The Small House at Allington
"You certainly don't deserve that he should write to you," said Mrs.
Dale.
"I don't expect it for a moment,--not till he gets back to London
and finds that he has nothing else to do at his office. But I should
so like to see how you and Lady Julia get on together. It was quite
clear that she regarded you as an ogre; didn't she, Bell?"
"So many people are ogres to Lady Julia," said Bell.
"I believe Lady Julia to be a very good woman," said Mrs. Dale, "and
I won't have her abused."
"Particularly before poor Bernard, who is her pet nephew," said Lily.
"I dare say Adolphus will become a pet too when she has been a week
with him at Courcy Castle. Do try and cut Bernard out."
From all which Mrs. Dale learned that some care which had sat heavy
on Lily's heart was now lightened, if not altogether removed. She
had asked no questions of her daughter, but she had perceived during
the past few days that Lily was in trouble, and she knew that such
trouble had arisen from her engagement. She had asked no questions,
but of course she had been told what was Mr. Crosbie's income, and
had been made to understand that it was not to be considered as
amply sufficient for all the wants of matrimony. There was little
difficulty in guessing what was the source of Lily's care, and as
little in now perceiving that something had been said between them by
which that care had been relieved.
After that they all rode, and the afternoon went by pleasantly. It
was the last day indeed, but Lily had determined that she would not
be sad. She had told him that he might go now, and that she would
not be discontented at his going. She knew that the morrow would be
very blank to her; but she struggled to live up to the spirit of her
promise, and she succeeded. They all dined at the Great House, even
Mrs. Dale doing so upon this occasion. When they had come in from the
garden in the evening, Crosbie talked more to Mrs. Dale than he did
even to Lily, while Lily sat a little distant, listening with all her
ears, sometimes saying a low-toned word, and happy beyond expression
in the feeling that her mother and her lover should understand each
other. And it must be understood that Crosbie at this time was fully
determined to conquer the difficulties of which he had thought so
much, and to fix the earliest day which might be possible for his
marriage. The solemnity of that meeting in the field still hung about
him, and gave to his present feelings a manliness and a truth of
purpose which were too generally wanting to them. If only those
feelings would last! But now he talked to Mrs. Dale about her
daughter, and about their future prospects, in a tone which he could
not have used had not his mind for the time been true to her. He
had never spoken so freely to Lily's mother, and at no time had Mrs.
Dale felt for him so much of a mother's love. He apologized for the
necessity of some delay, arguing that he could not endure to see his
young wife without the comfort of a home of her own, and that he
was now, as he always had been, afraid of incurring debt. Mrs. Dale
disliked waiting engagements,--as do all mothers,--but she could not
answer unkindly to such pleading as this.
"Lily is so very young," she said, "that she may well wait for a year
or so."
"For seven years," said Lily, jumping up and whispering into her
mother's ear. "I shall hardly be six-and-twenty then, which is not at
all too old."
And so the evening passed away very pleasantly.
"God bless you, Adolphus!" Mrs. Dale said to him, as she parted with
him at her own door. It was the first time that she had called him by
his Christian name. "I hope you understand how much we are trusting
to you."
"I do,--I do," said he, as he pressed her hand. Then as he walked
back alone, he swore to himself, binding himself to the oath with
all his heart, that he would be true to those women,--both to the
daughter and to the mother; for the solemnity of the morning was
still upon him.
He was to start the next morning before eight, Bernard having
undertaken to drive him over to the railway at Guestwick. The
breakfast was on the table shortly after seven; and just as the two
men had come down, Lily entered the room, with her hat and shawl. "I
said I would be in to pour out your tea," said she; and then she sat
herself down over against the teapot.
It was a silent meal, for people do not know what to say in those
last minutes. And Bernard, too, was there; proving how true is the
adage which says, that two are company, but that three are not. I
think that Lily was wrong to come up on that last morning; but she
would not hear of letting him start without seeing him, when her
lover had begged her not to put herself to so much trouble. Trouble!
Would she not have sat up all night to see even the last of the top
of his hat?
Then Bernard, muttering something about the horse, went away. "I have
only one minute to speak to you," said she, jumping up, "and I have
been thinking all night of what I had to say. It is so easy to think,
and so hard to speak."
"My darling, I understand it all."
"But you must understand this, that I will never distrust you. I
will never ask you to give me up again, or say that I could be happy
without you. I could not live without you; that is, without the
knowledge that you are mine. But I will never be impatient, never.
Pray, pray believe me! Nothing shall make me distrust you."
"Dearest Lily, I will endeavour to give you no cause."
"I know you will not; but I specially wanted to tell you that. And
you will write,--very soon?"
"Directly I get there."
"And as often as you can. But I won't bother you; only your letters
will make me so happy. I shall be so proud when they come to me. I
shall be afraid of writing too much to you, for fear I should tire
you."
"You will never do that."
"Shall I not? But you must write first, you know. If you could only
understand how I shall live upon your letters! And now good-by. There
are the wheels. God bless you, my own, my own!" And she gave herself
up into his arms, as she had given herself up into his heart.
She stood at the door as the two men got into the gig, and, as it
passed down through the gate, she hurried out upon the terrace, from
whence she could see it for a few yards down the lane. Then she ran
from the terrace to the gate, and, hurrying through the gate, made
her way into the churchyard, from the farther corner of which she
could see the heads of the two men till they had made the turn into
the main road beyond the parsonage. There she remained till the very
sound of the wheels no longer reached her ears, stretching her eyes
in the direction they had taken. Then she turned round slowly and
made her way out at the churchyard gate, which opened on to the road
close to the front door of the Small House.
"I should like to punch his head," said Hopkins, the gardener, to
himself, as he saw the gig driven away and saw Lily trip after it,
that she might see the last of him whom it carried. "And I wouldn't
think nothing of doing it; no more I wouldn't," Hopkins added in his
soliloquy. It was generally thought about the place that Miss Lily
was Hopkins's favourite; though he showed it chiefly by snubbing her
more frequently than he snubbed her sister.
Lily had evidently intended to return home through the front door;
but she changed her purpose before she reached the house, and made
her way slowly back through the churchyard, and by the gate of the
Great House, and by the garden at the back of it, till she crossed
the little bridge. But on the bridge she rested awhile, leaning
against the railing as she had often leant with him, and thinking of
all that had passed since that July day on which she had first met
him. On no spot had he so often told her of his love as on this, and
nowhere had she so eagerly sworn to him that she would be his own
dutiful loving wife.
"And by God's help so I will," she said to herself, as she walked
firmly up to the house. "He has gone, mamma," she said, as she
entered the breakfast-room. "And now we'll go back to our work-a-day
ways; it has been all Sunday for me for the last six weeks."
CHAPTER XVI.
MR. CROSBIE MEETS AN OLD CLERGYMAN ON HIS WAY TO COURCY CASTLE.
[ILLUSTRATION: (untitled)]
For the first mile or two of their journey Crosbie and Bernard Dale
sat, for the most part, silent in their gig. Lily, as she ran down
to the churchyard corner and stood there looking after them with
her loving eyes, had not been seen by them. But the spirit of her
devotion was still strong upon them both, and they felt that it
would not be well to strike at once into any ordinary topic of
conversation. And, moreover, we may presume that Crosbie did feel
much at thus parting from such a girl as Lily Dale, with whom he
had lived in close intercourse for the last six weeks, and whom he
loved with all his heart,--with all the heart that he had for such
purposes. In those doubts as to his marriage which had troubled him
he had never expressed to himself any disapproval of Lily. He had not
taught himself to think that she was other than he would have her be,
that he might thus give himself an excuse for parting from her. Not
as yet, at any rate, had he had recourse to that practice, so common
with men who wish to free themselves from the bonds with which they
have permitted themselves to be bound. Lily had been too sweet to
his eyes, to his touch, to all his senses for that. He had enjoyed
too keenly the pleasure of being with her, and of hearing her tell
him that she loved him, to allow of his being personally tired of
her. He had not been so spoilt by his club life but that he had
taken exquisite pleasure in all her nice country ways, and soft,
kind-hearted, womanly humour. He was by no means tired of Lily.
Better than any of his London pleasures was this pleasure of making
love in the green fields to Lily Dale. It was the consequences of
it that affrighted him. Babies with their belongings would come;
and dull evenings, over a dull fire, or else the pining grief of
a disappointed woman. He would be driven to be careful as to his
clothes, because the ordering of a new coat would entail a serious
expenditure. He could go no more among countesses and their
daughters, because it would be out of the question that his wife
should visit at their houses. All the victories that he had ever won
must be given up. He was thinking of this even while the gig was
going round the corner near the parsonage house, and while Lily's
eyes were still blessed with some view of his departing back; but he
was thinking, also, that moment, that there might be other victory
in store for him; that it might be possible for him to learn to
like that fireside, even though babies should be there, and a woman
opposite to him intent on baby cares. He was struggling as best he
knew how; for the solemnity which Lily had imparted to him had not
yet vanished from his spirit.
"I hope that, upon the whole, you feel contented with your visit?"
said Bernard to him, at last.
"Contented? Of course I do."
"That is easily said; and civility to me, perhaps, demands as much.
But I know that you have, to some extent, been disappointed."
"Well; yes. I have been disappointed as regards money. It is of no
use denying it."
"I should not mention it now, only that I want to know that you
exonerate me."
"I have never blamed you;--neither you, nor anybody else; unless,
indeed, it has been myself."
"You mean that you regret what you've done?"
"No; I don't mean that. I am too devotedly attached to that dear girl
whom we have just left to feel any regret that I have engaged myself
to her. But I do think that had I managed better with your uncle
things might have been different."