The Small House at Allington
Eames? I have known him all my life, and we have all of us had a very
great regard for the whole family. His father was my uncle's most
particular friend."
"I think, Lily, you must understand what I mean. I don't want you to
quarrel with any of them, or to be what you call unkind. But you need
not give special and pressing invitations to this young man to come
and see you before he goes back to London, and then to come and see
you directly you get to London. You tell me that he has some kind of
romantic idea of being in love with you;--of being in despair because
you are not in love with him. It's all great nonsense, no doubt, but
it seems to me that under such circumstances you'd better--just leave
him alone."
Again Lily was silent. These were her three last days, in which it
was her intention to be especially happy, but above all things to
make him especially happy. On no account would she say to him sharp
words, or encourage in her own heart a feeling of animosity against
him, and yet she believed him to be wrong; and so believing could
hardly bring herself to bear the injury. Such was her nature, as
a Dale. And let it be remembered that very many who can devote
themselves for great sacrifices, cannot bring themselves to
the endurance of little injuries. Lily could have given up any
gratification for her lover, but she could not allow herself to have
been in the wrong, believing herself to have been in the right.
"I have asked him now, and he must come," she said.
"But do not press him to come any more."
"Certainly not, after what you have said, Adolphus. If he comes over
to Allington, he will see me in mamma's house, to which he has always
been made welcome by her. Of course I understand perfectly--"
"You understand what, Lily?"
But she had stopped herself, fearing that she might say that which
would be offensive to him if she continued.
"What is it you understand, Lily?"
"Do not press me to go on, Adolphus. As far as I can, I will do all
that you want me to do."
"You meant to say that when you find yourself an inmate of my house,
as a matter of course you could not ask your own friends to come and
see you. Was that gracious?"
"Whatever I may have meant to say, I did not say that. Nor in truth
did I mean it. Pray don't go on about it now. These are to be our
last days, you know, and we shouldn't waste them by talking of things
that are unpleasant. After all poor Johnny Eames is nothing to me;
nothing, nothing. How can any one be anything to me when I think of
you?"
But even this did not bring Crosbie back at once into a pleasant
humour. Had Lily yielded to him and confessed that he was right, he
would have made himself at once as pleasant as the sun in May. But
this she had not done. She had simply abstained from her argument
because she did not choose to be vexed, and had declared her
continued purpose of seeing Eames on his promised visit. Crosbie
would have had her acknowledge herself wrong, and would have
delighted in the privilege of forgiving her. But Lily Dale was one
who did not greatly relish forgiveness, or any necessity of being
forgiven. So they rode on, if not in silence, without much joy in
their conversation. It was now late on the Monday afternoon, and
Crosbie was to go early on the Wednesday morning. What if these three
last days should come to be marred with such terrible drawbacks as
these!
Bernard Dale had not spoken a word to his cousin of his suit, since
they had been interrupted by Crosbie and Lily as they were lying
on the bank by the ha-ha. He had danced with her again and again
at Mrs. Dale's party, and had seemed to revert to his old modes of
conversation without difficulty. Bell, therefore, had believed the
matter to be over, and was thankful to her cousin, declaring within
her own bosom that the whole matter should be treated by her as
though it had never happened. To no one,--not even to her mother,
would she tell it. To such reticence she bound herself for his sake,
feeling that he would be best pleased that it should be so. But now
as they rode on together, far in advance of the other couple, he
again returned to the subject.
"Bell," said he, "am I to have any hope?"
"Any hope as to what, Bernard?"
"I hardly know whether a man is bound to take a single answer on such
a subject. But this I know, that if a man's heart is concerned, he is
not very willing to do so."
"When that answer has been given honestly and truly--"
"Oh, no doubt. I don't at all suppose that you were dishonest or
false when you refused to allow me to speak to you."
"But, Bernard, I did not refuse to allow you to speak to me."
"Something very like it. But, however, I have no doubt you were true
enough. But, Bell, why should it be so? If you were in love with any
one else I could understand it."
"I am not in love with any one else."
"Exactly. And there are so many reasons why you and I should join our
fortunes together."
"It cannot be a question of fortune, Bernard."
"Do listen to me. Do let me speak, at any rate. I presume I may at
least suppose that you do not dislike me."
"Oh, no."
"And though you might not be willing to accept any man's hand merely
on a question of fortune, surely the fact that our marriage would be
in every way suitable as regards money should not set you against it.
Of my own love for you I will not speak further, as I do not doubt
that you believe what I say; but should you not question your own
feelings very closely before you determine to oppose the wishes of
all those who are nearest to you?"
"Do you mean mamma, Bernard?"
"Not her especially, though I cannot but think she would like a
marriage that would keep all the family together, and would give you
an equal claim to the property to that which I have."
"That would not have a feather's-weight with mamma."
"Have you asked her?"
"No, I have mentioned the matter to no one."
"Then you cannot know. And as to my uncle, I have the means of
knowing that it is the great desire of his life. I must say that I
think some consideration for him should induce you to pause before
you give a final answer, even though no consideration for me should
have any weight with you."
"I would do more for you than for him,--much more."
"Then do this for me. Allow me to think that I have not yet had an
answer to my proposal; give me to this day month, to Christmas; till
any time that you like to name, so that I may think that it is not
yet settled, and may tell uncle Christopher that such is the case."
"Bernard, it would be useless."
"It would at any rate show him that you are willing to think of it."
"But I am not willing to think of it;--not in that way. I do know my
own mind thoroughly, and I should be very wrong if I were to deceive
you."
"And you wish me to give that as your only answer to my uncle?"
"To tell the truth, Bernard, I do not much care what you may say to
my uncle in this matter. He can have no right to interfere in the
disposal of my hand, and therefore I need not regard his wishes on
the subject. I will explain to you in one word what my feelings are
about it. I would accept no man in opposition to mamma's wishes; but
not even for her could I accept any man in opposition to my own. But
as concerns my uncle, I do not feel myself called on to consult him
in any way on such a matter."
"And yet he is the head of our family."
"I don't care anything about the family,--not in that way."
"And he has been very generous to you all."
"That I deny. He has not been generous to mamma. He is very hard
and ungenerous to mamma. He lets her have that house because he is
anxious that the Dales should seem to be respectable before the
world; and she lives in it, because she thinks it better for us that
she should do so. If I had my way, she should leave it to-morrow--or,
at any rate, as soon as Lily is married. I would much sooner go into
Guestwick, and live as the Eames do."
"I think you are ungrateful, Bell."
"No; I am not ungrateful. And as to consulting, Bernard,--I should
be much more inclined to consult you than him about my marriage. If
you would let me look on you altogether as a brother, I should think
little of promising to marry no one whom you did not approve."
But such an agreement between them would by no means have suited
Bernard's views. He had thought, some four or five weeks back, that
he was not personally very anxious for this match. He had declared to
himself that he liked his cousin well enough; that it would be a good
thing for him to settle himself; that his uncle was reasonable in his
wishes and sufficiently liberal in his offers; and that, therefore,
he would marry. It had hardly occurred to him as probable that his
cousin would reject so eligible an offer, and had certainly never
occurred to him that he would have to suffer anything from such
rejection. He had entertained none of that feeling of which lovers
speak when they declare that they are staking their all upon the
hazard of a die. It had not seemed to him that he was staking
anything, as he gently told his tale of languid love, lying on
the turf by the ha-ha. He had not regarded the possibility of
disappointment, of sorrow, and of a deeply-vexed mind. He would have
felt but little triumph if accepted, and had not thought that he
could be humiliated by any rejection. In this frame of mind he had
gone to his work; but now he found, to his own surprise, that this
girl's answer had made him absolutely unhappy. Having expressed a
wish for this thing, the very expression of the wish made him long to
possess it. He found, as he rode along silently by her side, that he
was capable of more earnestness of desire than he had known himself
to possess. He was at this moment unhappy, disappointed, anxious,
distrustful of the future, and more intent on one special toy than he
had ever been before, even as a boy. He was vexed, and felt himself
to be sore at heart. He looked round at her, as she sat silent,
quiet, and somewhat sad upon her pony, and declared to himself that
she was very beautiful,--that she was a thing to be gained if still
there might be the possibility of gaining her. He felt that he really
loved her, and yet he was almost angry with himself for so feeling.
Why had he subjected himself to this numbing weakness? His love
had never given him any pleasure. Indeed he had never hitherto
acknowledged it; but now he was driven to do so on finding it to be
the source of trouble and pain. I think it is open to us to doubt
whether, even yet, Bernard Dale was in love with his cousin; whether
he was not rather in love with his own desire. But against himself he
found a verdict that he was in love, and was angry with himself and
with all the world.
"Ah, Bell," he said, coming close up to her, "I wish you could
understand how I love you." And, as he spoke, his cousin
unconsciously recognized more of affection in his tone, and less of
that spirit of bargaining which had seemed to pervade all his former
pleas, than she had ever found before.
"And do I not love you? Have I not offered to be to you in all
respects as a sister?"
"That is nothing. Such an offer to me now is simply laughing at me.
Bell, I tell you what,--I will not give you up. The fact is, you do
not know me yet,--not know me as you must know any man before you
choose him for your husband. You and Lily are not alike in this.
You are cautious, doubtful of yourself, and perhaps, also, somewhat
doubtful of others. My heart is set upon this, and I shall still try
to succeed."
"Ah, Bernard, do not say that! Believe me, when I tell you that it
can never be."
"No; I will not believe you. I will not allow myself to be made
utterly wretched. I tell you fairly that I will not believe you. I