The Small House at Allington
"But there's nothing for the public ear."
"He sends his love to you and Bell."
"We are very much obliged to him."
"So you ought to be. And he says that he went to church going through
Barchester, and that the clergyman was the grandfather of that Lady
Dumbello. When he got to Courcy Castle Lady Dumbello was there."
"What a singular coincidence!" said Mrs. Dale.
"I won't tell you a word more about his letter," said Lily. So she
folded it up, and put it in her pocket. But as soon as she found
herself alone in her own room, she had it out again, and read it over
some half-a-dozen times.
That was the occupation of her morning;--that, and the manufacture
of some very intricate piece of work which was intended for the
adornment of Mr. Crosbie's person. Her hands, however, were very full
of work;--or, rather, she intended that they should be full. She
would take with her to her new home, when she was married, all manner
of household gear, the produce of her own industry and economy. She
had declared that she wanted to do something for her future husband,
and she would begin that something at once. And in this matter she
did not belie her promises to herself, or allow her good intentions
to evaporate unaccomplished. She soon surrounded herself with harder
tasks than those embroidered slippers with which she indulged herself
immediately after his departure. And Mrs. Dale and Bell,--though in
their gentle way they laughed at her,--nevertheless they worked with
her, sitting sternly to their long tasks, in order that Crosbie's
house might not be empty when their darling should go to take her
place there as his wife.
But it was absolutely necessary that the letter should be answered.
It would in her eyes have been a great sin to have let that day's
post go without carrying a letter from her to Courcy Castle,--a sin
of which she felt no temptation to be guilty. It was an exquisite
pleasure to her to seat herself at her little table, with her neat
desk and small appurtenances for epistle-craft, and to feel that she
had a letter to write in which she had truly much to say. Hitherto
her correspondence had been uninteresting and almost weak in its
nature. From her mother and sister she had hardly yet been parted;
and though she had other friends, she had seldom found herself with
very much to tell them by post. What could she communicate to Mary
Eames at Guestwick, which should be in itself exciting as she wrote
it? When she wrote to John Eames, and told "Dear John" that mamma
hoped to have the pleasure of seeing him to tea at such an hour, the
work of writing was of little moment to her, though the note when
written became one of the choicest treasures of him to whom it was
addressed.
But now the matter was very different. When she saw the words
"Dearest Adolphus" on the paper before her, she was startled with
their significance. "And four months ago I had never even heard of
him," she said to herself, almost with awe. And now he was more to
her, and nearer to her, than even was her sister or her mother! She
recollected how she had laughed at him behind his back, and called
him a swell on the first day of his coming to the Small House, and
how, also, she had striven, in her innocent way, to look her best
when called upon to go out and walk with the stranger from London.
He was no longer a stranger now, but her own dearest friend.
She had put down her pen that she might think of all this--by no
means for the first time--and then resumed it with a sudden start
as though fearing that the postman might be in the village before
her letter was finished. "Dearest Adolphus, I need not tell you how
delighted I was when your letter was brought to me this morning."
But I will not repeat the whole of her letter here. She had no
incident to relate, none even so interesting as that of Mr. Crosbie's
encounter with Mr. Harding at Barchester. She had met no Lady
Dumbello, and had no counterpart to Lady Alexandrina, of whom, as
a friend, she could say a word in praise. John Eames's name she did
not mention, knowing that John Eames was not a favourite with Mr.
Crosbie; nor had she anything to say of John Eames, that had not been
already said. He had, indeed, promised to come over to Allington;
but this visit had not been made when Lily wrote her first letter to
Crosbie. It was a sweet, good, honest love-letter, full of assurances
of unalterable affection and unlimited confidence, indulging in a
little quiet fun as to the grandees of Courcy Castle, and ending with
a promise that she would be happy and contented if she might receive
his letters constantly, and live with the hope of seeing him at
Christmas.
"I am in time, Mrs. Crump, am I not?" she said, as she walked into
the post-office.
"Of course you be,--for the next half-hour. T' postman--he bain't
stirred from t' ale'us yet. Just put it into t' box, wull ye?"
"But you won't leave it there?"
"Leave it there! Did you ever hear the like of that? If you're
afeared to put it in, you can take it away; that's all about it,
Miss Lily." And then Mrs. Crump turned away to her avocations at the
washing-tub. Mrs. Crump had a bad temper, but perhaps she had some
excuse. A separate call was made upon her time with reference to
almost every letter brought to her office, and for all this, as she
often told her friends in profound disgust, she received as salary no
more than "tuppence farden a day. It don't find me in shoe-leather;
no more it don't." As Mrs. Crump was never seen out of her own house,
unless it was in church once a month, this latter assertion about her
shoe-leather, could hardly have been true.
Lily had received another letter, and had answered it before Eames
made his promised visit to Allington. He, as will be remembered, had
also had a correspondence. He had answered Miss Roper's letter, and
had since that been living in fear of two things; in a lesser fear of
some terrible rejoinder from Amelia, and in a greater fear of a more
terrible visit from his lady-love. Were she to swoop down in very
truth upon his Guestwick home, and declare herself to his mother and
sister as his affianced bride, what mode of escape would then be left
for him? But this she had not yet done, nor had she even answered his
cruel missive.
"What an ass I am to be afraid of her!" he said to himself as he
walked along under the elms of Guestwick manor, which overspread the
road to Allington. When he first went over to Allington after his
return home, he had mounted himself on horseback, and had gone forth
brilliant with spurs, and trusting somewhat to the glories of his
dress and gloves. But he had then known nothing of Lily's engagement.
Now he was contented to walk; and as he had taken up his slouched
hat and stick in the passage of his mother's house, he had been very
indifferent as to his appearance. He walked quickly along the road,
taking for the first three miles the shade of the Guestwick elms, and
keeping his feet on the broad greensward which skirts the outside of
the earl's palings. "What an ass I am to be afraid of her!" And as he
swung his big stick in his hand, striking a tree here and there, and
knocking the stones from his path, he began to question himself in
earnest, and to be ashamed of his position in the world. "Nothing on
earth shall make me marry her," he said; "not if they bring a dozen
actions against me. She knows as well as I do, that I have never
intended to marry her. It's a cheat from beginning to end. If she
comes down here, I'll tell her so before my mother." But as the
vision of her sudden arrival came before his eyes, he acknowledged to
himself that he still held her in great fear. He had told her that he
loved her. He had written as much as that. If taxed with so much, he
must confess his sin.
Then, by degrees, his mind turned away from Amelia Roper to Lily
Dale, not giving him a prospect much more replete with enjoyment than
that other one. He had said that he would call at Allington before he
returned to town, and he was now redeeming his promise. But he did
not know why he should go there. He felt that he should sit silent
and abashed in Mrs. Dale's drawing-room, confessing by his demeanour
that secret which it behoved him now to hide from every one. He could
not talk easily before Lily, nor could he speak to her of the only
subject which would occupy his thoughts when in her presence. If
indeed, he might find her alone-- But, perhaps that might be worse
for him than any other condition.
When he was shown into the drawing-room there was nobody there. "They
were here a minute ago, all three," said the servant girl. "If you'll
walk down the garden, Mr. John, you'll be sure to find some of 'em."
So John Eames, with a little hesitation, walked down the garden.
First of all he went the whole way round the walks, meeting nobody.
Then he crossed the lawn, returning again to the farther end; and
there, emerging from the little path which led from the Great House,
he encountered Lily alone. "Oh, John," she said, "how d'ye do? I'm
afraid you did not find anybody in the house. Mamma and Bell are with
Hopkins, away in the large kitchen-garden."
"I've just come over," said Eames, "because I promised. I said I'd
come before I went back to London."
"And they'll be very glad to see you, and so am I. Shall we go after
them into the other grounds? But perhaps you walked over and are
tired."
"I did walk," said Eames; "not that I am very tired." But in truth
he did not wish to go after Mrs. Dale, though he was altogether at
a loss as to what he would say to Lily while remaining with her. He
had fancied that he would like to have some opportunity of speaking
to her alone before he went away;--of making some special use of the
last interview which he should have with her before she became a
married woman. But now the opportunity was there, and he hardly dared
to avail himself of it.
"You'll stay and dine with us," said Lily.
"No, I'll not do that, for I especially told my mother that I would
be back."
"I'm sure it was very good of you to walk so far to see us. If you
really are not tired, I think we will go to mamma, as she would be
very sorry to miss you."
This she said, remembering at the moment what had been Crosbie's
injunctions to her about John Eames. But John had resolved that
he would say those words which he had come to speak, and that, as
Lily was there with him, he would avail himself of the chance which
fortune had given him.
"I don't think I'll go into the squire's garden," he said.
"Uncle Christopher is not there. He is about the farm somewhere."
"If you don't mind, Lily, I think I'll stay here. I suppose they'll
be back soon. Of course I should like to see them before I go away to
London. But, Lily, I came over now chiefly to see you. It was you who
asked me to promise."
Had Crosbie been right in those remarks of his? Had she been
imprudent in her little endeavour to be cordially kind to her old
friend? "Shall we go into the drawing-room?" she said, feeling that
she would be in some degree safer there than out among the shrubs and
paths of the garden. And I think she was right in this. A man will
talk of love out among the lilacs and roses, who would be stricken
dumb by the demure propriety of the four walls of a drawing-room.
John Eames also had some feeling of this kind, for he determined to
remain out in the garden, if he could so manage it.
"I don't want to go in unless you wish it," he said. "Indeed, I'd
rather stay here. So, Lily, you're going to be married?" And thus he
rushed at once into the middle of his discourse.
"Yes," said she, "I believe I am."
"I have not told you yet that I congratulated you."
"I have known very well that you did so in your heart. I have always