The Small House at Allington
house-moving;--how infinite in number are the articles which must be
packed, how inexpressibly uncomfortable is the period of packing, and
how poor and tawdry is the aspect of one's belongings while they are
thus in a state of dislocation? Now-a-days people who understand the
world, and have money commensurate with their understanding, have
learned the way of shunning all these disasters, and of leaving the
work to the hands of persons paid for doing it. The crockery is left
in the cupboards, the books on the shelves, the wine in the bins, the
curtains on their poles, and the family that is understanding goes
for a fortnight to Brighton. At the end of that time the crockery is
comfortably settled in other cupboards, the books on other shelves,
the wine in other bins, the curtains are hung on other poles, and
all is arranged. But Mrs. Dale and her daughters understood nothing
of such a method of moving as this. The assistance of the village
carpenter in filling certain cases that he had made was all that
they knew how to obtain beyond that of their own two servants. Every
article had to pass through the hands of some one of the family;
and as they felt almost overwhelmed by the extent of the work to be
done, they began it much sooner than was necessary, so that it became
evident as they advanced in their work, that they would have to pass
a dreadfully dull, stupid, uncomfortable week at last, among their
boxes and cases, in all the confusion of dismantled furniture.
At first an edict had gone forth that Lily was to do nothing. She was
an invalid, and was to be petted and kept quiet. But this edict soon
fell to the ground, and Lily worked harder than either her mother or
her sister. In truth she was hardly an invalid any longer, and would
not submit to an invalid's treatment. She felt herself that for the
present constant occupation could alone save her from the misery of
looking back,--and she had conceived an idea that the harder that
occupation was, the better it would be for her. While pulling down
the books, and folding the linen, and turning out from their old
hiding-places the small long-forgotten properties of the household,
she would be as gay as ever she had been in old times. She would talk
over her work, standing with flushed cheek and laughing eyes among
the dusty ruins around her, till for a moment her mother would think
that all was well within her. But then at other moments, when the
reaction came, it would seem as though nothing were well. She could
not sit quietly over the fire, with quiet rational work in her
hands, and chat in a rational quiet way. Not as yet could she do
so. Nevertheless it was well with her,--within her own bosom. She
had declared to herself that she would conquer her misery,--as she
had also declared to herself during her illness that her misfortune
should not kill her,--and she was in the way to conquer it. She told
herself that the world was not over for her because her sweet hopes
had been frustrated. The wound had been deep and very sore, but the
flesh of the patient had been sound and healthy, and her blood pure.
A physician having knowledge in such cases would have declared, after
long watching of her symptoms, that a cure was probable. Her mother
was the physician who watched her with the closest eyes; and she,
though she was sometimes driven to doubt, did hope, with stronger
hope from day to day, that her child might live to remember the story
of her love without abiding agony.
That nobody should talk to her about it,--that had been the one
stipulation which she had seemed to make, not sending forth a request
to that effect among her friends in so many words, but showing by
certain signs that such was her stipulation. A word to that effect
she had spoken to her uncle,--as may be remembered, which word had
been regarded with the closest obedience. She had gone out into
her little world very soon after the news of Crosbie's falsehood
had reached her,--first to church and then among the people of the
village, resolving to carry herself as though no crushing weight had
fallen upon her. The village people had understood it all, listening
to her and answering her without the proffer of any outspoken parley.
"Lord bless 'ee," said Mrs. Crump, the postmistress,--and Mrs. Crump
was supposed to have the sourest temper in Allington,--"whenever I
look at thee, Miss Lily, I thinks that surely thee is the
beautifulest young 'ooman in all these parts."
"And you are the crossest old woman," said Lily, laughing, and giving
her hand to the postmistress.
"So I be," said Mrs. Crump. "So I be." Then Lily sat down in the
cottage and asked after her ailments. With Mrs. Hearn it was the
same. Mrs. Hearn, after that first meeting which has been already
mentioned, petted and caressed her, but spoke no further word of her
misfortune. When Lily called a second time upon Mrs. Boyce, which
she did boldly by herself, that lady did begin one other word of
commiseration. "My dearest Lily, we have all been made so unhappy--"
So far Mrs. Boyce got, sitting close to Lily and striving to look
into her face; but Lily, with a slightly heightened colour, turned
sharp round upon one of the Boyce girls, tearing Mrs. Boyce's
commiseration into the smallest shreds. "Minnie," she said, speaking
quite loud, almost with girlish ecstasy, "what do you think Tartar
did yesterday? I never laughed so much in my life." Then she told
a ludicrous story about a very ugly terrier which belonged to the
squire. After that even Mrs. Boyce made no further attempt. Mrs. Dale
and Bell both understood that such was to be the rule--the rule even
to them. Lily would speak to them occasionally on the matter,--to
one of them at a time, beginning with some almost single word of
melancholy resignation, and then would go on till she opened her very
bosom before them; but no such conversation was ever begun by them.
But now, in these busy days of the packing, that topic seemed to have
been banished altogether.
"Mamma," she said, standing on the top rung of a house-ladder, from
which position she was handing down glass out of a cupboard, "are you
sure that these things are ours? I think some of them belong to the
house."
"I'm sure about that bowl at any rate, because it was my mother's
before I was married."
"Oh, dear, what should I do if I were to break it? Whenever I handle
anything very precious I always feel inclined to throw it down and
smash it. Oh! it was as nearly gone as possible, mamma; but that was
your fault."
"If you don't take care you'll be nearly gone yourself. Do take hold
of something."
"Oh, Bell, here's the inkstand for which you've been moaning for
three years."
[ILLUSTRATION: "Bell, here's the inkstand."]
"I haven't been moaning for three years; but who could have put it up
there?"
"Catch it," said Lily; and she threw the bottle down on to a pile of
carpets.
At this moment a step was heard in the hall, and the squire entered
through the open door of the room. "So you're all at work," said he.
"Yes, we're at work," said Mrs. Dale, almost with a tone of shame.
"If it is to be done it is as well that it should be got over."
"It makes me wretched enough," said the squire. "But I didn't come
to talk about that. I've brought you a note from Lady Julia De Guest,
and I've had one from the earl. They want us all to go there and stay
the week after Easter."
Mrs. Dale and the girls, when this very sudden proposition was made
to them, all remained fixed in their places, and, for a moment, were
speechless. Go and stay a week at Guestwick Manor! The whole family!
Hitherto the intercourse between the Manor and the Small House had
been confined to morning calls, very far between. Mrs. Dale had
never dined there, and had latterly even deputed the calling to her
daughters. Once Bell had dined there with her uncle, the squire, and
once Lily had gone over with her uncle Orlando. Even this had been
long ago, before they were quite brought out, and they had regarded
the occasion with the solemn awe of children. Now, at this time of
their flitting into some small mean dwelling at Guestwick, they had
previously settled among themselves that that affair of calling at
the Manor might be allowed to drop. Mrs. Eames never called, and they
were descending to the level of Mrs. Eames. "Perhaps we shall get
game sent to us, and that will be better," Lily had said. And now, at
this very moment of their descent in life, they were all asked to go
and stay a week at the Manor! Stay a week with Lady Julia! Had the
Queen sent the Lord Chamberlain down to bid them all go to Windsor
Castle it could hardly have startled them more at the first blow.
Bell had been seated on the folded carpet when her uncle had entered,
and now had again sat herself in the same place. Lily was still
standing at the top of the ladder, and Mrs. Dale was at the foot
with one hand on Lily's dress. The squire had told his story very
abruptly, but he was a man who, having a story to tell, knew nothing
better than to tell it out abruptly, letting out everything at the
first moment.
"Wants us all!" said Mrs. Dale. "How many does the all mean?" Then
she opened Lady Julia's note and read it, not moving from her
position at the foot of the ladder.
"Do let me see, mamma," said Lily; and then the note was handed up
to her. Had Mrs. Dale well considered the matter she might probably
have kept the note to herself for a while, but the whole thing was so
sudden that she had not considered the matter well.
MY DEAR MRS. DALE [the letter ran],
I send this inside a note from my brother to Mr. Dale. We
particularly want you and your two girls to come to us for
a week from the seventeenth of this month. Considering our
near connection we ought to have seen more of each other
than we have done for years past, and of course it has
been our fault. But it is never too late to amend one's
ways; and I hope you will receive my confession in the
true spirit of affection in which it is intended, and that
you will show your goodness by coming to us. I will do all
I can to make the house pleasant to your girls, for both
of whom I have much real regard.
I should tell you that John Eames will be here for the
same week. My brother is very fond of him, and thinks him
the best young man of the day. He is one of my heroes,
too, I must confess.
Very sincerely yours,
JULIA DE GUEST.
Lily, standing on the ladder, read the letter very attentively.
The squire meanwhile stood below speaking a word or two to his
sister-in-law and niece. No one could see Lily's face, as it was
turned away towards the window, and it was still averted when she
spoke. "It is out of the question that we should go, mamma;--that is,
all of us."
"Why out of the question?" said the squire.
"A whole family!" said Mrs. Dale.
"That is just what they want," said the squire.
"I should like of all things to be left alone for a week," said Lily,
"if mamma and Bell would go."
"That wouldn't do at all," said the squire. "Lady Julia specially
wants you to be one of the party."
The thing had been badly managed altogether. The reference in Lady
Julia's note to John Eames had explained to Lily the whole scheme at
once, and had so opened her eyes that all the combined influence of
the Dale and De Guest families could not have dragged her over to the
Manor.
"Why not do?" said Lily. "It would be out of the question a whole
family going in that way, but it would be very nice for Bell."
"No, it would not," said Bell.
"Don't be ungenerous about it, my dear," said the squire, turning to
Bell; "Lady Julia means to be kind. But, my darling," and the squire