The Small House at Allington
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 could 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.
"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 here?" said Bell. But Mrs. Dale said
nothing. Had time been given to her to use her own judgment, 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 given 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 Lotharios 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 he 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." Whereupon, 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 was 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, 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 to-day,
sir. Mind you come over to-morrow 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 be 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 VII.