The Small House at Allington
"I will pray that I may become able to forgive him," said Mrs. Dale.
"But you must write to him those words. Indeed you must, mamma! 'She
bids me tell you that she has forgiven you, and will not hate you.'
Promise me that!"
"I can make no promise now, Lily. I will think about it, and
endeavour to do my duty."
Lily was now seated, and was holding the skirt of her mother's dress.
"Mamma," she said, looking up into her mother's face, "you must be
very good to me now; and I must be very good to you. We shall be
always together now. I must be your friend and counsellor; and be
everything to you, more than ever. I must fall in love with you now;"
and she smiled again, and the tears were almost dry upon her cheeks.
At last they went down to the breakfast-room, from which Bell had not
moved. Mrs. Dale entered the room first, and Lily followed, hiding
herself for a moment behind her mother. Then she came forward boldly,
and taking Bell in her arms, clasped her close to her bosom.
"Bell," she said, "he has gone."
"Lily! Lily! Lily!" said Bell, weeping.
"He has gone! We shall talk it over in a few days, and shall know how
to do so without losing ourselves in misery. To-day we will say no
more about it. I am so thirsty, Bell; do give me my tea;" and she sat
herself down at the breakfast-table.
Lily's tea was given to her, and she drank it. Beyond that I cannot
say that any of them partook with much heartiness of the meal. They
sat there, as they would have sat if no terrible thunderbolt had
fallen among them, and no word further was spoken about Crosbie and
his conduct. Immediately after breakfast they went into the other
room, and Lily, as was her wont, sat herself immediately down to her
drawing. Her mother looked at her with wistful eyes, longing to bid
her spare herself, but she shrank from interfering with her. For a
quarter of an hour Lily sat over her board, with her brush or pencil
in her hand, and then she rose up and put it away.
"It is no good pretending," she said. "I am only spoiling the things;
but I will be better to-morrow. I'll go away and lie down by myself,
mamma." And so she went.
Soon after this Mrs. Dale took her bonnet and went up to the Great
House, having received her brother-in-law's message from Bell.
"I know what he has to tell me," she said; "but I might as well go.
It will be necessary that we should speak to each other about it." So
she walked across the lawn, and up into the hall of the Great House.
"Is my brother in the book-room?" she said to one of the maids; and
then knocking at the door, went in unannounced.
The squire rose from his arm-chair, and came forward to meet her.
"Mary," he said, "I believe you know it all."
"Yes," she said. "You can read that," and she handed him Crosbie's
letter. "How was one to know that any man could be so wicked as
that?"
"And she has heard it?" asked the squire. "Is she able to bear it?"
"Wonderfully! She has amazed me by her strength. It frightens me;
for I know that a relapse must come. She has never sunk for a moment
beneath it. For myself, I feel as though it were her strength that
enables me to bear my share of it." And then she described to the
squire all that had taken place that morning.
"Poor child!" said the squire. "Poor child! What can we do for her?
Would it be good for her to go away for a time? She is a sweet,
good, lovely girl, and has deserved better than that. Sorrow and
disappointment come to us all; but they are doubly heavy when they
come so early."
Mrs. Dale was almost surprised at the amount of sympathy which he
showed.
"And what is to be his punishment?" she asked.
"The scorn which men and women will feel for him; those, at least,
whose esteem or scorn are matters of concern to any one. I know no
other punishment. You would not have Lily's name brought before a
tribunal of law?"
"Certainly not that."
"And I will not have Bernard calling him out. Indeed, it would be for
nothing; for in these days a man is not expected to fight duels."
"You cannot think that I would wish that."
"What punishment is there, then? I know of none. There are evils
which a man may do, and no one can punish him. I know of nothing. I
went up to London after him, but he contrived to crawl out of my way.
What can you do to a rat but keep clear of him?"
Mrs. Dale had felt in her heart that it would be well if Crosbie
could be beaten till all his bones were sore. I hardly know whether
such should have been a woman's thought, but it was hers. She had
no wish that he should be made to fight a duel. In that there would
have been much that was wicked, and in her estimation nothing that
was just. But she felt that if Bernard would thrash the coward for
his cowardice she would love her nephew better than ever she had
loved him. Bernard also had considered it probable that he might
be expected to horsewhip the man who had jilted his cousin, and,
as regarded the absolute bodily risk, he would not have felt any
insuperable objection to undertake the task. But such a piece of work
was disagreeable to him in many ways. He hated the idea of a row at
his club. He was most desirous that his cousin's name should not be
made public. He wished to avoid anything that might be impolitic. A
wicked thing had been done, and he was quite ready to hate Crosbie
as Crosbie ought to be hated; but as regarded himself, it made him
unhappy to think that the world might probably expect him to punish
the man who had so lately been his friend. And then he did not know
where to catch him, or how to thrash him when caught. He was very
sorry for his cousin, and felt strongly that Crosbie should not be
allowed to escape. But what was he to do?
"Would she like to go anywhere?" said the squire again, anxious, if
he could, to afford solace by some act of generosity. At this moment
he would have settled a hundred a year for life upon his niece if by
so doing he could have done her any good.
"She will be better at home," said Mrs. Dale. "Poor thing. For a
while she will wish to avoid going out."
"I suppose so;" and then there was a pause. "I'll tell you what,
Mary; I don't understand it. On my honour I don't understand it.
It is to me as wonderful as though I had caught the man picking my
pence out of my pocket. I don't think any man in the position of a
gentleman would have done such a thing when I was young. I don't
think any man would have dared to do it. But now it seems that a
man may act in that way and no harm come to him. He had a friend
in London who came to me and talked about it as though it were
some ordinary, everyday transaction of life. Yes; you may come in,
Bernard. The poor child knows it all now."
Bernard offered to his aunt what of solace and sympathy he had to
offer, and made some sort of half-expressed apology for having
introduced this wolf into their flock. "We always thought very much
of him at his club," said Bernard.
"I don't know much about your London clubs now-a-days," said his
uncle, "nor do I wish to do so if the society of that man can be
endured after what he has now done."
"I don't suppose half-a-dozen men will ever know anything about it,"
said Bernard.
"Umph!" ejaculated the squire. He could not say that he wished
Crosbie's villany to be widely discussed, seeing that Lily's name was
so closely connected with it. But yet he could not support the idea
that Crosbie should not be punished by the frown of the world at
large. It seemed to him that from this time forward any man speaking
to Crosbie should be held to have disgraced himself by so doing.
"Give her my best love," he said, as Mrs. Dale got up to take her
leave; "my very best love. If her old uncle can do anything for her
she has only to let me know. She met the man in my house, and I feel
that I owe her much. Bid her come and see me. It will be better for
her than moping at home. And Mary"--this he said to her, whispering
into her ear--"think of what I said to you about Bell."
Mrs. Dale, as she walked back to her own house, acknowledged to
herself that her brother-in-law's manner was different to her from
anything that she had hitherto known of him.
During the whole of that day Crosbie's name was not mentioned at
the Small House. Neither of the girls stirred out, and Bell spent
the greater part of the afternoon sitting, with her arm round her
sister's waist, upon the sofa. Each of them had a book; but though
there was little spoken, there was as little read. Who can describe
the thoughts that were passing through Lily's mind as she remembered
the hours which she had passed with Crosbie, of his warm assurances
of love, of his accepted caresses, of her uncontrolled and
acknowledged joy in his affection? It had all been holy to her then;
and now those things which were then sacred had been made almost
disgraceful by his fault. And yet as she thought of this she declared
to herself over and over again that she would forgive him;--nay, that
she had forgiven him. "And he shall know it, too," she said, speaking
almost out loud.
"Lily, dear Lily," said Bell, "turn your thoughts away from it for a
while, if you can."
"They won't go away," said Lily. And that was all that was said
between them on the subject.
Everybody would know it! I doubt whether that must not be one of the
bitterest drops in the cup which a girl in such circumstances is made
to drain. Lily perceived early in the day that the parlour-maid well
knew that she had been jilted. The girl's manner was intended to
convey sympathy; but it did convey pity; and Lily for a moment felt
angry. But she remembered that it must be so, and smiled upon the
girl, and spoke kindly to her. What mattered it? All the world would
know it in a day or two.
On the following day she went up, by her mother's advice, to see her
uncle.
"My child," said he, "I am sorry for you. My heart bleeds for you."
"Uncle," she said, "do not mind it. Only do this for me,--do not talk
about it,--I mean to me."
"No, no; I will not. That there should ever have been in my house so
great a rascal--"
"Uncle! uncle! I will not have that! I will not listen to a word
against him from any human being,--not a word! Remember that!" And
her eyes flashed as she spoke.
He did not answer her, but took her hand and pressed it, and then she
left him. "The Dales were ever constant!" he said to himself, as he
walked up and down the terrace before his house. "Ever constant!"
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE WOUNDED FAWN.
[ILLUSTRATION: (untitled)]
Nearly two months passed away, and it was now Christmas time at
Allington. It may be presumed that there was no intention at either
house that the mirth should be very loud. Such a wound as that
received by Lily Dale was one from which recovery could not be quick,
and it was felt by all the family that a weight was upon them which
made gaiety impracticable. As for Lily herself it may be said that
she bore her misfortune with all a woman's courage. For the first
week she stood up as a tree that stands against the wind, which
is soon to be shivered to pieces because it will not bend. During
that week her mother and sister were frightened by her calmness and
endurance. She would perform her daily task. She would go out through
the village, and appear at her place in church on the first Sunday.
She would sit over her book of an evening, keeping back her tears;
and would chide her mother and sister when she found that they were
regarding her with earnest anxiety.
"Mamma, let it all be as though it had never been," she said.
"Ah, dear! if that were but possible!"
"God forbid that it should be possible inwardly," Lily replied, "but
it is possible outwardly. I feel that you are more tender to me