The Small House at Allington
you know!" Was it for this that he had sacrificed Lily Dale?--for
this that he had allied himself with the noble house of De Courcy?
Mortimer had been at him about the settlements from the very first
moment of his return to London, and had already bound him up hand and
foot. His life was insured, and the policy was in Mortimer's hands.
His own little bit of money had been already handed over to be tied
up with Lady Alexandrina's little bit. It seemed to him that in
all the arrangements made the intention was that he should die off
speedily, and that Lady Alexandrina should be provided with a decent
little income, sufficient for St. John's Wood. Things were to be so
settled that he could not even spend the proceeds of his own money,
or of hers. They were to go, under the fostering hand of Mortimer
Gazebee, in paying insurances. If he would only die the day after
his marriage, there would really be a very nice sum of money for
Alexandrina, almost worthy of the acceptance of an earl's daughter.
Six months ago he would have considered himself able to turn Mortimer
Gazebee round his finger on any subject that could be introduced
between them. When they chanced to meet Gazebee had been quite humble
to him, treating him almost as a superior being. He had looked down
on Gazebee from a very great height. But now it seemed as though he
were powerless in this man's hands.
But perhaps the countess had become his greatest aversion. She
was perpetually writing to him little notes in which she gave him
multitudes of commissions, sending him about as though he had been
her servant. And she pestered him with advice which was even worse
than her commissions, telling him of the style of life in which
Alexandrina would expect to live, and warning him very frequently
that such an one as he could not expect to be admitted within the
bosom of so noble a family without paying very dearly for that
inestimable privilege. Her letters had become odious to him, and
he would chuck them on one side, leaving them for the whole day
unopened. He had already made up his mind that he would quarrel with
the countess also, very shortly after his marriage; indeed, that he
would separate himself from the whole family if it were possible.
And yet he had entered into this engagement mainly with the view
of reaping those advantages which would accrue to him from being
allied to the De Courcys! The squire and his nephew were wretched
in thinking that this man was escaping without punishment, but they
might have spared themselves that misery.
It had been understood from the first that he was to spend his
Christmas at Courcy Castle. From this undertaking it was quite out
of his power to enfranchise himself: but he resolved that his visit
should be as short as possible. Christmas Day unfortunately came on
a Monday, and it was known to the De Courcy world that Saturday was
almost a _dies non_ at the General Committee Office. As to those
three days there was no escape for him; but he made Alexandrina
understand that the three Commissioners were men of iron as to any
extension of those three days. "I must be absent again in February,
of course," he said, almost making his wail audible in the words he
used, "and therefore it is quite impossible that I should stay now
beyond the Monday." Had there been attractions for him at Courcy
Castle I think he might have arranged with Mr. Optimist for a week or
ten days. "We shall be all alone," the countess wrote to him, "and I
hope you will have an opportunity of learning more of our ways than
you have ever really been able to do as yet." This was bitter as gall
to him. But in this world all valuable commodities have their price;
and when men such as Crosbie aspire to obtain for themselves an
alliance with noble families, they must pay the market price for the
article which they purchase.
"You'll all come up and dine with us on Monday," the squire said to
Mrs. Dale, about the middle of the previous week.
"Well, I think not," said Mrs. Dale; "we are better, perhaps, as we
are."
At this moment the squire and his sister-in-law were on much more
friendly terms than had been usual with them, and he took her reply
in good part, understanding her feeling. Therefore, he pressed his
request, and succeeded.
"I think you're wrong," he said; "I don't suppose that we shall have
a very merry Christmas. You and the girls will hardly have that
whether you eat your pudding here or at the Great House. But it will
be better for us all to make the attempt. It's the right thing to do.
That's the way I look at it."
"I'll ask Lily," said Mrs. Dale.
"Do, do. Give her my love, and tell her from me that, in spite of all
that has come and gone, Christmas Day should still be to her a day of
rejoicing. We'll dine about three, so that the servants can have the
afternoon."
"Of course we'll go," said Lily; "why not? We always do. And we'll
have blind-man's-buff with all the Boyces, as we had last year, if
uncle will ask them up." But the Boyces were not asked up for that
occasion.
But Lily, though she put on it all so brave a face, had much to
suffer, and did in truth suffer greatly. If you, my reader, ever
chanced to slip into the gutter on a wet day, did you not find that
the sympathy of the bystanders was by far the severest part of your
misfortune? Did you not declare to yourself that all might yet be
well, if the people would only walk on and not look at you? And yet
you cannot blame those who stood and pitied you; or, perhaps, essayed
to rub you down, and assist you in the recovery of your bedaubed
hat. You, yourself, if you see a man fall, cannot walk by as though
nothing uncommon had happened to him. It was so with Lily. The people
of Allington could not regard her with their ordinary eyes. They
would look at her tenderly, knowing that she was a wounded fawn,
and thus they aggravated the soreness of her wound. Old Mrs. Hearn
condoled with her, telling her that very likely she would be better
off as she was. Lily would not lie about it in any way. "Mrs. Hearn,"
she said, "the subject is painful to me." Mrs. Hearn said no more
about it, but on every meeting between them she looked the things she
did not say. "Miss Lily!" said Hopkins, one day, "Miss Lily!"--and
as he looked up into her face a tear had almost formed itself in his
old eye--"I knew what he was from the first. Oh, dear! oh, dear! if
I could have had him killed!" "Hopkins, how dare you?" said Lily.
"If you speak to me again in such a way, I will tell my uncle." She
turned away from him; but immediately turned back again, and put out
her little hand to him. "I beg your pardon," she said. "I know how
kind you are, and I love you for it." And then she went away. "I'll
go after him yet, and break the dirty neck of him," said Hopkins to
himself, as he walked down the path.
Shortly before Christmas Day she called with her sister at the
vicarage. Bell, in the course of the visit, left the room with one of
the Boyce girls, to look at the last chrysanthemums of the year. Then
Mrs. Boyce took advantage of the occasion to make her little speech.
"My dear Lily," she said, "you will think me cold if I do not say one
word to you." "No, I shall not," said Lily, almost sharply, shrinking
from the finger that threatened to touch her sore. "There are things
which should never be talked about." "Well, well; perhaps so," said
Mrs. Boyce. But for a minute or two she was unable to fall back upon
any other topic, and sat looking at Lily with painful tenderness. I
need hardly say what were Lily's sufferings under such a gaze; but
she bore it, acknowledging to herself in her misery that the fault
did not lie with Mrs. Boyce. How could Mrs. Boyce have looked at her
otherwise than tenderly?
It was settled, then, that Lily was to dine up at the Great House on
Christmas Day, and thus show to the Allington world that she was not
to be regarded as a person shut out from the world by the depth of
her misfortune. That she was right there can, I think, be no doubt;
but as she walked across the little bridge, with her mother and
sister, after returning from church, she would have given much to be
able to have turned round, and have gone to bed instead of to her
uncle's dinner.
CHAPTER XXXII.
PAWKINS'S IN JERMYN STREET.
The show of fat beasts in London took place this year on the
twentieth day of December, and I have always understood that a
certain bullock exhibited by Lord De Guest was declared by the
metropolitan butchers to have realized all the possible excellences
of breeding, feeding, and condition. No doubt the butchers of the
next half-century will have learned much better, and the Guestwick
beast, could it be embalmed and then produced, would excite only
ridicule at the agricultural ignorance of the present age; but Lord
De Guest took the praise that was offered to him, and found himself
in a seventh heaven of delight. He was never so happy as when
surrounded by butchers, graziers, and salesmen who were able to
appreciate the work of his life, and who regarded him as a model
nobleman. "Look at that fellow," he said to Eames, pointing to the
prize bullock. Eames had joined his patron at the show after his
office hours, looking on upon the living beef by gaslight. "Isn't he
like his sire? He was got by Lambkin, you know."
"Lambkin," said Johnny, who had not as yet been able to learn much
about the Guestwick stock.
"Yes, Lambkin. The bull that we had the trouble with. He has just got
his sire's back and fore-quarters. Don't you see?"
"I daresay," said Johnny, who looked very hard, but could not see.
"It's very odd," exclaimed the earl, "but do you know, that bull has
been as quiet since that day,--as quiet as--as anything. I think it
must have been my pocket-handkerchief."
"I daresay it was," said Johnny;--"or perhaps the flies."
"Flies!" said the earl, angrily. "Do you suppose he isn't used to
flies? Come away. I ordered dinner at seven, and it's past six now.
My brother-in-law, Colonel Dale, is up in town, and he dines with
us." So he took Johnny's arm, and led him off through the show,
calling his attention as he went to several beasts which were
inferior to his own.
And then they walked down through Portman Square and Grosvenor
Square, and across Piccadilly to Jermyn Street. John Eames
acknowledged to himself that it was odd that he should have an earl
leaning on his arm as he passed along through the streets. At home,
in his own life, his daily companions were Cradell and Amelia Roper,
Mrs. Lupex and Mrs. Roper. The difference was very great, and yet he
found it quite as easy to talk to the earl as to Mrs. Lupex.
"You know the Dales down at Allington, of course," said the earl.
"Oh, yes, I know them."
"But, perhaps, you never met the colonel."
"I don't think I ever did."
"He's a queer sort of fellow;--very well in his way, but he never
does anything. He and my sister live at Torquay, and as far as I
can find out, they neither of them have any occupation of any sort.
He's come up to town now because we both had to meet our family
lawyers and sign some papers, but he looks on the journey as a great
hardship. As for me, I'm a year older than he is, but I wouldn't mind
going up and down from Guestwick every day."
"It's looking after the bull that does it," said Eames.
"By George! you're right, Master Johnny. My sister and Crofts may
tell me what they like, but when a man's out in the open air for
eight or nine hours every day, it doesn't much matter where he goes
to sleep after that. This is Pawkins's,--capital good house, but not
so good as it used to be while old Pawkins was alive. Show Mr. Eames
up into a bedroom to wash his hands."
Colonel Dale was much like his brother in face, but was taller, even