The Small House at Allington
such a man as Crosbie than by remaining as an unmarried daughter of
her father's house. There was much in her sister Amelia's position
which she did not envy, but there was less to envy in that of her
sister Rosina. The Gazebee house in St. John's Wood Road was not
so magnificent as Courcy Castle; but then it was less dull, less
embittered by torment, and was moreover her sister's own.
"Very many do marry commoners," she had said to Margaretta.
"Oh, yes, of course. It makes a difference, you know, when a man has
a fortune."
Of course it did make a difference. Crosbie had no fortune, was not
even so rich as Mr. Gazebee, could keep no carriage, and would have
no country house. But then he was a man of fashion, was more thought
of in the world than Mr. Gazebee, might probably rise in his own
profession,--and was at any rate thoroughly presentable. She would
have preferred a gentleman with £5,000 a year; but then as no
gentleman with £5,000 a year came that way, would she not be happier
with Mr. Crosbie than she would be with no husband at all? She was
not very much in love with Mr. Crosbie, but she thought that she
could live with him comfortably, and that on the whole it would be a
good thing to be married.
And she made certain resolves as to the manner in which she would do
her duty by her husband. Her sister Amelia was paramount in her own
house, ruling indeed with a moderate, endurable dominion, and ruling
much to her husband's advantage. Alexandrina feared that she would
not be allowed to rule, but she could at any rate try. She would do
all in her power to make him comfortable, and would be specially
careful not to irritate him by any insistence on her own higher rank.
She would be very meek in this respect; and if children should come
she would be as painstaking about them as though her own father had
been merely a clergyman or a lawyer. She thought also much about
poor Lilian Dale, asking herself sundry questions, with an idea of
being high-principled as to her duty in that respect. Was she wrong
in taking Mr. Crosbie away from Lilian Dale? In answer to these
questions she was able to assure herself comfortably that she was
not wrong. Mr. Crosbie would not, under any circumstances, marry
Lilian Dale. He had told her so more than once, and that in a solemn
way. She could therefore be doing no harm to Lilian Dale. If she
entertained any inner feeling that Crosbie's fault in jilting Lilian
Dale was less than it would have been had she herself not been an
earl's daughter,--that her own rank did in some degree extenuate her
lover's falseness,--she did not express it in words even to herself.
She did not get very much sympathy from her own family. "I'm afraid
he does not think much of his religious duties. I'm told that young
men of that sort seldom do," said Rosina. "I don't say you're wrong,"
said Margaretta. "By no means. Indeed I think less of it now than
I did when Amelia did the same thing. I shouldn't do it myself,
that's all." Her father told her that he supposed she knew her own
mind. Her mother, who endeavoured to comfort and in some sort to
congratulate her, nevertheless, harped constantly on the fact that
she was marrying a man without rank and without a fortune. Her
congratulations were apologetic, and her comfortings took the guise
of consolation. "Of course you won't be rich, my dear; but I really
think you'll do very well. Mr. Crosbie may be received anywhere, and
you never need be ashamed of him." By which the countess implied that
her elder married daughter was occasionally called on to be ashamed
of her husband. "I wish he could keep a carriage for you, but perhaps
that will come some day." Upon the whole Alexandrina did not repent,
and stoutly told her father that she did know her own mind.
During all this time Lily Dale was as yet perfect in her happiness.
That delay of a day or two in the receipt of the expected letter from
her lover had not disquieted her. She had promised him that she would
not distrust him, and she was firmly minded to keep her promises.
Indeed no idea of breaking it came to her at this time. She was
disappointed when the postman would come and bring no letter for
her,--disappointed, as is the husbandman when the longed-for rain
does not come to refresh the parched earth; but she was in no degree
angry. "He will explain it," she said to herself. And she assured
Bell that men never recognized the hunger and thirst after letters
which women feel when away from those whom they love.
Then they heard at the Small House that the squire had gone away from
Allington. During the last few days Bernard had not been much with
them, and now they heard the news, not through their cousin, but
from Hopkins. "I really can't undertake to say, Miss Bell, where the
master's gone to. It's not likely the master'd tell me where he was
going to; not unless it was about seeds, or the likes of that."
"He has gone very suddenly," said Bell.
"Well, miss, I've nothing to say to that. And why shouldn't he go
sudden if he likes? I only know he had his gig, and went to the
station. If you was to bury me alive I couldn't tell you more."
"I should like to try," said Lily as they walked away. "He is such a
cross old thing. I wonder whether Bernard has gone with my uncle."
And then they thought no more about it.
On the day after that Bernard came down to the Small House, but he
said nothing by way of accounting for the squire's absence. "He is in
London, I know," said Bernard.
"I hope he'll call on Mr. Crosbie," said Lily. But on this subject
Bernard said not a word. He did ask Lily whether she had heard from
Adolphus, in answer to which she replied, with as indifferent a voice
as she could assume, that she had not had a letter that morning.
"I shall be angry with him if he's not a good correspondent," said
Mrs. Dale, when she and Lily were alone together.
"No, mamma, you mustn't be angry with him. I won't let you be angry
with him. Please to remember he's my lover and not yours."
"But I can see you when you watch for the postman."
"I won't watch for the postman any more if it makes you have bad
thoughts about him. Yes, they are bad thoughts. I won't have you
think that he doesn't do everything that is right."
On the next morning the postman brought a letter, or rather a note,
and Lily at once saw that it was from Crosbie. She had contrived to
intercept it near the back door, at which the postman called, so that
her mother should not watch her watchings, nor see her disappointment
if none should come. "Thank you, Jane," she said, very calmly, when
the eager, kindly girl ran to her with the little missive; and she
walked off to some solitude, trying to hide her impatience. The note
had seemed so small that it amazed her; but when she opened it the
contents amazed her more. There was neither beginning nor end. There
was no appellation of love, and no signature. It contained but two
lines. "I will write to you at length to-morrow. This is my first
day in London, and I have been so driven about that I cannot write."
That was all, and it was scrawled on half a sheet of note-paper. Why,
at any rate, had he not called her his dearest Lily? Why had he not
assured her that he was ever her own? Such expressions, meaning so
much, may be conveyed in a glance of the pen. "Ah," she said, "if he
knew how I hunger and thirst after his love!"
She had but a moment left to her before she must join her mother and
sister, and she used that moment in remembering her promise. "I know
it is all right," she said to herself. "He does not think of these
things as I do. He had to write at the last moment,--as he was
leaving his office." And then with a quiet, smiling face, she walked
into the breakfast-parlour.
"What does he say, Lily?" asked Bell.
"What would you give to know?" said Lily.
"I wouldn't give twopence for the whole of it," said Bell.
"When you get anybody to write to you letters, I wonder whether
you'll show them to everybody?"
"But if there's any special London news, I suppose we might hear it,"
said Mrs. Dale.
"But suppose there's no special London news, mamma. The poor man had
only been in town one day, you know: and there never is any news at
this time of the year."
"Had he seen uncle Christopher?"
"I don't think he had; but he doesn't say. We shall get all the news
from him when he comes. He cares much more about London news than
Adolphus does." And then there was no more said about the letter.
But Lily had read her two former letters over and over again at the
breakfast-table; and though she had not read them aloud, she had
repeated many words out of them, and had so annotated upon them that
her mother, who had heard her, could have almost re-written them.
Now, she did not even show the paper; and then her absence, during
which she had read the letter, had hardly exceeded a minute or two.
All this Mrs. Dale observed, and she knew that her daughter had been
again disappointed.
In fact that day Lily was very serious, but she did not appear to
be unhappy. Early after breakfast Bell went over to the parsonage,
and Mrs. Dale and her youngest daughter sat together over their work.
"Mamma," she said, "I hope you and I are not to be divided when I go
to live in London."
"We shall never be divided in heart, my love."
"Ah, but that will not be enough for happiness, though perhaps enough
to prevent absolute unhappiness. I shall want to see you, touch you,
and pet you as I do now." And she came and knelt on the cushion at
her mother's feet.
"You will have some one else to caress and pet,--perhaps many
others."
"Do you mean to say that you are going to throw me off, mamma?"
"God forbid, my darling. It is not mothers that throw off their
children. What shall I have left when you and Bell are gone from me?"
"But we will never be gone. That's what I mean. We are to be just the
same to you always, even though we are married. I must have my right
to be here as much as I have it now; and, in return, you shall have
your right to be there. His house must be a home to you,--not a cold
place which you may visit now and again, with your best clothes on.
You know what I mean, when I say that we must not be divided."
"But Lily--"
"Well, mamma?"
"I have no doubt we shall be happy together,--you and I."
"But you were going to say more than that."
"Only this,--that your house will be his house, and will be full
without me. A daughter's marriage is always a painful parting."
"Is it, mamma?"
"Not that I would have it otherwise than it is. Do not think that I
would wish to keep you at home with me. Of course you will both marry
and leave me. I hope that he to whom you are going to devote yourself
may be spared to love you and protect you." Then the widow's heart
became too full, and she put away her child from her that she might
hide her face.
"Mamma, mamma, I wish I was not going from you."
"No, Lily; do not say that. I should not be contented with life if
I did not see both my girls married. I think that it is the only lot
which can give to a woman perfect content and satisfaction. I would
have you both married. I should be the most selfish being alive if I
wished otherwise."
"Bell will settle herself near you, and then you will see more of her
and love her better than you do me."
"I shall not love her better."
"I wish she would marry some London man, and then you would come with
us, and be near to us. Do you know, mamma, I sometimes think you
don't like this place here."
"Your uncle has been very kind to give it to us."
"I know he has; and we have been very happy here. But if Bell should
leave you--"
"Then should I go also. Your uncle has been very kind, but I