The Small House at Allington
speeches to Mrs. Dale, Mrs. Boyce, and Mrs. Hearn. And then at last
he made his way round to Bell.
"I am so glad," he said, "to congratulate you on your sister's
engagement."
"Yes," said Bell; "we knew that you would be glad to hear of her
happiness."
"Indeed, I am glad; and thoroughly hope that she may be happy. You
all like him, do you not?"
"We like him very much."
"And I am told that he is well off. He is a very fortunate man,--very
fortunate,--very fortunate."
"Of course we think so," said Bell. "Not, however, because he is
rich."
"No; not because he is rich. But because, being worthy of such
happiness, his circumstances should enable him to marry, and to enjoy
it."
"Yes, exactly," said Bell. "That is just it." Then she sat down, and
in sitting down put an end to the conversation. "That is just it,"
she had said. But as soon as the words were spoken she declared to
herself that it was not so, and that Crofts was wrong. "We love him,"
she said to herself, "not because he is rich enough to marry without
anxious thought, but because he dares to marry although he is not
rich." And then she told herself that she was angry with the doctor.
After that Dr. Crofts got off towards the door, and stood there by
himself, leaning against the wall, with the thumbs of both his hands
stuck into the armholes of his waistcoat. People said that he was a
shy man. I suppose he was shy, and yet he was a man that was by no
means afraid of doing anything that he had to do. He could speak
before a multitude without being abashed, whether it was a multitude
of men or of women. He could be very fixed too in his own opinion,
and eager, if not violent, in the prosecution of his purpose. But he
could not stand and say little words, when he had in truth nothing
to say. He could not keep his ground when he felt that he was not
using the ground upon which he stood. He had not learned the art of
assuming himself to be of importance in whatever place he might find
himself. It was this art which Crosbie had learned, and by this art
that he had flourished. So Crofts retired and leaned against the wall
near the door; and Crosbie came forward and shone like an Apollo
among all the guests. "How is it that he does it?" said John Eames to
himself, envying the perfect happiness of the London man of fashion.
At last Lily got the dancers out upon the lawn, and then they managed
to go through one quadrille. But it was found that it did not answer.
The music of the single fiddle which Crosbie had hired from Guestwick
was not sufficient for the purpose; and then the grass, though it was
perfect for purposes of croquet, was not pleasant to the feet for
dancing.
"This is very nice," said Bernard to his cousin. "I don't know
anything that could be nicer; but perhaps--"
"I know what you mean," said Lily. "But I shall stay here. There's no
touch of romance about any of you. Look at the moon there at the back
of the steeple. I don't mean to go in all night." Then she walked off
by one of the paths, and her lover went after her.
"Don't you like the moon?" she said, as she took his arm, to which
she was now so accustomed that she hardly thought of it as she took
it.
"Like the moon?--well; I fancy I like the sun better. I don't quite
believe in moonlight. I think it does best to talk about when one
wants to be sentimental."
"Ah; that is just what I fear. That is what I say to Bell when I tell
her that her romance will fade as the roses do. And then I shall have
to learn that prose is more serviceable than poetry, and that the
mind is better than the heart, and--and that money is better than
love. It's all coming, I know; and yet I do like the moonlight."
"And the poetry,--and the love?"
"Yes. The poetry much, and the love more. To be loved by you is
sweeter even than any of my dreams,--is better than all the poetry
I have read."
"Dearest Lily," and his unchecked arm stole round her waist.
"It is the meaning of the moonlight, and the essence of the poetry,"
continued the impassioned girl. "I did not know then why I liked such
things, but now I know. It was because I longed to be loved."
"And to love."
"Oh, yes. I would be nothing without that. But that, you know, is
your delight,--or should be. The other is mine. And yet it is a
delight to love you; to know that I may love you."
"You mean that this is the realization of your romance."
"Yes; but it must not be the end of it, Adolphus. You must like the
soft twilight, and the long evenings when we shall be alone; and you
must read to me the books I love, and you must not teach me to think
that the world is hard, and dry, and cruel,--not yet. I tell Bell so
very often; but you must not say so to me."
"It shall not be dry and cruel, if I can prevent it."
"You understand what I mean, dearest. I will not think it dry and
cruel, even though sorrow should come upon us, if you-- I think you
know what I mean."
"If I am good to you."
"I am not afraid of that;--I am not the least afraid of that. You do
not think that I could ever distrust you? But you must not be ashamed
to look at the moonlight, and to read poetry, and to--"
"To talk nonsense, you mean."
But as he said it, he pressed her closer to his side, and his tone
was pleasant to her.
"I suppose I'm talking nonsense now?" she said, pouting. "You liked
me better when I was talking about the pigs; didn't you?"
"No; I like you best now."
"And why didn't you like me then? Did I say anything to offend you?"
"I like you best now, because--"
They were standing in the narrow pathway of the gate leading from
the bridge into the gardens of the Great House, and the shadow of
the thick-spreading laurels was around them. But the moonlight still
pierced brightly through the little avenue, and she, as she looked up
to him, could see the form of his face and the loving softness of his
eye.
"Because--," said he; and then he stooped over her and pressed her
closely, while she put up her lips to his, standing on tip-toe that
she might reach to his face.
"Oh, my love!" she said. "My love! my love!"
As Crosbie walked back to the Great House that night, he made a firm
resolution that no consideration of worldly welfare should ever
induce him to break his engagement with Lily Dale. He went somewhat
further also, and determined that he would not put off the marriage
for more than six or eight months, or, at the most, ten, if he could
possibly get his affairs arranged in that time. To be sure, he must
give up everything,--all the aspirations and ambition of his life;
but then, as he declared to himself somewhat mournfully, he was
prepared to do that. Such were his resolutions, and, as he thought of
them in bed, he came to the conclusion that few men were less selfish
than he was.
"But what will they say to us for staying away?" said Lily,
recovering herself. "And I ought to be making the people dance, you
know. Come along, and do make yourself nice. Do waltz with Mary
Eames;--pray, do. If you don't, I won't speak to you all night!"
Acting under which threat, Crosbie did, on his return, solicit the
honour of that young lady's hand, thereby elating her into a seventh
heaven of happiness. What could the world afford better than a waltz
with such a partner as Adolphus Crosbie? And poor Mary Eames could
waltz well; though she could not talk much as she danced, and would
pant a good deal when she stopped. She put too much of her energy
into the motion, and was too anxious to do the mechanical part of
the work in a manner that should be satisfactory to her partner.
"Oh! thank you;--it's very nice. I shall be able to go on--again
directly." Her conversation with Crosbie did not get much beyond
that, and yet she felt that she had never done better than on this
occasion.
Though there were, at most, not above five couples of dancers, and
though they who did not dance, such as the squire and Mr. Boyce, and
a curate from a neighbouring parish, had, in fact, nothing to amuse
them, the affair was kept on very merrily for a considerable number
of hours. Exactly at twelve o'clock there was a little supper, which,
no doubt, served to relieve Mrs. Hearn's ennui, and at which Mrs.
Boyce also seemed to enjoy herself. As to the Mrs. Boyces on such
occasions, I profess that I feel no pity. They are generally happy in
their children's happiness, or if not, they ought to be. At any rate,
they are simply performing a manifest duty, which duty, in their
time, was performed on their behalf. But on what account do the Mrs.
Hearns betake themselves to such gatherings? Why did that ancient
lady sit there hour after hour yawning, longing for her bed, looking
every ten minutes at her watch, while her old bones were stiff and
sore, and her old ears pained with the noise? It could hardly have
been simply for the sake of the supper. After the supper, however,
her maid took her across to her cottage, and Mrs. Boyce also then
stole away home, and the squire went off with some little parade,
suggesting to the young men that they should make no noise in the
house as they returned. But the poor curate remained, talking a dull
word every now and then to Mrs. Dale, and looking on with tantalized
eyes at the joys which the world had prepared for others than him. I
must say that I think that public opinion and the bishops together
are too hard upon curates in this particular.
In the latter part of the night's delight, when time and practice had
made them all happy together, John Eames stood up for the first time
to dance with Lily. She had done all she could, short of asking him,
to induce him to do her this favour; for she felt that it would be a
favour. How great had been the desire on his part to ask her, and, at
the same time, how great the repugnance, Lily, perhaps, did not quite
understand. And yet she understood much of it. She knew that he was
not angry with her. She knew that he was suffering from the injured
pride of futile love, almost as much as from the futile love itself.
She wished to put him at his ease in this; but she did not quite give
him credit for the full sincerity, and the upright, uncontrolled
heartiness of his feelings.
At length he did come up to her, and though, in truth, she was
engaged, she at once accepted his offer. Then she tripped across the
room. "Adolphus," she said, "I can't dance with you, though I said
I would. John Eames has asked me, and I haven't stood up with him
before. You understand, and you'll be a good boy, won't you?"
Crosbie, not being in the least jealous, was a good boy, and sat
himself down to rest, hidden behind a door.
For the first few minutes the conversation between Eames and Lily
was of a very matter-of-fact kind. She repeated her wish that she
might see him in London, and he said that of course he should come
and call. Then there was silence for a little while, and they went
through their figure dancing.
"I don't at all know yet when we are to be married," said Lily, as
soon as they were again standing together.
"No; I dare say not," said Eames.
"But not this year, I suppose. Indeed, I should say, of course not."
"In the spring, perhaps," suggested Eames. He had an unconscious
desire that it might be postponed to some Greek kalends, and yet he
did not wish to injure Lily.
"The reason I mention it is this, that we should be so very glad if
you could be here. We all love you so much, and I should so like to
have you here on that day."
Why is it that girls so constantly do this,--so frequently ask men
who have loved them to be present at their marriages with other
men? There is no triumph in it. It is done in sheer kindness and
affection. They intend to offer something which shall soften and