yes, I am – very late,’ said John, taking his candle, and passing her by on the stairs without another word.

  CHAPTER 33

  ‘THE TIME WILL COME’

  ‘DID YOU hear that young Eames is staying at Guestwick Manor?’

  As these were the first words which the squire spoke to Mrs Dale as they walked together up to the Great House, after church, on Christmas Day, it was clear enough that the tidings of Johnny’s visit, when told to him, had made some impression.

  ‘At Guestwick Manor!’ said Mrs Dale. ‘Dear me! Do you hear that, Bell? There’s promotion for Master Johnny!’

  ‘Don’t you remember, mamma,’ said Bell, ‘that he helped his lordship in his trouble with the bull?’

  Lily, who remembered accurately all the passages of her last interview with John Eames, said nothing, but felt, in some sort, sore at the idea that he should be so near her at such a time. In some unconscious way she had liked him for coming to her and saying all that he did say. She valued him more highly after that scene then she did before. But now, she would feel herself injured and hurt if he ever made his way into her presence under circumstances as they existed.

  ‘I should not have thought that Lord De Guest was the man to show so much gratitude for so slight a favour,’ said the squire. ‘However, I’m going to dine there tomorrow.’

  ‘To meet young Eames?’ said Mrs Dale.

  ‘Yes – especially to meet young Eames. At least, I’ve been very specially asked to come, and I’ve been told that he is to be there.’

  ‘And is Bernard going?’

  ‘Indeed I’m not,’ said Bernard. ‘I shall come over and dine with you.’

  A half-formed idea flitted across Lily’s mind, teaching her to imagine for a moment that she might possibly be concerned in this arrangement. But the thought vanished as quickly as it came, merely leaving some soreness behind it. There are certain maladies which make the whole body sore. The patient, let him be touched on any point – let him even be nearly touched – will roar with agony as though his whole body had been bruised. So it is also with maladies of the mind. Sorrows such as that of poor Lily’s leave the heart sore at every point, and compel the sufferer to be ever in fear of new wounds. Lily bore her cross bravely and well; but not the less did it weigh heavily upon her at every turn because she had the strength to walk as though she did not bear it. Nothing happened to her, or in her presence, that did not in some way connect itself with her misery. Her uncle was going over to meet John Eames at Lord De Guest’
s. Of course the men there would talk about her, and all such talking was an injury to her.

  The afternoon of that day did not pass away brightly. As long as the servants were in the room the dinner went on much as other dinners. At such times a certain amount of hypocrisy must always be practised in closely domestic circles. At mixed dinner-parties people can talk before Richard and William the same words that they would use if Richard and William were not there. People so mixed do not talk together their inward home thoughts. But when close friends are together, a little conscious reticence is practised till the door is tiled.1 At such a meeting as this that conscious reticence was of service, and created an effort which was salutary. When the door was tiled, and when the servants were gone, how could they be merry together? By what mirth should the beards be made to wag2 on that Christmas Day?

  ‘My father has been up in town,’ said Bernard. ‘He was with Lord De Guest at Pawkins’s.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go and see him?’ asked Mrs Dale.

  ‘Well, I don’t know. He did not seem to wish it. I shall go down to Torquay in February. I must be up in London, you know, in a fortnight, for good.’ Then they were all silent again for a few minutes. If Bernard could have owned the truth, he would have acknowledged that he had not gone up to London, because he did not yet know how to treat Crosbie when he should meet him. His thoughts on this matter threw some sort of shadow across poor Lily’s mind, making her feel that her wound was again opened.

  ‘I want him to give up his profession altogether,’ said the squire, speaking firmly and slowly. ‘It would be better, I think, for both of us that he should do so.’

  ‘Would it be wise at his time of life,’ said Mrs Dale, ‘and when he has been doing so well?’

  ‘I think it would be wise. If he were my son it would be thought better that he should live here upon the property, among the people who are to become his tenants, than remain up in London, or perhaps be sent to India. He has one profession as the heir of this place, and that, I think, should be enough.’

  ‘I should have but an idle life of it down here,’ said Bernard.

  ‘That would be your own fault. But if you did as I would have you, your life would not be idle.’ In this he was alluding to Bernard’s proposed marriage, but as to that nothing further could be said in Bell’s presence. Bell understood it all, and sat quite silent, with demure countenance – perhaps even with something of sternness in her face.

  ‘But the fact is,’ said Mrs Dale, speaking in a low tone, and having well considered what she was about to say, ‘that Bernard is not exactly the same as your son.’

  ‘Why not?’ said the squire. ‘I have even offered to settle the property on him if he will leave the service.’

  ‘You do not owe him so much as you would owe your son; and, therefore, he does not owe you as much as he would owe his father.’

  ‘If you mean that I cannot constrain him, I know that well enough. As regards money, I have offered to do for him quite as much as any father would feel called upon to do for an only son.’

  ‘I hope you don’t think me ungrateful,’ said Bernard.

  ‘No, I do not; but I think you unmindful. I have nothing more to say about it however – not about that. If you should marry –’ And then he stopped himself, feeling that he could not go on in Bell’s presence.

  ‘If he should marry,’ said Mrs Dale, ‘it may well be that his wife would like a house of her own.’

  ‘Wouldn’t she have this house?’ said the squire, angrily. ‘Isn’t it big enough? I only want one room for myself, and I’d give up that if it were necessary.’

  ‘That’s nonsense,’ said Mrs Dale.

  ‘It isn’t nonsense,’ said the squire.

  ‘You’ll be squire of Allington for the next twenty years,’ said Mrs Dale. ‘And as long as you are the squire, you’ll be master of this house; at least, I hope so. I don’t approve of monarchs abdicating in favour of young people.’

  ‘I don’t think uncle Christopher would look at all well like Charles the Fifth,’3 said Lily.

  ‘I would always keep a cell for you, my darling, if I did,’ said the squire, regarding her with that painful, special tenderness. Lily, who as sitting next to Mrs Dale, put her hand out secretly and got hold of her mother’s, thereby indicating that she did not intend to occupy the cell offered to her by her uncle; or to look to him as the companion of her monastic seclusion. After that there was nothing more then said as to Bernard’s prospects.

  ‘Mrs Hearn is dining at the vicarage, I suppose?’ asked the squire.

  ‘Yes; she went in after church,’ said Bell. ‘I saw her go with Mrs Boyce.’

  ‘She told me she never would dine with them again after dark in winter,’ said Mrs Dale. ‘The last time she was there, the boy let the lamp blow out as she was going home, and she lost her way. The truth was, she was angry because Mr Boyce didn’t go with her.’

  ‘She’s always angry,’ said the squire. ‘She hardly speaks to me now. When she paid her rent the other day to Jolliffe, she said she hoped it would do me much good; as though she thought me a brute for taking it.’

  ‘So she does,’ said Bernard.

  ‘She’s very old, you know,’ said Bell.

  ‘I’d give her the house for nothing, if I were you, uncle,’ said Lily.

  ‘No, my dear; if you were me you would not. I should be very wrong to do so. Why should Mrs Hearn have her house for nothing, any more than her meat or her clothes? It would be much more reasonable were I to give her so much money into her hand yearly; but it would be wrong in me do so, seeing that she is not an object of charity – and it would be wrong in her to take it.’

  ‘And she wouldn’t take it,’ said Mrs Dale.

  ‘I don’t think she would. But if she did, I’m sure she would grumble because it wasn’t double the amount. And if Mr Boyce had gone home with her, she would have grumbled because he walked too fast.’

  ‘She is very old,’ said Bell, again.

  ‘But, nevertheless, she ought to know better than to speak disparagingly of me to my servants. She should have more respect for herself.’ And the squire showed by the tone of his voice that he thought very much about it.

  It was very long and very dull that Christmas evening, making Bernard feel strongly that he would be very foolish to give up his profession, and tie himself down to a life at Allington. Women are more accustomed than men to long, dull, unemployed hours; and, therefore, Mrs Dale and her daughters bore the tedium courageously. While he yawned, stretched himself, and went in and out of the room, they sat demurely, listening as the squire laid down the law on small matters, and contradicting him occasionally when the spirit of either of them prompted her specially to do so. ‘Of course you know much better than I do,’ he would say. ‘Not at all,’ Mrs Dale would answer. ‘I don’t pretend to know anything about it. But –’ So the evening wore itself away; and when the squire was left alone at half-past nine, he did not feel that the day had passed badly with him. That was his style of life, and he expected no more from it than he got. He did not look to find things very pleasant, and, if not happy, he was, at any rate, contented.

  ‘Only think of Johnny Eames being at Guestwick Manor!’ said Bell, as they were going home.

  ‘I don’t see why he shouldn’t be there,’ said Lily. ‘I would rather it should be he than I, because Lady Julia is so grumpy.’

  ‘But asking your uncle Christopher especially to meet him!’ said Mrs Dale. ‘There must be some reason for it.’ Then Lily felt the soreness come upon her again, and spoke no further upon the subject.

  We all know that there was a special reason, and that Lily’s soreness was not false in its mysterious forebodings. Eames, on the evening after his dinner at Pawkins’s, had seen teh earl, and explained to him that he could not leave town till the Saturday evening; but that he could remain over the Tuesday. He must be at his office by twelve on Wednesday, and could manage to do that by an early train from Guestwick.r />
  ‘Very well, Johnny,’ said the earl, talking to his young friend with the bedroom candle in his hand, as he was going up to dress. ‘Then I’ll tell you what; I’ve been thinking of it. I’ll ask Dale to come over to dinner on Tuesday: and if he’ll come, I’ll explain the whole matter to him myself. He’s a man of business, and he’ll understand. If he won’t come, why then you must go over to Allington, and find him, if you can, on the Tuesday morning; or I’ll go to him myself, which will be better. You mustn’t keep me now, as I am ever so much too late.’

  Eames did not attempt to keep him, but went away feeling that the whole matter was being arranged for him in a very wonderful way. And when he got to Allington he found that the squire had accepted the earl’s invitation. Then he declared to himself that there was no longer any possibility of retraction for him. Of course he did not wish to retract. The one great longing of his life was to call Lily Dale his own. But he felt afraid of the squire – that the squire would despise him and snub him, and that the earl would perceive that he had made a mistake when he saw how his client was scorned and snubbed. It was arranged that the earl was to take the squire into his own room for a few minutes before dinner, and Johnny felt that he would be hardly able to stand his ground in the drawing-room when the two old men should make their appearance together.

  He got on very well with Lady Julia, who gave herself no airs, and made herself very civil. Her brother had told her the whole story, and she felt as anxious as he did to provide Lily with another husband in place of that horrible man Crosbie. ‘She has been very fortunate in her escape,’ she said to her brother; ‘very fortunate.’ The earl agreed with this, saying that in his opinion his own favourite Johnny would make much the nicer lover of the two. But Lady Julia had her doubts as to Lily’s acquiescence. ‘But, Theodore, he must not speak to Miss Lilian Dale herself about it yet a while.’

  ‘No,’ said the earl; ‘not for a month or so.’

  ‘He will have a better chance if he can remain silent for six months,’ said Lady Julia.