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The Small House at Allington

by Anthony Trollope · English · Gutenberg #4599 · 1,401,629 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Small House at Allington

Author: Anthony Trollope


        
Release date: October 1, 2003 [eBook #4599]
                Most recently updated: June 6, 2013

Language: English

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Credits: E-text prepared by Andrew Turek and revised by Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.,


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SMALL HOUSE AT ALLINGTON ***


E-text prepared by Andrew Turek
and revised by Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D., and an anonymous
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Editorial note:

      _The Small House at Allington_ was first published serially
      in the _Cornhill Magazine_ from September, 1862, to April,
      1864, and in book form (two volumes) by Smith, Elder in 1864.

      Both the _Cornhill_ serial and the Smith, Elder first
      edition had eighteen full-page illustrations by John
      Everett Millais, and those are included in this e-book.
      The _Cornhill_ edition also had quarter-page vignettes by
      Millais at the beginning of of nineteen chapters, and those
      too are included. The illustrations can be seen by viewing
      the HTML version of this file. See
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      (https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/4599/pg4599-images.html)
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      (https://www.gutenberg.org/files/4599/4599-h.zip)





[ILLUSTRATION: Mr. Palliser and Lady Dumbello. (Chapter XXIII)]


THE SMALL HOUSE AT ALLINGTON.

by

ANTHONY TROLLOPE.




CONTENTS

         I. THE SQUIRE OF ALLINGTON.
        II. THE TWO PEARLS OF ALLINGTON.
       III. THE WIDOW DALE OF ALLINGTON.
        IV. MRS. ROPER'S BOARDING-HOUSE.
         V. ABOUT L. D.
        VI. BEAUTIFUL DAYS.
       VII. THE BEGINNING OF TROUBLES.
      VIII. IT CANNOT BE.
        IX. MRS. DALE'S LITTLE PARTY.
         X. MRS. LUPEX AND AMELIA ROPER.
        XI. SOCIAL LIFE.
       XII. LILIAN DALE BECOMES A BUTTERFLY.
      XIII. A VISIT TO GUESTWICK.
       XIV. JOHN EAMES TAKES A WALK.
        XV. THE LAST DAY.
       XVI. MR. CROSBIE MEETS AN OLD CLERGYMAN ON HIS WAY
            TO COURCY CASTLE.
      XVII. COURCY CASTLE.
     XVIII. LILY DALE'S FIRST LOVE-LETTER.
       XIX. THE SQUIRE MAKES A VISIT TO THE SMALL HOUSE.
        XX. DR. CROFTS.
       XXI. JOHN EAMES ENCOUNTERS TWO ADVENTURES, AND DISPLAYS GREAT
            COURAGE IN BOTH.
      XXII. LORD DE GUEST AT HOME.
     XXIII. MR. PLANTAGENET PALLISER.
      XXIV. A MOTHER-IN-LAW AND A FATHER-IN-LAW.
       XXV. ADOLPHUS CROSBIE SPENDS AN EVENING AT HIS CLUB.
      XXVI. LORD DE COURCY IN THE BOSOM OF HIS FAMILY.
     XXVII. "ON MY HONOUR, I DO NOT UNDERSTAND IT."
    XXVIII. THE BOARD.
      XXIX. JOHN EAMES RETURNS TO BURTON CRESCENT.
       XXX. "IS IT FROM HIM?"
      XXXI. THE WOUNDED FAWN.
     XXXII. PAWKINS'S IN JERMYN STREET.
    XXXIII. "THE TIME WILL COME."
     XXXIV. THE COMBAT.
      XXXV. VÆ VICTIS.
     XXXVI. "SEE, THE CONQUERING HERO COMES."
    XXXVII. AN OLD MAN'S COMPLAINT.
   XXXVIII. DOCTOR CROFTS IS CALLED IN.
     XXXIX. DOCTOR CROFTS IS TURNED OUT.
        XL. PREPARATIONS FOR THE WEDDING.
       XLI. DOMESTIC TROUBLES.
      XLII. LILY'S BEDSIDE.
     XLIII. FIE, FIE!
      XLIV. VALENTINE'S DAY AT ALLINGTON.
       XLV. VALENTINE'S DAY IN LONDON.
      XLVI. JOHN EAMES AT HIS OFFICE.
     XLVII. THE NEW PRIVATE SECRETARY.
    XLVIII. NEMESIS.
      XLIX. PREPARATIONS FOR GOING.
         L. MRS. DALE IS THANKFUL FOR A GOOD THING.
        LI. JOHN EAMES DOES THINGS WHICH HE OUGHT NOT TO HAVE DONE.
       LII. THE FIRST VISIT TO THE GUESTWICK BRIDGE.
      LIII. LOQUITUR HOPKINS.
       LIV. THE SECOND VISIT TO THE GUESTWICK BRIDGE.
        LV. NOT VERY FIE FIE AFTER ALL.
       LVI. SHOWING HOW MR. CROSBIE BECAME AGAIN A HAPPY MAN.
      LVII. LILIAN DALE VANQUISHES HER MOTHER.
     LVIII. THE FATE OF THE SMALL HOUSE.
       LIX. JOHN EAMES BECOMES A MAN.
        LX. CONCLUSION.



ILLUSTRATIONS

   MR. PALLISER AND LADY DUMBELLO. [Chapter XXIII]   FRONTISPIECE.
   "PLEASE, MA'AM, CAN WE HAVE THE PEAS TO SHELL?"   CHAPTER III.
   "AND YOU LOVE ME?" SAID SHE.                      CHAPTER V.
   "IT'S ALL THE FAULT OF THE NAUGHTY PARTRIDGES."   CHAPTER VII.
   "MR. CRADELL, YOUR HAND," SAID LUPEX.             CHAPTER XI.
   "WHY, IT'S YOUNG EAMES."                          CHAPTER XIV.
   "HE IS OF THAT SORT THAT THEY MAKE THE
      ANGELS OF," SAID THE VERGER.                   CHAPTER XVI.
   "AND HAVE I NOT REALLY LOVED YOU?"                CHAPTER XXI.
   "DEVOTEDLY ATTACHED TO THE YOUNG MAN!"            CHAPTER XXVI.
   THE BOARD.                                        CHAPTER XXVIII.
   "WON'T YOU TAKE SOME MORE WINE?"                  CHAPTER XXXII.
   "AND YOU WENT IN AT HIM ON THE STATION?"          CHAPTER XXXVI.
   "LET ME BEG YOU TO THINK OVER THE MATTER AGAIN."  CHAPTER XXXVIII.
   "THAT MIGHT DO."                                  CHAPTER XL.
   "MAMMA," SHE SAID AT LAST, "IT IS OVER NOW,
      I'M SURE."                                     CHAPTER XLIV.
   "WHY, ON EARTH, ON SUNDAY?"                       CHAPTER XLVIII.
   "BELL, HERE'S THE INKSTAND."                      CHAPTER XLIX.
   "SHE HAS REFUSED ME, AND IT IS ALL OVER."         CHAPTER LIV.




CHAPTER I.

THE SQUIRE OF ALLINGTON.


[ILLUSTRATION: (untitled)]

Of course there was a Great House at Allington. How otherwise should
there have been a Small House? Our story will, as its name imports,
have its closest relations with those who lived in the less dignified
domicile of the two; but it will have close relations also with
the more dignified, and it may be well that I should, in the first
instance, say a few words as to the Great House and its owner.

The squires of Allington had been squires of Allington since squires,
such as squires are now, were first known in England. From father
to son, and from uncle to nephew, and, in one instance, from second
cousin to second cousin, the sceptre had descended in the family of
the Dales; and the acres had remained intact, growing in value and
not decreasing in number, though guarded by no entail and protected
by no wonderful amount of prudence or wisdom. The estate of Dale of
Allington had been coterminous with the parish of Allington for some
hundreds of years; and though, as I have said, the race of squires
had possessed nothing of superhuman discretion, and had perhaps been
guided in their walks through life by no very distinct principles,
still there had been with them so much of adherence to a sacred law,
that no acre of the property had ever been parted from the hands of
the existing squire. Some futile attempts had been made to increase
the territory, as indeed had been done by Kit Dale, the father of
Christopher Dale, who will appear as our squire of Allington when the
persons of our drama are introduced. Old Kit Dale, who had married
money, had bought outlying farms,--a bit of ground here and a bit
there,--talking, as he did so, much of political influence and of
the good old Tory cause. But these farms and bits of ground had gone
again before our time. To them had been attached no religion. When
old Kit had found himself pressed in that matter of the majority
of the Nineteenth Dragoons, in which crack regiment his second son
made for himself quite a career, he found it easier to sell than
to save--seeing that that which he sold was his own and not the
patrimony of the Dales. At his death the remainder of these purchases
had gone. Family arrangements required completion, and Christopher
Dale required ready money. The outlying farms flew away, as such
new purchases had flown before; but the old patrimony of the Dales
remained untouched, as it had ever remained.

It had been a religion among them; and seeing that the worship had
been carried on without fail, that the vestal fire had never gone
down upon the hearth, I should not have said that the Dales had
walked their ways without high principle. To this religion they had
all adhered, and the new heir had ever entered in upon his domain
without other encumbrances than those with which he himself was then
already burdened. And yet there had been no entail. The idea of an
entail was not in accordance with the peculiarities of the Dale mind.
It was necessary to the Dale religion that each squire should have
the power of wasting the acres of Allington,--and that he should
abstain from wasting them. I remember to have dined at a house, the
whole glory and fortune of which depended on the safety of a glass
goblet. We all know the story. If the luck of Edenhall should be
shattered, the doom of the family would be sealed. Nevertheless I was
bidden to drink out of the fatal glass, as were all guests in that
house. It would not have contented the chivalrous mind of the master
to protect his doom by lock and key and padded chest. And so it was
with the Dales of Allington. To them an entail would have been a
lock and key and a padded chest; but the old chivalry of their house
denied to them the use of such protection.

I have spoken something slightingly of the acquirements and doings
of the family; and indeed their acquirements had been few and their
doings little. At Allington, Dale of Allington had always been known
as a king. At Guestwick, the neighbouring market town, he was a
great man--to be seen frequently on Saturdays, standing in the
market-place, and laying down the law as to barley and oxen among
men who knew usually more about barley and oxen than did he. At
Hamersham, the assize town, he was generally in some repute, being
a constant grand juror for the county, and a man who paid his way.
But even at Hamersham the glory of the Dales had, at most periods,
begun to pale, for they had seldom been widely conspicuous in the
county, and had earned no great reputation by their knowledge of
jurisprudence in the grand jury room. Beyond Hamersham their fame had
not spread itself.

They had been men generally built in the same mould, inheriting each
from his father the same virtues and the same vices,--men who would
have lived, each, as his father had lived before him, had not the new
ways of the world gradually drawn away with them, by an invisible
magnetism, the upcoming Dale of the day,--not indeed in any case
so moving him as to bring him up to the spirit of the age in which
he lived, but dragging him forward to a line in advance of that on
which his father had trodden. They had been obstinate men; believing
much in themselves; just according to their ideas of justice; hard
to their tenants--but not known to be hard even by the tenants
themselves, for the rules followed had ever been the rules on
the Allington estate; imperious to their wives and children, but
imperious within bounds, so that no Mrs. Dale had fled from her
lord's roof, and no loud scandals had existed between father and
sons; exacting in their ideas as to money, expecting that they were
to receive much and to give little, and yet not thought to be mean,
for they paid their way, and gave money in parish charity and in
county charity. They had ever been steady supporters of the Church,
graciously receiving into their parish such new vicars as, from time
to time, were sent to them from King's College, Cambridge, to which
establishment the gift of the living belonged;--but, nevertheless,
the Dales had ever carried on some unpronounced warfare against the
clergyman, so that the intercourse between the lay family and the
clerical had seldom been in all respects pleasant.

Such had been the Dales of Allington, time out of mind, and such in
all respects would have been the Christopher Dale of our time, had he
not suffered two accidents in his youth. He had fallen in love with
a lady who obstinately refused his hand, and on her account he had
remained single; that was his first accident. The second had fallen
upon him with reference to his father's assumed wealth. He had
supposed himself to be richer than other Dales of Allington when
coming in upon his property, and had consequently entertained an
idea of sitting in Parliament for his county. In order that he might
attain this honour he had allowed himself to be talked by the men
of Hamersham and Guestwick out of his old family politics, and had
declared himself a Liberal. He had never gone to the poll, and,
indeed, had never actually stood for the seat. But he had come
forward as a liberal politician, and had failed; and, although it
was well known to all around that Christopher Dale was in heart as
thoroughly conservative as any of his forefathers, this accident had
made him sour and silent on the subject of politics, and had somewhat
estranged him from his brother squires.

In other respects our Christopher Dale was, if anything, superior to
the average of the family. Those whom he did love he loved dearly.
Those whom he hated he did not ill-use beyond the limits of justice.
He was close in small matters of money, and yet in certain family
arrangements he was, as we shall see, capable of much liberality. He
endeavoured to do his duty in accordance with his lights, and had
succeeded in weaning himself from personal indulgences, to which
during the early days of his high hopes he had become accustomed. And
in that matter of his unrequited love he had been true throughout.
In his hard, dry, unpleasant way he had loved the woman; and when at
last he learned to know that she would not have his love, he had been
unable to transfer his heart to another. This had happened just at
the period of his father's death, and he had endeavoured to console
himself with politics, with what fate we have already seen. A
constant, upright, and by no means insincere man was our Christopher
Dale,--thin and meagre in his mental attributes, by no means even
understanding the fulness of a full man, with power of eye-sight very
limited in seeing aught which was above him, but yet worthy of regard
in that he had realized a path of duty and did endeavour to walk
therein. And, moreover, our Mr. Christopher Dale was a gentleman.

Such in character was the squire of Allington, the only regular
inhabitant of the Great House. In person, he was a plain, dry man,
with short grizzled hair and thick grizzled eyebrows. Of beard, he
had very little, carrying the smallest possible gray whiskers, which
hardly fell below the points of his ears. His eyes were sharp and
expressive, and his nose was straight and well formed,--as was also
his chin. But the nobility of his face was destroyed by a mean mouth
with thin lips; and his forehead, which was high and narrow, though
it forbad you to take Mr. Dale for a fool, forbad you also to take
him for a man of great parts, or of a wide capacity. In height, he
was about five feet ten; and at the time of our story was as near to
seventy as he was to sixty. But years had treated him very lightly,
and he bore few signs of age. Such in person was Christopher Dale,
Esq., the squire of Allington, and owner of some three thousand a
year, all of which proceeded from the lands of that parish.

And now I will speak of the Great House of Allington. After all, it
was not very great; nor was it surrounded by much of that exquisite
nobility of park appurtenance which graces the habitations of most of
our old landed proprietors. But the house itself was very graceful.
It had been built in the days of the early Stuarts, in that style of
architecture to which we give the name of the Tudors. On its front
it showed three pointed roofs, or gables, as I believe they should
be called; and between each gable a thin tall chimney stood, the two
chimneys thus raising themselves just above the three peaks I have
mentioned. I think that the beauty of the house depended much on
those two chimneys; on them, and on the mullioned windows with which
the front of the house was closely filled. The door, with its jutting
porch, was by no means in the centre of the house. As you entered,
there was but one window on your right hand, while on your left there
were three. And over these there was a line of five windows, one
taking its place above the porch. We all know the beautiful old
Tudor window, with its stout stone mullions and its stone transoms,
crossing from side to side at a point much nearer to the top than
to the bottom. Of all windows ever invented it is the sweetest. And
here, at Allington, I think their beauty was enhanced by the fact
that they were not regular in their shape. Some of these windows were
long windows, while some of them were high. That to the right of the
door, and that at the other extremity of the house, were among the
former. But the others had been put in without regard to uniformity,
a long window here, and a high window there, with a general effect
which could hardly have been improved. Then above, in the three
gables, were three other smaller apertures. But these also were
mullioned, and the entire frontage of the house was uniform in its
style.

Round the house there were trim gardens, not very large, but worthy
of much note in that they were so trim,--gardens with broad gravel
paths, with one walk running in front of the house so broad as to
be fitly called a terrace. But this, though in front of the house,
was sufficiently removed from it to allow of a coach-road running
inside it to the front door. The Dales of Allington had always been
gardeners, and their garden was perhaps more noted in the county than
any other of their properties. But outside the gardens no pretensions
had been made to the grandeur of a domain. The pastures round the
house were but pretty fields, in which timber was abundant. There
was no deer-park at Allington; and though the Allington woods were
well known, they formed no portion of a whole of which the house was
a part. They lay away, out of sight, a full mile from the back of
the house; but not on that account of less avail for the fitting
preservation of foxes.

And the house stood much too near the road for purposes of grandeur,
had such purposes ever swelled the breast of any of the squires of
Allington. But I fancy that our ideas of rural grandeur have altered
since many of our older country seats were built. To be near the
village, so as in some way to afford comfort, protection, and
patronage, and perhaps also with some view to the pleasantness of
neighbourhood for its own inmates, seemed to be the object of a
gentleman when building his house in the old days. A solitude in the
centre of a wide park is now the only site that can be recognized as
eligible. No cottage must be seen, unless the cottage orné of the
gardener. The village, if it cannot be abolished, must be got out of
sight. The sound of the church bells is not desirable, and the road
on which the profane vulgar travel by their own right must be at a
distance. When some old Dale of Allington built his house, he thought
differently. There stood the church and there the village, and,
pleased with such vicinity, he sat himself down close to his God and
to his tenants.

As you pass along the road from Guestwick into the village you see
the church near to you on your left hand; but the house is hidden
from the road. As you approach the church, reaching the gate of it
which is not above two hundred yards from the high road, you see the
full front of the Great House. Perhaps the best view of it is from
the churchyard. The lane leading up to the church ends in a gate,
which is the entrance into Mr. Dale's place. There is no lodge there,
and the gate generally stands open,--indeed, always does so, unless
some need of cattle grazing within requires that it should be closed.
But there is an inner gate, leading from the home paddock through
the gardens to the house, and another inner gate, some thirty yards
farther on, which will take you into the farm-yard. Perhaps it is a
defect at Allington that the farm-yard is very close to the house.
But the stables, and the straw-yards, and the unwashed carts, and the
lazy lingering cattle of the homestead, are screened off by a row
of chestnuts, which, when in its glory of flower, in the early days
of May, no other row in England can surpass in beauty. Had any one
told Dale of Allington--this Dale or any former Dale--that his place
wanted wood, he would have pointed with mingled pride and disdain to
his belt of chestnuts.

Of the church itself I will say the fewest possible number of
words. It was a church such as there are, I think, thousands in
England--low, incommodious, kept with difficulty in repair, too often
pervious to the wet, and yet strangely picturesque, and correct too,
according to great rules of architecture. It was built with a nave
and aisles, visibly in the form of a cross, though with its arms
clipped down to the trunk, with a separate chancel, with a large
square short tower, and with a bell-shaped spire, covered with lead
and irregular in its proportions. Who does not know the low porch,
the perpendicular Gothic window, the flat-roofed aisles, and the
noble old gray tower of such a church as this? As regards its
interior, it was dusty; it was blocked up with high-backed ugly pews;
the gallery in which the children sat at the end of the church, and
in which two ancient musicians blew their bassoons, was all awry,
and looked as though it would fall; the pulpit was an ugly useless
edifice, as high nearly as the roof would allow, and the reading-desk
under it hardly permitted the parson to keep his head free from the
dangling tassels of the cushion above him. A clerk also was there
beneath him, holding a third position somewhat elevated; and upon
the whole things there were not quite as I would have had them. But,
nevertheless, the place looked like a church, and I can hardly say
so much for all the modern edifices which have been built in my days
towards the glory of God. It looked like a church, and not the less
so because in walking up the passage between the pews the visitor
trod upon the brass plates which dignified the resting-places of the
departed Dales of old.

Below the church, and between that and the village, stood the
vicarage, in such position that the small garden of the vicarage
stretched from the churchyard down to the backs of the village
cottages. This was a pleasant residence, newly built within the last
thirty years, and creditable to the ideas of comfort entertained by
the rich collegiate body from which the vicars of Allington always
came. Doubtless we shall in the course of our sojourn at Allington
visit the vicarage now and then, but I do not know that any further
detailed account of its comforts will be necessary to us.

Passing by the lane leading to the vicarage, the church and to the
house, the high road descends rapidly to a little brook which runs
through the village. On the right as you descend you will have seen
the "Red Lion," and will have seen no other house conspicuous in any
way. At the bottom, close to the brook, is the post-office, kept
surely by the crossest old woman in all those parts. Here the road
passes through the water, the accommodation of a narrow wooden bridge
having been afforded for those on foot. But before passing the
stream, you will see a cross street, running to the left, as had run
that other lane leading to the house. Here, as this cross street
rises the hill, are the best houses in the village. The baker lives
here, and that respectable woman, Mrs. Frummage, who sells ribbons,
and toys, and soap, and straw bonnets, with many other things too
long to mention. Here, too, lives an apothecary, whom the veneration
of this and neighbouring parishes has raised to the dignity of a
doctor. And here also, in the smallest but prettiest cottage that can
be imagined, lives Mrs. Hearn, the widow of a former vicar, on terms,
however, with her neighbour the squire which I regret to say are not
as friendly as they should be. Beyond this lady's modest residence,
Allington Street, for so the road is called, turns suddenly round
towards the church, and at the point of the turn is a pretty low iron
railing with a gate, and with a covered way, which leads up to the
front door of the house which stands there. I will only say here, at
this fag end of a chapter, that it is the Small House at Allington.
Allington Street, as I have said, turns short round towards the
church at this point, and there ends at a white gate, leading into
the churchyard by a second entrance.

So much it was needful that I should say of Allington Great House,
of the Squire, and of the village. Of the Small House, I will speak
separately in a further chapter.




CHAPTER II.

THE TWO PEARLS OF ALLINGTON.


"But Mr. Crosbie is only a mere clerk."

This sarcastic condemnation was spoken by Miss Lilian Dale to her
sister Isabella, and referred to a gentleman with whom we shall have
much concern in these pages. I do not say that Mr. Crosbie will be
our hero, seeing that that part in the drama will be cut up, as it
were, into fragments. Whatever of the magnificent may be produced
will be diluted and apportioned out in very moderate quantities among
two or more, probably among three or four, young gentlemen--to none
of whom will be vouchsafed the privilege of much heroic action.

"I don't know what you call a mere clerk, Lily. Mr. Fanfaron is a
mere barrister, and Mr. Boyce is a mere clergyman." Mr. Boyce was the
vicar of Allington, and Mr. Fanfaron was a lawyer who had made his
way over to Allington during the last assizes. "You might as well say
that Lord De Guest is a mere earl."

"So he is--only a mere earl. Had he ever done anything except have
fat oxen, one wouldn't say so. You know what I mean by a mere clerk?
It isn't much in a man to be in a public office, and yet Mr. Crosbie
gives himself airs."

"You don't suppose that Mr. Crosbie is the same as John Eames," said
Bell, who, by her tone of voice, did not seem inclined to undervalue
the qualifications of Mr. Crosbie. Now John Eames was a young
man from Guestwick, who had been appointed to a clerkship in the
Income-tax Office, with eighty pounds a year, two years ago.

"Then Johnny Eames is a mere clerk," said Lily; "and Mr. Crosbie
is-- After all, Bell, what is Mr. Crosbie, if he is not a mere clerk?
Of course, he is older than John Eames; and, as he has been longer at
it, I suppose he has more than eighty pounds a year."

"I am not in Mr. Crosbie's confidence. He is in the General Committee
Office, I know; and, I believe, has pretty nearly the management of
the whole of it. I have heard Bernard say that he has six or seven
young men under him, and that--; but, of course, I don't know what he
does at his office."

"I'll tell you what he is, Bell; Mr. Crosbie is a swell." And Lilian
Dale was right; Mr. Crosbie was a swell.

And here I may perhaps best explain who Bernard was, and who was
Mr. Crosbie. Captain Bernard Dale was an officer in the corps of
Engineers, was the first cousin of the two girls who have been
speaking, and was nephew and heir presumptive to the squire. His
father, Colonel Dale, and his mother, Lady Fanny Dale, were still
living at Torquay--an effete, invalid, listless couple, pretty well
dead to all the world beyond the region of the Torquay card-tables.
He it was who had made for himself quite a career in the Nineteenth
Dragoons. This he did by eloping with the penniless daughter of that
impoverished earl, the Lord De Guest. After the conclusion of that
event circumstances had not afforded him the opportunity of making
himself conspicuous; and he had gone on declining gradually in the
world's esteem--for the world had esteemed him when he first made
good his running with the Lady Fanny--till now, in his slippered
years, he and his Lady Fanny were unknown except among those Torquay
Bath chairs and card-tables. His elder brother was still a hearty
man, walking in thick shoes, and constant in his saddle; but the
colonel, with nothing beyond his wife's title to keep his body awake,
had fallen asleep somewhat prematurely among his slippers. Of him and
of Lady Fanny, Bernard Dale was the only son. Daughters they had had;
some were dead, some married, and one living with them among the
card-tables. Of his parents Bernard had latterly not seen much; not
more, that is, than duty and a due attention to the fifth commandment
required of him. He also was making a career for himself, having
obtained a commission in the Engineers, and being known to all his
compeers as the nephew of an earl, and as the heir to a property
of three thousand a year. And when I say that Bernard Dale was not
inclined to throw away any of these advantages, I by no means intend
to speak in his dispraise. The advantage of being heir to a good
property is so manifest--the advantages over and beyond those which
are merely fiscal--that no man thinks of throwing them away, or
expects another man to do so. Moneys in possession or in expectation
do give a set to the head, and a confidence to the voice, and an
assurance to the man, which will help him much in his walk in
life--if the owner of them will simply use them, and not abuse them.
And for Bernard Dale I will say that he did not often talk of his
uncle the earl. He was conscious that his uncle was an earl, and that
other men knew the fact. He knew that he would not otherwise have
been elected at the Beaufort, or at that most aristocratic of little
clubs called Sebright's. When noble blood was called in question he
never alluded specially to his own, but he knew how to speak as one
of whom all the world was aware on which side he had been placed by
the circumstances of his birth. Thus he used his advantage, and did
not abuse it. And in his profession he had been equally fortunate.
By industry, by a small but wakeful intelligence, and by some aid
from patronage, he had got on till he had almost achieved the
reputation of talent. His name had become known among scientific
experimentalists, not as that of one who had himself invented a
cannon or an antidote to a cannon, but as of a man understanding
in cannons and well fitted to look at those invented by others;
who would honestly test this or that antidote; or, if not honestly,
seeing that such thin-minded men can hardly go to the proof of any
matter without some pre-judgment in their minds, at any rate with
such appearance of honesty that the world might be satisfied. And in
this way Captain Dale was employed much at home, about London; and
was not called on to build barracks in Nova Scotia, or to make roads
in the Punjaub.

He was a small slight man, smaller than his uncle, but in face very
like him. He had the same eyes, and nose, and chin, and the same
mouth; but his forehead was better,--less high and pointed, and
better formed about the brows. And then he wore moustaches, which
somewhat hid the thinness of his mouth. On the whole, he was not
ill-looking; and, as I have said before, he carried with him an air
of self-assurance and a confident balance, which in itself gives a
grace to a young man.

He was staying at the present time in his uncle's house, during the
delicious warmth of the summer,--for, as yet, the month of July was
not all past; and his intimate friend, Adolphus Crosbie, who was
or was not a mere clerk as my readers may choose to form their own
opinions on that matter, was a guest in the house with him. I am
inclined to say that Adolphus Crosbie was not a mere clerk; and I
do not think that he would have been so called, even by Lily Dale,
had he not given signs to her that he was a "swell." Now a man in
becoming a swell,--a swell of such an order as could possibly be
known to Lily Dale,--must have ceased to be a mere clerk in that very
process. And, moreover, Captain Dale would not have been Damon to any
Pythias, of whom it might fairly be said that he was a mere clerk.
Nor could any mere clerk have got himself in either at the Beaufort
or at Sebright's. The evidence against that former assertion made
by Lily Dale is very strong; but then the evidence as to her latter
assertion is as strong. Mr. Crosbie certainly was a swell. It is true
that he was a clerk in the General Committee Office. But then, in the
first place, the General Committee Office is situated in Whitehall;
whereas poor John Eames was forced to travel daily from his lodgings
in Burton Crescent, ever so far beyond Russell Square, to his dingy
room in Somerset House. And Adolphus Crosbie, when very young, had
been a private secretary, and had afterwards mounted up in his office
to some quasi authority and senior-clerkship, bringing him in seven
hundred a year, and giving him a status among assistant secretaries
and the like, which even in an official point of view was something.
But the triumphs of Adolphus Crosbie had been other than these. Not
because he had been intimate with assistant secretaries, and was
allowed in Whitehall a room to himself with an arm-chair, would he
have been entitled to stand upon the rug at Sebright's and speak
while rich men listened,--rich men, and men also who had handles to
their names! Adolphus Crosbie had done more than make minutes with
discretion on the papers of the General Committee Office. He had set
himself down before the gates of the city of fashion, and had taken
them by storm; or, perhaps, to speak with more propriety, he had
picked the locks and let himself in. In his walks of life he was
somebody in London. A man at the West End who did not know who was
Adolphus Crosbie knew nothing. I do not say that he was the intimate
friend of many great men; but even great men acknowledged the
acquaintance of Adolphus Crosbie, and he was to be seen in the
drawing-rooms, or at any rate on the staircases, of Cabinet
Ministers.

Lilian Dale, dear Lily Dale--for my reader must know that she is to
be very dear, and that my story will be nothing to him if he do not
love Lily Dale--Lilian Dale had discovered that Mr. Crosbie was a
swell. But I am bound to say that Mr. Crosbie did not habitually
proclaim the fact in any offensive manner; nor in becoming a swell
had he become altogether a bad fellow. It was not to be expected
that a man who was petted at Sebright's should carry himself in the
Allington drawing-room as would Johnny Eames, who had never been
petted by any one but his mother. And this fraction of a hero of ours
had other advantages to back him, over and beyond those which fashion
had given him. He was a tall, well-looking man, with pleasant eyes
and an expressive mouth,--a man whom you would probably observe in
whatever room you might meet him. And he knew how to talk, and had
in him something which justified talking. He was no butterfly or
dandy, who flew about in the world's sun, warmed into prettiness
by a sunbeam. Crosbie had his opinion on things,--on politics, on
religion, on the philanthropic tendencies of the age, and had read
something here and there as he formed his opinion. Perhaps he might
have done better in the world had he not been placed so early in life
in that Whitehall public office. There was that in him which might
have earned better bread for him in an open profession.

But in that matter of his bread the fate of Adolphus Crosbie had by
this time been decided for him, and he had reconciled himself to fate
that was now inexorable. Some very slight patrimony, a hundred a year
or so, had fallen to his share. Beyond that he had his salary from
his office, and nothing else; and on his income, thus made up, he had
lived as a bachelor in London, enjoying all that London could give
him as a man in moderately easy circumstances, and looking forward to
no costly luxuries,--such as a wife, a house of his own, or a stable
full of horses. Those which he did enjoy of the good things of the
world would, if known to John Eames, have made him appear fabulously
rich in the eyes of that brother clerk. His lodgings in Mount Street
were elegant in their belongings. During three months of the season
in London he called himself the master of a very neat hack. He was
always well dressed, though never over-dressed. At his clubs he could
live on equal terms with men having ten times his income. He was
not married. He had acknowledged to himself that he could not marry
without money; and he would not marry for money. He had put aside
from him, as not within his reach, the comforts of marriage. But-- We
will not, however, at the present moment inquire more curiously
into the private life and circumstances of our new friend Adolphus
Crosbie.

After the sentence pronounced against him by Lilian, the two girls
remained silent for awhile. Bell was, perhaps, a little angry with
her sister. It was not often that she allowed herself to say much
in praise of any gentleman; and, now that she had spoken a word or
two in favour of Mr. Crosbie, she felt herself to be rebuked by her
sister for this unwonted enthusiasm. Lily was at work on a drawing,
and in a minute or two had forgotten all about Mr. Crosbie; but the
injury remained on Bell's mind, and prompted her to go back to the
subject. "I don't like those slang words, Lily."

"What slang words?"

"You know what you called Bernard's friend."

"Oh; a swell. I fancy I do like slang. I think it's awfully jolly to
talk about things being jolly. Only that I was afraid of your nerves
I should have called him stunning. It's so slow, you know, to use
nothing but words out of a dictionary."

"I don't think it's nice in talking of gentlemen."

"Isn't it? Well, I'd like to be nice--if I knew how."

If she knew how! There is no knowing how, for a girl, in that matter.
If nature and her mother have not done it for her, there is no hope
for her on that head. I think I may say that nature and her mother
had been sufficiently efficacious for Lilian Dale in this respect.

"Mr. Crosbie is, at any rate, a gentleman, and knows how to make
himself pleasant. That was all that I meant. Mamma said a great deal
more about him than I did."

"Mr. Crosbie is an Apollo; and I always look upon Apollo as the
greatest--you know what--that ever lived. I mustn't say the word,
because Apollo was a gentleman."

At this moment, while the name of the god was still on her lips,
the high open window of the drawing-room was darkened, and Bernard
entered, followed by Mr. Crosbie.

"Who is talking about Apollo?" said Captain Dale.

The girls were both stricken dumb. How would it be with them if Mr.
Crosbie had heard himself spoken of in those last words of poor
Lily's? This was the rashness of which Bell was ever accusing her
sister, and here was the result! But, in truth, Bernard had heard
nothing more than the name, and Mr. Crosbie, who had been behind him,
had heard nothing.

"'As sweet and musical as bright Apollo's lute, strung with his
hair,'" said Mr. Crosbie, not meaning much by the quotation, but
perceiving that the two girls had been in some way put out and
silenced.

"What very bad music it must have made," said Lily; "unless, indeed,
his hair was very different from ours."

"It was all sunbeams," suggested Bernard. But by that time Apollo had
served his turn, and the ladies welcomed their guests in the proper
form.

"Mamma is in the garden," said Bell, with that hypocritical pretence
so common with young ladies when young gentlemen call; as though they
were aware that mamma was the object specially sought.

"Picking peas, with a sun-bonnet on," said Lily.

"Let us by all means go and help her," said Mr. Crosbie; and then
they issued out into the garden.

The gardens of the Great House of Allington and those of the Small
House open on to each other. A proper boundary of thick laurel hedge,
and wide ditch, and of iron spikes guarding the ditch, there is
between them; but over the wide ditch there is a foot-bridge, and at
the bridge there is a gate which has no key; and for all purposes of
enjoyment the gardens of each house are open to the other. And the
gardens of the Small House are very pretty. The Small House itself
is so near the road that there is nothing between the dining-room
windows and the iron rail but a narrow edge rather than border, and
a little path made with round fixed cobble stones, not above two
feet broad, into which no one but the gardener ever makes his way.
The distance from the road to the house is not above five or six
feet, and the entrance from the gate is shut in by a covered way.
But the garden behind the house, on to which the windows from the
drawing-room open, is to all the senses as private as though there
were no village of Allington, and no road up to the church within a
hundred yards of the lawn. The steeple of the church, indeed, can be
seen from the lawn, peering, as it were, between the yew-trees which
stand in the corner of the churchyard adjoining to Mrs. Dale's wall.
But none of the Dale family have any objection to the sight of that
steeple. The glory of the Small House at Allington certainly consists
in its lawn, which is as smooth, as level, and as much like velvet as
grass has ever yet been made to look. Lily Dale, taking pride in her
own lawn, has declared often that it is no good attempting to play
croquet up at the Great House. The grass, she says, grows in tufts,
and nothing that Hopkins, the gardener, can or will do has any effect
upon the tufts. But there are no tufts at the Small House. As the
squire himself has never been very enthusiastic about croquet, the
croquet implements have been moved permanently down to the Small
House, and croquet there has become quite an institution.

And while I am on the subject of the garden I may also mention Mrs.
Dale's conservatory, as to which Bell was strenuously of opinion that
the Great House had nothing to offer equal to it--"For flowers, of
course, I mean," she would say, correcting herself; for at the Great
House there was a grapery very celebrated. On this matter the squire
would be less tolerant than as regarded the croquet, and would tell
his niece that she knew nothing about flowers. "Perhaps not, uncle
Christopher," she would say. "All the same, I like our geraniums
best;" for there was a spice of obstinacy about Miss Dale,--as,
indeed, there was in all the Dales, male and female, young and old.

It may be as well to explain that the care of this lawn and of this
conservatory, and, indeed, of the entire garden belonging to the
Small House, was in the hands of Hopkins, the head gardener to the
Great House; and it was so simply for this reason, that Mrs. Dale
could not afford to keep a gardener herself. A working lad, at ten
shillings a week, who cleaned the knives and shoes, and dug the
ground, was the only male attendant on the three ladies. But Hopkins,
the head gardener of Allington, who had men under him, was as widely
awake to the lawn and the conservatory of the humbler establishment
as he was to the grapery, peach-walls, and terraces of the grander
one. In his eyes it was all one place. The Small House belonged to
his master, as indeed did the very furniture within it; and it was
lent, not let, to Mrs. Dale. Hopkins, perhaps, did not love Mrs.
Dale, seeing that he owed her no duty as one born a Dale. The two
young ladies he did love, and also snubbed in a very peremptory way
sometimes. To Mrs. Dale he was coldly civil, always referring to the
squire if any direction worthy of special notice as concerning the
garden was given to him.

All this will serve to explain the terms on which Mrs. Dale was
living at the Small House,--a matter needful of explanation sooner or
later. Her husband had been the youngest of three brothers, and in
many respects the brightest. Early in life he had gone up to London,
and there had done well as a land surveyor. He had done so well that
Government had employed him, and for some three or four years he had
enjoyed a large income, but death had come suddenly on him, while he
was only yet ascending the ladder; and, when he died, he had hardly
begun to realize the golden prospects which he had seen before him.
This had happened some fifteen years before our story commenced, so
that the two girls hardly retained any memory of their father. For
the first five years of her widowhood, Mrs. Dale, who had never been
a favourite of the squire's, lived with her two little girls in
such modest way as her very limited means allowed. Old Mrs. Dale,
the squire's mother, then occupied the Small House. But when old
Mrs. Dale died, the squire offered the place rent-free to his
sister-in-law, intimating to her that her daughters would obtain
considerable social advantages by living at Allington. She had
accepted the offer, and the social advantages had certainly followed.
Mrs. Dale was poor, her whole income not exceeding three hundred a
year, and therefore her own style of living was of necessity very
unassuming; but she saw her girls becoming popular in the county,
much liked by the families around them, and enjoying nearly all
the advantages which would have accrued to them had they been the
daughters of Squire Dale of Allington. Under such circumstances it
was little to her whether or no she were loved by her brother-in-law,
or respected by Hopkins. Her own girls loved her, and respected her,
and that was pretty much all that she demanded of the world on her
own behalf.

And uncle Christopher had been very good to the girls in his own
obstinate and somewhat ungracious manner. There were two ponies in
the stables of the Great House, which they were allowed to ride, and
which, unless on occasions, nobody else did ride. I think he might
have given the ponies to the girls, but he thought differently. And
he contributed to their dresses, sending them home now and again
things which he thought necessary, not in the pleasantest way in the
world. Money he never gave them, nor did he make them any promises.
But they were Dales, and he loved them; and with Christopher Dale to
love once was to love always. Bell was his chief favourite, sharing
with his nephew Bernard the best warmth of his heart. About these
two he had his projects, intending that Bell should be the future
mistress of the Great House of Allington; as to which project,
however, Miss Dale was as yet in very absolute ignorance.

We may now, I think, go back to our four friends, as they walked out
upon the lawn. They were understood to be on a mission to assist Mrs.
Dale in the picking of the peas; but pleasure intervened in the way
of business, and the young people, forgetting the labours of their
elder, allowed themselves to be carried away by the fascinations of
croquet. The iron hoops and the sticks were fixed. The mallets and
the balls were lying about; and then the party was so nicely made up!
"I haven't had a game of croquet yet," said Mr. Crosbie. It cannot
be said that he had lost much time, seeing that he had only arrived
before dinner on the preceding day. And then the mallets were in
their hands in a moment.

"We'll play sides, of course," said Lily. "Bernard and I'll play
together." But this was not allowed. Lily was well known to be the
queen of the croquet ground; and as Bernard was supposed to be more
efficient than his friend, Lily had to take Mr. Crosbie as her
partner. "Apollo can't get through the hoops," Lily said afterwards
to her sister; "but then how gracefully he fails to do it!" Lily,
however, had been beaten, and may therefore be excused for a little
spite against her partner. But it so turned out that before Mr.
Crosbie took his final departure from Allington he could get through
the hoops; and Lily, though she was still queen of the croquet
ground, had to acknowledge a male sovereign in that dominion.

"That's not the way we played at--," said Crosbie, at one point of
the game, and then stopped himself.

"Where was that?" said Bernard.

"A place I was at last summer,--in Shropshire."

"Then they don't play the game, Mr. Crosbie, at the place you were at
last summer,--in Shropshire," said Lily.

"You mean Lady Hartletop's," said Bernard. Now, the Marchioness
of Hartletop was a very great person indeed, and a leader in the
fashionable world.

"Oh! Lady Hartletop's!" said Lily. "Then I suppose we must give in;"
which little bit of sarcasm was not lost upon Mr. Crosbie, and was
put down by him in the tablets of his mind as quite undeserved.
He had endeavoured to avoid any mention of Lady Hartletop and her
croquet ground, and her ladyship's name had been forced upon him.
Nevertheless, he liked Lily Dale through it all. But he thought that
he liked Bell the best, though she said little; for Bell was the
beauty of the family.

During the game Bernard remembered that they had especially come over
to bid the three ladies to dinner at the house on that day. They had
all dined there on the day before, and the girls' uncle had now sent
directions to them to come again. "I'll go and ask mamma about it,"
said Bell, who was out first. And then she returned, saying, that she
and her sister would obey their uncle's behest; but that her mother
would prefer to remain at home. "There are the peas to be eaten, you
know," said Lily.

"Send them up to the Great House," said Bernard.

"Hopkins would not allow it," said Lily. "He calls that a mixing of
things. Hopkins doesn't like mixings." And then when the game was
over, they sauntered about, out of the small garden into the larger
one, and through the shrubberies, and out upon the fields, where they
found the still lingering remnants of the haymaking. And Lily took a
rake, and raked for two minutes; and Mr. Crosbie, making an attempt
to pitch the hay into the cart, had to pay half-a-crown for his
footing to the haymakers; and Bell sat quiet under a tree, mindful
of her complexion; whereupon Mr. Crosbie, finding the hay-pitching
not much to his taste, threw himself under the same tree also, quite
after the manner of Apollo, as Lily said to her mother late in the
evening. Then Bernard covered Lily with hay, which was a great feat
in the jocose way for him; and Lily in returning the compliment,
almost smothered Mr. Crosbie,--by accident.

"Oh, Lily," said Bell.

"I'm sure I beg your pardon, Mr. Crosbie. It was Bernard's fault.
Bernard, I never will come into a hayfield with you again." And so
they all became very intimate; while Bell sat quietly under the tree,
listening to a word or two now and then as Mr. Crosbie chose to speak
them. There is a kind of enjoyment to be had in society, in which
very few words are necessary. Bell was less vivacious than her sister
Lily; and when, an hour after this, she was dressing herself for
dinner, she acknowledged that she had passed a pleasant afternoon,
though Mr. Crosbie had not said very much.




CHAPTER III.

THE WIDOW DALE OF ALLINGTON.


As Mrs. Dale, of the Small House, was not a Dale by birth, there
can be no necessity for insisting on the fact that none of the
Dale peculiarities should be sought for in her character. These
peculiarities were not, perhaps, very conspicuous in her daughters,
who had taken more in that respect from their mother than from their
father; but a close observer might recognize the girls as Dales. They
were constant, perhaps obstinate, occasionally a little uncharitable
in their judgment, and prone to think that there was a great deal
in being a Dale, though not prone to say much about it. But they
had also a better pride than this, which had come to them as their
mother's heritage.

Mrs. Dale was certainly a proud woman,--not that there was anything
appertaining to herself in which she took a pride. In birth she had
been much lower than her husband, seeing that her grandfather had
been almost nobody. Her fortune had been considerable for her rank
in life, and on its proceeds she now mainly depended; but it had not
been sufficient to give any of the pride of wealth. And she had been
a beauty; according to my taste, was still very lovely; but certainly
at this time of life, she, a widow of fifteen years' standing, with
two grown-up daughters, took no pride in her beauty. Nor had she
any conscious pride in the fact that she was a lady. That she was a
lady, inwards and outwards, from the crown of her head to the sole
of her feet, in head, in heart, and in mind, a lady by education and
a lady by nature, a lady also by birth in spite of that deficiency
respecting her grandfather, I hereby state as a fact--meo periculo.
And the squire, though he had no special love for her, had recognized
this, and in all respects treated her as his equal.

But her position was one which required that she should either be
very proud or else very humble. She was poor, and yet her daughters
moved in a position which belongs, as a rule, to the daughters of
rich men only. This they did as nieces of the childless squire of
Allington, and as his nieces she felt that they were entitled to
accept his countenance and kindness, without loss of self-respect
either to her or to them. She would have ill done her duty as a
mother to them had she allowed any pride of her own to come between
them and such advantage in the world as their uncle might be able to
give them. On their behalf she had accepted the loan of the house in
which she lived, and the use of many of the appurtenances belonging
to her brother-in-law; but on her own account she had accepted
nothing. Her marriage with Philip Dale had been disliked by his
brother the squire, and the squire, while Philip was still living,
had continued to show that his feelings in this respect were not
to be overcome. They never had been overcome; and now, though the
brother-in-law and sister-in-law had been close neighbours for years,
living as one may say almost in the same family, they had never
become friends. There had not been a word of quarrel between them.
They met constantly. The squire had unconsciously come to entertain a
profound respect for his brother's widow. The widow had acknowledged
to herself the truth of the affection shown by the uncle to her
daughters. But yet they had never come together as friends. Of her
own money matters Mrs. Dale had never spoken a word to the squire.
Of his intention respecting the girls the squire had never spoken a
word to the mother. And in this way they had lived and were living at
Allington.

The life which Mrs. Dale led was not altogether an easy life,--was
not devoid of much painful effort on her part. The theory of her life
one may say was this--that she should bury herself in order that
her daughters might live well above ground. And in order to carry
out this theory, it was necessary that she should abstain from all
complaint or show of uneasiness before her girls. Their life above
ground would not be well if they understood that their mother, in
this underground life of hers, was enduring any sacrifice on their
behalf. It was needful that they should think that the picking of
peas in a sun-bonnet, or long readings by her own fire-side, and
solitary hours spent in thinking, were specially to her mind. "Mamma
doesn't like going out." "I don't think mamma is happy anywhere out
of her own drawing-room." I do not say that the girls were taught to
say such words, but they were taught to have thoughts which led to
such words, and in the early days of their going out into the world
used so to speak of their mother. But a time came to them before
long,--to one first and then to the other, in which they knew that
it was not so, and knew also all that their mother had suffered for
their sakes.

And in truth Mrs. Dale could have been as young in heart as they
were. She, too, could have played croquet, and have coquetted with
a haymaker's rake, and have delighted in her pony, ay, and have
listened to little nothings from this and that Apollo, had she
thought that things had been conformable thereto. Women at forty do
not become ancient misanthropes, or stern Rhadamanthine moralists,
indifferent to the world's pleasures--no, not even though they be
widows. There are those who think that such should be the phase of
their minds. I profess that I do not so think. I would have women,
and men also, young as long as they can be young. It is not that a
woman should call herself in years younger than her father's family
Bible will have her to be. Let her who is forty call herself forty;
but if she can be young in spirit at forty, let her show that she is
so.

I think that Mrs. Dale was wrong. She would have joined that party on
the croquet ground, instead of remaining among the pea-sticks in her
sun-bonnet, had she done as I would have counselled her. Not a word
was spoken among the four that she did not hear. Those pea-sticks
were only removed from the lawn by a low wall and a few shrubs. She
listened, not as one suspecting, but simply as one loving. The voices
of her girls were very dear to her, and the silver ringing tones of
Lily's tongue were as sweet to her ears as the music of the gods. She
heard all that about Lady Hartletop, and shuddered at Lily's bold
sarcasm. And she heard Lily say that mamma would stay at home and
eat the peas, and said to herself sadly that that was now her lot in
life.

"Dear darling girl,--and so it should be!"

It was thus her thoughts ran. And then, when her ear had traced them,
as they passed across the little bridge into the other grounds, she
returned across the lawn to the house with her burden on her arm,
and sat herself down on the step of the drawing-room window, looking
out on the sweet summer flowers and the smooth surface of the grass
before her.

Had not God done well for her to place her where she was? Had not her
lines been set for her in pleasant places? Was she not happy in her
girls,--her sweet, loving, trusting, trusty children? As it was to be
that her lord, that best half of herself, was to be taken from her in
early life, and that the springs of all the lighter pleasures were to
be thus stopped for her, had it not been well that in her bereavement
so much had been done to soften her lot in life and give it grace and
beauty? 'Twas so, she argued with herself, and yet she acknowledged
to herself that she was not happy. She had resolved, as she herself
had said often, to put away childish things, and now she pined for
those things which she so put from her. As she sat she could still
hear Lily's voice as they went through the shrubbery,--hear it when
none but a mother's ears would have distinguished the sound. Now
that those young men were at the Great House it was natural that her
girls should be there too. The squire would not have had young men to
stay with him had there been no ladies to grace his table. But for
her,--she knew that no one would want her there. Now and again she
must go, as otherwise her very existence, without going, would be a
thing disagreeably noticeable. But there was no other reason why she
should join the party; nor in joining it would she either give or
receive pleasure. Let her daughters eat from her brother's table and
drink of his cup. They were made welcome to do so from the heart. For
her there was no such welcome as that at the Great House,--nor at any
other house, or any other table!

"Mamma will stay at home to eat the peas."

And then she repeated to herself the words which Lily had spoken,
sitting there, leaning with her elbow on her knee, and her head upon
her hand.

"Please, ma'am, cook says, can we have the peas to shell?" and then
her reverie was broken.


[ILLUSTRATION: "Please, ma'am, can we have the peas to shell?"]


Whereupon Mrs. Dale got up and gave over her basket. "Cook knows that
the young ladies are going to dine at the Great House?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"She needn't mind getting dinner for me. I will have tea early." And
so, after all, Mrs. Dale did not perform that special duty appointed
for her.

But she soon set herself to work upon another duty. When a family
of three persons has to live upon an income of three hundred a year,
and, nevertheless, makes some pretence of going into society, it has
to be very mindful of small details, even though that family may
consist only of ladies. Of this Mrs. Dale was well aware, and as
it pleased her that her daughters should be nice and fresh, and
pretty in their attire, many a long hour was given up to that care.
The squire would send them shawls in winter, and had given them
riding habits, and had sent them down brown silk for dresses from
London,--so limited in quantity that the due manufacture of two
dresses out of the material had been found to be beyond the art of
woman, and the brown silk garments had been a difficulty from that
day to this,--the squire having a good memory in such matters, and
being anxious to see the fruits of his liberality. All this was
doubtless of assistance, but had the squire given the amount which
he so expended in money to his nieces, the benefit would have been
greater. As it was, the girls were always nice and fresh and pretty,
they themselves not being idle in that matter; but their tire-woman
in chief was their mother. And now she went up to their room and got
out their muslin frocks, and--but, perhaps, I should not tell such
tales!--She, however, felt no shame in her work, as she sent for a
hot iron, and with her own hands smoothed out the creases, and gave
the proper set to the crimp flounces, and fixed a new ribbon where
it was wanted, and saw that all was as it should be. Men think but
little how much of this kind is endured that their eyes may be
pleased, even though it be but for an hour.

"Oh! mamma, how good you are," said Bell, as the two girls came in,
only just in time to make themselves ready for returning to dinner.

"Mamma is always good," said Lily. "I wish, mamma, I could do the
same for you oftener," and then she kissed her mother. But the squire
was exact about dinner, so they dressed themselves in haste, and went
off again through the garden, their mother accompanying them to the
little bridge.

"Your uncle did not seem vexed at my not coming?" said Mrs. Dale.

"We have not seen him, mamma," said Lily. "We have been ever so far
down the fields, and forgot altogether what o'clock it was."

"I don't think uncle Christopher was about the place, or we should
have met him," said Bell.

"But I am vexed with you, mamma. Are not you, Bell? It is very bad of
you to stay here all alone, and not come."

"I suppose mamma likes being at home better than up at the Great
House," said Bell, very gently; and as she spoke she was holding her
mother's hand.

"Well; good-by, dears. I shall expect you between ten and eleven. But
don't hurry yourselves if anything is going on." And so they went,
and the widow was again alone. The path from the bridge ran straight
up towards the back of the Great House, so that for a moment or two
she could see them as they tripped on almost in a run. And then she
saw their dresses flutter as they turned sharp round, up the terrace
steps. She would not go beyond the nook among the laurels by which
she was surrounded, lest any one should see her as she looked after
her girls. But when the last flutter of the pink muslin had been
whisked away from her sight, she felt it hard that she might not
follow them. She stood there, however, without advancing a step. She
would not have Hopkins telling how she watched her daughters as they
went from her own home to that of her brother-in-law. It was not
within the capacity of Hopkins to understand why she watched them.

"Well, girls, you're not much too soon. I think your mother might
have come with you," said uncle Christopher. And this was the manner
of the man. Had he known his own wishes he must have acknowledged to
himself that he was better pleased that Mrs. Dale should stay away.
He felt himself more absolutely master and more comfortably at
home at his own table without her company than with it. And yet he
frequently made a grievance of her not coming, and himself believed
in that grievance.

"I think mamma was tired," said Bell.

"Hem. It's not so very far across from one house to the other. If I
were to shut myself up whenever I'm tired-- But never mind. Let's
go to dinner. Mr. Crosbie, will you take my niece Lilian." And then,
offering his own arm to Bell, he walked off to the dining-room.

"If he scolds mamma any more, I'll go away," said Lily to her
companion; by which it may be seen that they had all become very
intimate during the long day that they had passed together.

Mrs. Dale, after remaining for a moment on the bridge, went in to her
tea. What succedaneum of mutton chop or broiled ham she had for the
roast duck and green peas which were to have been provided for the
family dinner we will not particularly inquire. We may, however,
imagine that she did not devote herself to her evening repast with
any peculiar energy of appetite. She took a book with her as she sat
herself down,--some novel, probably, for Mrs. Dale was not above
novels,--and read a page or two as she sipped her tea. But the book
was soon laid on one side, and the tray on which the warm plate had
become cold was neglected, and she threw herself back in her own
familiar chair, thinking of herself, and of her girls, and thinking
also what might have been her lot in life had he lived who had loved
her truly during the few years that they had been together.

It is especially the nature of a Dale to be constant in his likings
and his dislikings. Her husband's affection for her had been
unswerving,--so much so that he had quarrelled with his brother
because his brother would not express himself in brotherly terms
about his wife; but, nevertheless, the two brothers had loved each
other always. Many years had now gone by since these things had
occurred, but still the same feelings remained. When she had first
come down to Allington she had resolved to win the squire's regard,
but she had now long known that any such winning was out of the
question; indeed, there was no longer a wish for it. Mrs. Dale was
not one of those soft-hearted women who sometimes thank God that
they can love any one. She could once have felt affection for her
brother-in-law,--affection, and close, careful, sisterly friendship;
but she could not do so now. He had been cold to her, and had with
perseverance rejected her advances. That was now seven years since;
and during those years Mrs. Dale had been, at any rate, as cold to
him as he had been to her.

But all this was very hard to bear. That her daughters should love
their uncle was not only reasonable, but in every way desirable. He
was not cold to them. To them he was generous and affectionate. If
she were only out of the way, he would have taken them to his house
as his own, and they would in all respects have stood before the
world as his adopted children. Would it not be better if she were out
of the way?

It was only in her most dismal moods that this question would get
itself asked within her mind, and then she would recover herself, and
answer it stoutly with an indignant protest against her own morbid
weakness. It would not be well that she should be away from her
girls,--not though their uncle should have been twice a better uncle;
not though, by her absence, they might become heiresses of all
Allington. Was it not above everything to them that they should
have a mother near them? And as she asked of herself that morbid
question,--wickedly asked it, as she declared to herself,--did she
not know that they loved her better than all the world beside, and
would prefer her caresses and her care to the guardianship of any
uncle, let his house be ever so great? As yet they loved her better
than all the world beside. Of other love, should it come, she would
not be jealous. And if it should come, and should be happy, might
there not yet be a bright evening of life for herself? If they should
marry, and if their lords would accept her love, her friendship, and
her homage, she might yet escape from the deathlike coldness of that
Great House, and be happy in some tiny cottage, from which she might
go forth at times among those who would really welcome her. A certain
doctor there was, living not very far from Allington, at Guestwick,
as to whom she had once thought that he might fill that place of
son-in-law,--to be well-beloved. Her quiet, beautiful Bell had seemed
to like the man; and he had certainly done more than seem to like
her. But now, for some weeks past, this hope, or rather this idea,
had faded away. Mrs. Dale had never questioned her daughter on the
matter; she was not a woman prone to put such questions. But during
the month or two last past, she had seen with regret that Bell looked
almost coldly on the man whom her mother favoured.

In thinking of all this the long evening passed away, and at eleven
o'clock she heard the coming steps across the garden. The young men
had, of course, accompanied the girls home; and as she stepped out
from the still open window of her own drawing-room, she saw them all
on the centre of the lawn before her.

"There's mamma," said Lily. "Mamma, Mr. Crosbie wants to play croquet
by moonlight."

"I don't think there is light enough for that," said Mrs. Dale.

"There is light enough for him," said Lily, "for he plays quite
independently of the hoops; don't you, Mr. Crosbie?"

"There's very pretty croquet light, I should say," said Mr. Crosbie,
looking up at the bright moon; "and then it is so stupid going to
bed."

"Yes, it is stupid going to bed," said Lily; "but people in the
country are stupid, you know. Billiards, that you can play all night
by gas, is much better, isn't it?"

"Your arrows fall terribly astray there, Miss Dale, for I never touch
a cue; you should talk to your cousin about billiards."

"Is Bernard a great billiard player?" asked Bell.

"Well, I do play now and again; about as well as Crosbie does
croquet. Come, Crosbie, we'll go home and smoke a cigar."

"Yes," said Lily; "and then, you know, we stupid people can go to
bed. Mamma, I wish you had a little smoking-room here for us. I don't
like being considered stupid." And then they parted,--the ladies
going into the house, and the two men returning across the lawn.

"Lily, my love," said Mrs. Dale, when they were all together in her
bedroom, "it seems to me that you are very hard upon Mr. Crosbie."

"She has been going on like that all the evening," said Bell.

"I'm sure we are very good friends," said Lily.

"Oh, very!" said Bell.

"Now, Bell, you're jealous; you know you are." And then, seeing that
her sister was in some slight degree vexed, she went up to her and
kissed her. "She shan't be called jealous; shall she, mamma?"

"I don't think she deserves it," said Mrs. Dale.

"Now, you don't mean to say that you think I meant anything," said
Lily. "As if I cared a buttercup about Mr. Crosbie."

"Or I either, Lily."

"Of course you don't. But I do care for him very much, mamma. He is
such a duck of an Apollo. I shall always call him Apollo; Phoebus
Apollo! And when I draw his picture he shall have a mallet in his
hand instead of a bow. Upon my word I am very much obliged to Bernard
for bringing him down here; and I do wish he was not going away the
day after to-morrow."

"The day after to-morrow!" said Mrs. Dale. "It was hardly worth
coming for two days."

"No, it wasn't,--disturbing us all in our quiet little ways just for
such a spell as that,--not giving one time even to count his rays."

"But he says he shall perhaps come again," said Bell.

"There is that hope for us," said Lily. "Uncle Christopher asked him
to come down when he gets his long leave of absence. This is only a
short sort of leave. He is better off than poor Johnny Eames. Johnny
Eames only has a month, but Mr. Crosbie has two months just whenever
he likes it; and seems to be pretty much his own master all the year
round besides."

"And uncle Christopher asked him to come down for the shooting in
September," said Bell.

"And though he didn't say he'd come I think he meant it," said Lily.
"There is that hope for us, mamma."

"Then you'll have to draw Apollo with a gun instead of a mallet."

"That is the worst of it, mamma. We shan't see much of him or of
Bernard either. They wouldn't let us go out into the woods as
beaters, would they?"

"You'd make too much noise to be of any use."

"Should I? I thought the beaters had to shout at the birds. I should
get very tired of shouting at birds, so I think I'll stay at home and
look after my clothes."

"I hope he will come, because uncle Christopher seems to like him so
much," said Bell.

"I wonder whether a certain gentleman at Guestwick will like his
coming," said Lily. And then, as soon as she had spoken the words,
she looked at her sister, and saw that she had grieved her.

"Lily, you let your tongue run too fast," said Mrs. Dale.

"I didn't mean anything, Bell," said Lily. "I beg your pardon."

"It doesn't signify," said Bell. "Only Lily says things without
thinking." And then that conversation came to an end, and nothing
more was said among them beyond what appertained to their toilet,
and a few last words at parting. But the two girls occupied the same
room, and when their own door was closed upon them, Bell did allude
to what had passed with some spirit.

"Lily, you promised me," she said, "that you would not say anything
more to me about Dr. Crofts."

"I know I did, and I was very wrong. I beg your pardon, Bell; and I
won't do it again,--not if I can help it."

"Not help it, Lily!"

"But I'm sure I don't know why I shouldn't speak of him,--only not in
the way of laughing at you. Of all the men I ever saw in my life I
like him best. And only that I love you better than I love myself I
could find it in my heart to grudge you his--"

"Lily, what did you promise just now?"

"Well; after to-night. And I don't know why you should turn against
him."

"I have never turned against him or for him."

"There's no turning about him. He'd give his left hand if you'd only
smile on him. Or his right either,--and that's what I should like to
see; so now you've heard it."

"You know you are talking nonsense."

"So I should like to see it. And so would mamma too, I'm sure; though
I never heard her say a word about him. In my mind he's the finest
fellow I ever saw. What's Mr. Apollo Crosbie to him? And now, as it
makes you unhappy, I'll never say another word about him."

As Bell wished her sister good-night with perhaps more than her usual
affection, it was evident that Lily's words and eager tone had in
some way pleased her, in spite of their opposition to the request
which she had made. And Lily was aware that it was so.




CHAPTER IV.

MRS. ROPER'S BOARDING-HOUSE.


[ILLUSTRATION: (untitled)]

I have said that John Eames had been petted by none but his mother,
but I would not have it supposed, on this account, that John Eames
had no friends. There is a class of young men who never get petted,
though they may not be the less esteemed, or perhaps loved. They do
not come forth to the world as Apollos, nor shine at all, keeping
what light they may have for inward purposes. Such young men are
often awkward, ungainly, and not yet formed in their gait; they
straggle with their limbs, and are shy; words do not come to them
with ease, when words are required, among any but their accustomed
associates. Social meetings are periods of penance to them, and any
appearance in public will unnerve them. They go much about alone,
and blush when women speak to them. In truth, they are not as yet
men, whatever the number may be of their years; and, as they are no
longer boys, the world has found for them the ungraceful name of
hobbledehoy.

Such observations, however, as I have been enabled to make on this
matter have led me to believe that the hobbledehoy is by no means
the least valuable species of the human race. When I compare the
hobbledehoy of one or two and twenty to some finished Apollo of
the same age, I regard the former as unripe fruit, and the latter
as fruit that is ripe. Then comes the question as to the two fruits.
Which is the better fruit, that which ripens early--which is,
perhaps, favoured with some little forcing apparatus, or which, at
least, is backed by the warmth of a southern wall; or that fruit of
slower growth, as to which nature works without assistance, on which
the sun operates in its own time,--or perhaps never operates if some
ungenial shade has been allowed to interpose itself? The world, no
doubt, is in favour of the forcing apparatus or of the southern wall.
The fruit comes certainly, and at an assured period. It is spotless,
speckless, and of a certain quality by no means despicable. The owner
has it when he wants it, and it serves its turn. But, nevertheless,
according to my thinking, the fullest flavour of the sun is given
to that other fruit,--is given in the sun's own good time, if so be
that no ungenial shade has interposed itself. I like the smack of the
natural growth, and like it, perhaps, the better because that which
has been obtained has been obtained without favour.

But the hobbledehoy, though he blushes when women address him, and
is uneasy even when he is near them, though he is not master of his
limbs in a ball-room, and is hardly master of his tongue at any
time, is the most eloquent of beings, and especially eloquent among
beautiful women. He enjoys all the triumphs of a Don Juan, without
any of Don Juan's heartlessness, and is able to conquer in all
encounters, through the force of his wit and the sweetness of his
voice. But this eloquence is heard only by his own inner ears, and
these triumphs are the triumphs of his imagination.

The true hobbledehoy is much alone, not being greatly given to social
intercourse even with other hobbledehoys--a trait in his character
which I think has hardly been sufficiently observed by the world at
large. He has probably become a hobbledehoy instead of an Apollo,
because circumstances have not afforded him much social intercourse;
and, therefore, he wanders about in solitude, taking long walks, in
which he dreams of those successes which are so far removed from his
powers of achievement. Out in the fields, with his stick in his hand,
he is very eloquent, cutting off the heads of the springing summer
weeds, as he practises his oratory with energy. And thus he feeds an
imagination for which those who know him give him but scanty credit,
and unconsciously prepares himself for that latter ripening, if only
the ungenial shade will some day cease to interpose itself.

Such hobbledehoys receive but little petting, unless it be from a
mother; and such a hobbledehoy was John Eames when he was sent away
from Guestwick to begin his life in the big room of a public office
in London. We may say that there was nothing of the young Apollo
about him. But yet he was not without friends--friends who wished him
well, and thought much of his welfare. And he had a younger sister
who loved him dearly, who had no idea that he was a hobbledehoy,
being somewhat of a hobbledehoya herself. Mrs. Eames, their mother,
was a widow, living in a small house in Guestwick, whose husband had
been throughout his whole life an intimate friend of our squire. He
had been a man of many misfortunes, having begun the world almost
with affluence, and having ended it in poverty. He had lived all his
days in Guestwick, having at one time occupied a large tract of land,
and lost much money in experimental farming; and late in life he had
taken a small house on the outskirts of the town, and there had died,
some two years previously to the commencement of this story. With
no other man had Mr. Dale lived on terms so intimate; and when Mr.
Eames died Mr. Dale acted as executor under his will, and as guardian
to his children. He had, moreover, obtained for John Eames that
situation under the Crown which he now held.

And Mrs. Eames had been and still was on very friendly terms with
Mrs. Dale. The squire had never taken quite kindly to Mrs. Eames,
whom her husband had not met till he was already past forty years
of age. But Mrs. Dale had made up by her kindness to the poor
forlorn woman for any lack of that cordiality which might have been
shown to her from the Great House. Mrs. Eames was a poor forlorn
woman--forlorn even during the time of her husband's life, but very
wobegone now in her widowhood. In matters of importance the squire
had been kind to her; arranging for her her little money affairs,
advising her about her house and income, also getting for her that
appointment for her son. But he snubbed her when he met her, and poor
Mrs. Eames held him in great awe. Mrs. Dale held her brother-in-law
in no awe, and sometimes gave to the widow from Guestwick advice
quite at variance to that given by the squire. In this way there
had grown up an intimacy between Bell and Lily and the young Eames,
and either of the girls was prepared to declare that Johnny Eames
was her own and well-loved friend. Nevertheless, they spoke of him
occasionally with some little dash of merriment--as is not unusual
with pretty girls who have hobbledehoys among their intimate friends,
and who are not themselves unaccustomed to the grace of an Apollo.

I may as well announce at once that John Eames, when he went up to
London, was absolutely and irretrievably in love with Lily Dale. He
had declared his passion in the most moving language a hundred times;
but he had declared it only to himself. He had written much poetry
about Lily, but he kept his lines safe under double lock and key.
When he gave the reins to his imagination, he flattered himself that
he might win not only her but the world at large also by his verses;
but he would have perished rather than exhibit them to human eye.
During the last ten weeks of his life at Guestwick, while he was
preparing for his career in London, he hung about Allington, walking
over frequently and then walking back again; but all in vain. During
these visits he would sit in Mrs. Dale's drawing-room, speaking but
little, and addressing himself usually to the mother; but on each
occasion, as he started on his long, hot walk, he resolved that he
would say something by which Lily might know of his love. When he
left for London that something had not been said.

He had not dreamed of asking her to be his wife. John Eames was about
to begin the world with eighty pounds a year, and an allowance of
twenty more from his mother's purse. He was well aware that with such
an income he could not establish himself as a married man in London,
and he also felt that the man who might be fortunate enough to win
Lily for his wife should be prepared to give her every soft luxury
that the world could afford. He knew well that he ought not to expect
any assurance of Lily's love; but, nevertheless, he thought it
possible that he might give her an assurance of his love. It would
probably be in vain. He had no real hope, unless when he was in
one of those poetic moods. He had acknowledged to himself, in some
indistinct way, that he was no more than a hobbledehoy, awkward,
silent, ungainly, with a face unfinished, as it were, or unripe. All
this he knew, and knew also that there were Apollos in the world who
would be only too ready to carry off Lily in their splendid cars. But
not the less did he make up his mind that having loved her once, it
behoved him, as a true man, to love her on to the end.

One little word he had said to her when they parted, but it had been
a word of friendship rather than of love. He had strayed out after
her on to the lawn, leaving Bell alone in the drawing-room. Perhaps
Lily had understood something of the boy's feeling, and had wished
to speak kindly to him at parting, or almost more than kindly. There
is a silent love which women recognize, and which in some silent way
they acknowledge,--giving gracious but silent thanks for the respect
which accompanies it.

"I have come to say good-by, Lily," said Johnny Eames, following the
girl down one of the paths.

"Good-by, John," said she, turning round. "You know how sorry we are
to lose you. But it's a great thing for you to be going up to
London."

"Well; yes. I suppose it is. I'd sooner remain here, though."

"What! stay here, doing nothing! I am sure you would not."

"Of course, I should like to do something. I mean--"

"You mean that it is painful to part with old friends; and I'm sure
that we all feel that at parting with you. But you'll have a holiday
sometimes, and then we shall see you."

"Yes; of course, I shall see you then. I think, Lily, I shall care
more about seeing you than anybody."

"Oh, no, John. There'll be your own mother and sister."

"Yes; there'll be mother and Mary, of course. But I will come over
here the very first day,--that is, if you'll care to see me?"

"We shall care to see you very much. You know that. And--dear John,
I do hope you'll be happy."

There was a tone in her voice as she spoke which almost upset him;
or, I should rather say, which almost put him up upon his legs and
made him speak; but its ultimate effect was less powerful. "Do you?"
said he, as he held her hand for a few happy seconds. "And I'm sure
I hope you'll always be happy. Good-by, Lily." Then he left her,
returning to the house, and she continued her walk, wandering down
among the trees in the shrubbery, and not showing herself for the
next half hour. How many girls have some such lover as that,--a lover
who says no more to them than Johnny Eames then said to Lily Dale,
who never says more than that? And yet when, in after years, they
count over the names of all who have loved them, the name of that
awkward youth is never forgotten.

That farewell had been spoken nearly two years since, and Lily Dale
was then seventeen. Since that time, John Eames had been home once,
and during his month's holiday had often visited Allington. But he
had never improved upon that occasion of which I have told. It had
seemed to him that Lily was colder to him than in old days, and he
had become, if anything, more shy in his ways with her. He was to
return to Guestwick again during this autumn; but, to tell honestly
the truth in the matter, Lily Dale did not think or care very
much for his coming. Girls of nineteen do not care for lovers of
one-and-twenty, unless it be when the fruit has had the advantage of
some forcing apparatus or southern wall.

John Eames's love was still as hot as ever, having been sustained on
poetry, and kept alive, perhaps, by some close confidence in the ears
of a brother clerk; but it is not to be supposed that during these
two years he had been a melancholy lover. It might, perhaps, have
been better for him had his disposition led him to that line of life.
Such, however, had not been the case. He had already abandoned the
flute on which he had learned to sound three sad notes before he left
Guestwick, and, after the fifth or sixth Sunday, he had relinquished
his solitary walks along the towing-path of the Regent's Park
Canal. To think of one's absent love is very sweet; but it becomes
monotonous after a mile or two of a towing-path, and the mind
will turn away to Aunt Sally, the Cremorne Gardens, and financial
questions. I doubt whether any girl would be satisfied with her
lover's mind if she knew the whole of it.

"I say, Caudle, I wonder whether a fellow could get into a club?"

This proposition was made, on one of those Sunday walks, by John
Eames to the friend of his bosom, a brother clerk, whose legitimate
name was Cradell, and who was therefore called Caudle by his friends.

"Get into a club? Fisher in our room belongs to a club."

"That's only a chess-club. I mean a regular club."

"One of the swell ones at the West End?" said Cradell, almost lost in
admiration at the ambition of his friend.

"I shouldn't want it to be particularly swell. If a man isn't a
swell, I don't see what he gets by going among those who are. But
it is so uncommon slow at Mother Roper's." Now Mrs. Roper was a
respectable lady, who kept a boarding-house in Burton Crescent,
and to whom Mrs. Eames had been strongly recommended when she was
desirous of finding a specially safe domicile for her son. For the
first year of his life in London John Eames had lived alone in
lodgings; but that had resulted in discomfort, solitude, and, alas!
in some amount of debt, which had come heavily on the poor widow.
Now, for the second year, some safer mode of life was necessary. She
had learned that Mrs. Cradell, the widow of a barrister, who had also
succeeded in getting her son into the Income-tax Office, had placed
him in charge of Mrs. Roper; and she, with many injunctions to that
motherly woman, submitted her own boy to the same custody.

"And about going to church?" Mrs. Eames had said to Mrs. Roper.

"I don't suppose I can look after that, ma'am," Mrs. Roper had
answered, conscientiously. "Young gentlemen choose mostly their own
churches."

"But they do go?" asked the mother, very anxious in her heart as to
this new life in which her boy was to be left to follow in so many
things the guidance of his own lights.

"They who have been brought up steady do so, mostly."

"He has been brought up steady, Mrs. Roper. He has, indeed. And you
won't give him a latch-key?"

"Well, they always do ask for it."

"But he won't insist, if you tell him that I had rather that he
shouldn't have one."

Mrs. Roper promised accordingly, and Johnny Eames was left under her
charge. He did ask for the latch-key, and Mrs. Roper answered as she
was bidden. But he asked again, having been sophisticated by the
philosophy of Cradell, and then Mrs. Roper handed him the key. She
was a woman who plumed herself on being as good as her word, not
understanding that any one could justly demand from her more than
that. She gave Johnny Eames the key, as doubtless she had intended
to do; for Mrs. Roper knew the world, and understood that young men
without latch-keys would not remain with her.

"I thought you didn't seem to find it so dull since Amelia came
home," said Cradell.

"Amelia! What's Amelia to me? I have told you everything, Cradell,
and yet you can talk to me about Amelia Roper!"

"Come now, Johnny--" He had always been called Johnny, and the name
had gone with him to his office. Even Amelia Roper had called him
Johnny on more than one occasion before this. "You were as sweet to
her the other night as though there were no such person as L. D. in
existence." John Eames turned away and shook his head. Nevertheless,
the words of his friend were grateful to him. The character of a Don
Juan was not unpleasant to his imagination, and he liked to think
that he might amuse Amelia Roper with a passing word, though his
heart was true to Lilian Dale. In truth, however, many more of the
passing words had been spoken by the fair Amelia than by him.

Mrs. Roper had been quite as good as her word when she told Mrs.
Eames that her household was composed of herself, of a son who was in
an attorney's office, of an ancient maiden cousin, named Miss Spruce,
who lodged with her, and of Mr. Cradell. The divine Amelia had not
then been living with her, and the nature of the statement which she
was making by no means compelled her to inform Mrs. Eames that the
young lady would probably return home in the following winter. A Mr.
and Mrs. Lupex had also joined the family lately, and Mrs. Roper's
house was now supposed to be full.

And it must be acknowledged that Johnny Eames had, in certain
unguarded moments, confided to Cradell the secret of a second weaker
passion for Amelia. "She is a fine girl,--a deuced fine girl!" Johnny
Eames had said, using a style of language which he had learned since
he left Guestwick and Allington. Mr. Cradell, also, was an admirer
of the fair sex; and, alas! that I should say so, Mrs. Lupex, at
the present moment, was the object of his admiration. Not that he
entertained the slightest idea of wronging Mr. Lupex,--a man who was
a scene-painter, and knew the world. Mr. Cradell admired Mrs. Lupex
as a connoisseur, not simply as a man. "By heavens! Johnny, what a
figure that woman has!" he said, one morning, as they were walking to
their office.

"Yes; she stands well on her pins."

"I should think she did. If I understand anything of form," said
Cradell, "that woman is nearly perfect. What a torso she has!"

From which expression, and from the fact that Mrs. Lupex depended
greatly upon her stays and crinoline for such figure as she succeeded
in displaying, it may, perhaps, be understood that Mr. Cradell did
not understand much about form.

"It seems to me that her nose isn't quite straight," said Johnny
Eames. Now, it undoubtedly was the fact that the nose on Mrs. Lupex's
face was a little awry. It was a long, thin nose, which, as it
progressed forward into the air, certainly had a preponderating bias
towards the left side.

"I care more for figure than face," said Cradell. "But Mrs. Lupex has
fine eyes--very fine eyes."

"And knows how to use them, too," said Johnny.

"Why shouldn't she? And then she has lovely hair."

"Only she never brushes it in the morning."

"Do you know, I like that kind of deshabille," said Cradell. "Too
much care always betrays itself."

"But a woman should be tidy."

"What a word to apply to such a creature as Mrs. Lupex! I call her
a splendid woman. And how well she was got up last night. Do you
know, I've an idea that Lupex treats her very badly. She said a word
or two to me yesterday that--," and then he paused. There are some
confidences which a man does not share even with his dearest friend.

"I rather fancy it's quite the other way," said Eames.

"How the other way?"

"That Lupex has quite as much as he likes of Mrs. L. The sound of her
voice sometimes makes me shake in my shoes, I know."

"I like a woman with spirit," said Cradell.

"Oh, so do I. But one may have too much of a good thing. Amelia did
tell me;--only you won't mention it."

"Of course, I won't."

"She told me that Lupex sometimes was obliged to run away from her.
He goes down to the theatre, and remains there two or three days at a
time. Then she goes to fetch him, and there is no end of a row in the
house."

"The fact is, he drinks," said Cradell. "By George, I pity a woman
whose husband drinks--and such a woman as that, too!"

"Take care, old fellow, or you'll find yourself in a scrape."

"I know what I'm at. Lord bless you, I'm not going to lose my head
because I see a fine woman."

"Or your heart either?"

"Oh, heart! There's nothing of that kind of thing about me. I regard
a woman as a picture or a statue. I dare say I shall marry some day,
because men do; but I've no idea of losing myself about a woman."

"I'd lose myself ten times over for--"

"L. D.," said Cradell.

"That I would. And yet I know I shall never have her. I'm a jolly,
laughing sort of fellow; and yet, do you know, Caudle, when that girl
marries, it will be all up with me. It will, indeed."

"Do you mean that you'll cut your throat?"

"No; I shan't do that. I shan't do anything of that sort; and yet it
will be all up with me."

"You are going down there in October;--why don't you ask her to have
you?"

"With ninety pounds a year!" His grateful country had twice increased
his salary at the rate of five pounds each year. "With ninety pounds
a year, and twenty allowed me by my mother!"

"She could wait, I suppose. I should ask her, and no mistake. If one
is to love a girl, it's no good one going on in that way!"

"It isn't much good, certainly," said Johnny Eames. And then they
reached the door of the Income-tax Office, and each went away to his
own desk.

From this little dialogue, it may be imagined that though Mrs. Roper
was as good as her word, she was not exactly the woman whom Mrs.
Eames would have wished to select as a protecting angel for her son.
But the truth I take to be this, that protecting angels for widows'
sons, at forty-eight pounds a year, paid quarterly, are not to be
found very readily in London. Mrs. Roper was not worse than others of
her class. She would much have preferred lodgers who were respectable
to those who were not so,--if she could only have found respectable
lodgers as she wanted them. Mr. and Mrs. Lupex hardly came under that
denomination; and when she gave them up her big front bedroom at a
hundred a year, she knew she was doing wrong. And she was troubled,
too, about her own daughter Amelia, who was already over thirty years
of age. Amelia was a very clever young woman, who had been, if the
truth must be told, first young lady at a millinery establishment in
Manchester. Mrs. Roper knew that Mrs. Eames and Mrs. Cradell would
not wish their sons to associate with her daughter. But what could
she do? She could not refuse the shelter of her own house to her own
child, and yet her heart misgave her when she saw Amelia flirting
with young Eames.

"I wish, Amelia, you wouldn't have so much to say to that young man."

"Laws, mother."

"So I do. If you go on like that, you'll put me out of both my
lodgers."

"Go on like what, mother? If a gentleman speaks to me, I suppose I'm
to answer him? I know how to behave myself, I believe." And then she
gave her head a toss. Whereupon her mother was silent; for her mother
was afraid of her.




CHAPTER V.

ABOUT L. D.


Apollo Crosbie left London for Allington on the 31st of August,
intending to stay there four weeks, with the declared intention of
recruiting his strength by an absence of two months from official
cares, and with no fixed purpose as to his destiny for the last of
those two months. Offers of hospitality had been made to him by the
dozen. Lady Hartletop's doors, in Shropshire, were open to him, if he
chose to enter them. He had been invited by the Countess De Courcy to
join her suite at Courcy Castle. His special friend Montgomerie Dobbs
had a place in Scotland, and then there was a yachting party by which
he was much wanted. But Mr. Crosbie had as yet knocked himself down
to none of these biddings, having before him when he left London no
other fixed engagement than that which took him to Allington. On the
first of October we shall also find ourselves at Allington in company
with Johnny Eames; and Apollo Crosbie will still be there,--by no
means to the comfort of our friend from the Income-tax Office.

Johnny Eames cannot be called unlucky in that matter of his annual
holiday, seeing that he was allowed to leave London in October, a
month during which few chose to own that they remain in town. For
myself, I always regard May as the best month for holiday-making; but
then no Londoner cares to be absent in May. Young Eames, though he
lived in Burton Crescent and had as yet no connection with the West
End, had already learned his lesson in this respect. "Those fellows
in the big room want me to take May," he had said to his friend
Cradell. "They must think I'm uncommon green."

"It's too bad," said Cradell. "A man shouldn't be asked to take his
leave in May. I never did, and what's more, I never will. I'd go to
the Board first."

Eames had escaped this evil without going to the Board, and had
succeeded in obtaining for himself for his own holiday that month of
October, which, of all months, is perhaps the most highly esteemed
for holiday purposes. "I shall go down by the mail-train to-morrow
night," he said to Amelia Roper, on the evening before his departure.
At that moment he was sitting alone with Amelia in Mrs. Roper's back
drawing-room. In the front room Cradell was talking to Mrs. Lupex;
but as Miss Spruce was with them, it may be presumed that Mr. Lupex
need have had no cause for jealousy.

"Yes," said Amelia; "I know how great is your haste to get down to
that fascinating spot. I could not expect that you would lose one
single hour in hurrying away from Burton Crescent."

Amelia Roper was a tall, well-grown young woman, with dark hair and
dark eyes;--not handsome, for her nose was thick, and the lower part
of her face was heavy, but yet not without some feminine attractions.
Her eyes were bright; but then, also, they were mischievous. She
could talk fluently enough; but then, also, she could scold. She
could assume sometimes the plumage of a dove; but then again she
could occasionally ruffle her feathers like an angry kite. I am quite
prepared to acknowledge that John Eames should have kept himself
clear of Amelia Roper; but then young men so frequently do those
things which they should not do!

"After twelve months up here in London one is glad to get away to
one's own friends," said Johnny.

"Your own friends, Mr. Eames! What sort of friends? Do you suppose I
don't know?"

"Well, no. I don't think you do know."

"L. D.!" said Amelia, showing that Lily had been spoken of among
people who should never have been allowed to hear her name. But
perhaps, after all, no more than those two initials were known in
Burton Crescent. From the tone which was now used in naming them,
it was sufficiently manifest that Amelia considered herself to be
wronged by their very existence.

"L. S. D.," said Johnny, attempting the line of a witty, gay young
spendthrift. "That's my love--pounds, shillings, and pence; and a
very coy mistress she is."

"Nonsense, sir. Don't talk to me in that way. As if I didn't know
where your heart was. What right had you to speak to me if you had an
L. D. down in the country?"

It should be here declared on behalf of poor John Eames that he had
not ever spoken to Amelia--he had not spoken to her in any such
phrase as her words seemed to imply. But then he had written to her
a fatal note of which we will speak further before long, and that
perhaps was quite as bad,--or worse.

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Johnny. But the laugh was assumed, and not
assumed with ease.

"Yes, sir; it's a laughing matter to you, I dare say. It is very easy
for a man to laugh under such circumstances;--that is to say, if he
is perfectly heartless,--if he's got a stone inside his bosom instead
of flesh and blood. Some men are made of stone, I know, and are
troubled with no feelings."

"What is it you want me to say? You pretend to know all about it, and
it wouldn't be civil in me to contradict you."

"What is it I want? You know very well what I want; or rather, I
don't want anything. What is it to me? It is nothing to me about L.
D. You can go down to Allington and do what you like for me. Only
I hate such ways."

"What ways, Amelia?"

"What ways! Now, look here, Johnny: I'm not going to make a fool of
myself for any man. When I came home here three months ago--and I
wish I never had;"--she paused here a moment, waiting for a word of
tenderness; but as the word of tenderness did not come, she went
on--"but when I did come home, I didn't think there was a man in all
London could make me care for him,--that I didn't. And now you're
going away, without so much as hardly saying a word to me." And then
she brought out her handkerchief.

"What am I to say, when you keep on scolding me all the time?"

"Scolding you!--And me too! No, Johnny, I ain't scolding you, and
don't mean to. If it's to be all over between us, say the word, and
I'll take myself away out of the house before you come back again.
I've had no secrets from you. I can go back to my business in
Manchester, though it is beneath my birth, and not what I've been
used to. If L. D. is more to you than I am, I won't stand in your
way. Only say the word."

L. D. was more to him than Amelia Roper,--ten times more to him. L.
D. would have been everything to him, and Amelia Roper was worse
than nothing. He felt all this at the moment, and struggled hard to
collect an amount of courage that would make him free.

"Say the word," said she, rising on her feet before him, "and all
between you and me shall be over. I have got your promise, but I'd
scorn to take advantage. If Amelia hasn't got your heart, she'd
despise to take your hand. Only I must have an answer."

It would seem that an easy way of escape was offered to him; but the
lady probably knew that the way as offered by her was not easy to
such an one as John Eames.

"Amelia," he said, still keeping his seat.

"Well, sir?"

"You know I love you."

"And about L. D.?"

"If you choose to believe all the nonsense that Cradell puts into
your head, I can't help it. If you like to make yourself jealous
about two letters, it isn't my fault."

"And you love me?" said she.


[ILLUSTRATION: "And you love me?" said she.]


"Of course I love you." And then, upon hearing these words, Amelia
threw herself into his arms.

As the folding doors between the two rooms were not closed, and as
Miss Spruce was sitting in her easy chair immediately opposite to
them, it was probable that she saw what passed. But Miss Spruce was
a taciturn old lady, not easily excited to any show of surprise or
admiration; and as she had lived with Mrs. Roper for the last twelve
years, she was probably well acquainted with her daughter's ways.

"You'll be true to me?" said Amelia, during the moment of that
embrace--"true to me for ever?"

"Oh, yes; that's a matter of course," said Johnny Eames. And then she
liberated him; and the two strolled into the front sitting-room.

"I declare, Mr. Eames," said Mrs. Lupex, "I'm glad you've come.
Here's Mr. Cradell does say such queer things."

"Queer things!" said Cradell. "Now, Miss Spruce, I appeal to
you--Have I said any queer things?"

"If you did, sir, I didn't notice them," said Miss Spruce.

"I noticed them, then," said Mrs. Lupex. "An unmarried man like Mr.
Cradell has no business to know whether a married lady wears a cap or
her own hair--has he, Mr. Eames?"

"I don't think I ever know," said Johnny, not intending any sarcasm
on Mrs. Lupex.

"I dare say not, sir," said the lady. "We all know where your
attention is riveted. If you were to wear a cap, my dear, somebody
would see the difference very soon--wouldn't they, Miss Spruce?"

"I dare say they would," said Miss Spruce.

"If I could look as nice in a cap as you do, Mrs. Lupex, I'd wear one
to-morrow," said Amelia, who did not wish to quarrel with the married
lady at the present moment. There were occasions, however, on which
Mrs. Lupex and Miss Roper were by no means so gracious to each other.

"Does Lupex like caps?" asked Cradell.

"If I wore a plumed helmet on my head, it's my belief he wouldn't
know the difference; nor yet if I had got no head at all. That's
what comes of getting married. If you'll take my advice, Miss Roper,
you'll stay as you are; even though somebody should break his heart
about it. Wouldn't you, Miss Spruce?"

"Oh, as for me, I'm an old woman, you know," said Miss Spruce, which
was certainly true.

"I don't see what any woman gets by marrying," continued Mrs. Lupex.
"But a man gains everything. He don't know how to live, unless he's
got a woman to help him."

"But is love to go for nothing?" said Cradell.

"Oh, love! I don't believe in love. I suppose I thought I loved once,
but what did it come to after all? Now, there's Mr. Eames--we all
know he's in love."

"It comes natural to me, Mrs. Lupex. I was born so," said Johnny.

"And there's Miss Roper--one never ought to speak free about a lady,
but perhaps she's in love too."

"Speak for yourself, Mrs. Lupex," said Amelia.

"There's no harm in saying that, is there? I'm sure, if you ain't,
you're very hard-hearted; for, if ever there was a true lover, I
believe you've got one of your own. My!--if there's not Lupex's step
on the stair! What can bring him home at this hour? If he's been
drinking, he'll come home as cross as anything." Then Mr. Lupex
entered the room, and the pleasantness of the party was destroyed.

It may be said that neither Mrs. Cradell nor Mrs. Eames would have
placed their sons in Burton Crescent if they had known the dangers
into which the young men would fall. Each, it must be acknowledged,
was imprudent; but each clearly saw the imprudence of the other. Not
a week before this, Cradell had seriously warned his friend against
the arts of Miss Roper. "By George, Johnny, you'll get yourself
entangled with that girl."

"One always has to go through that sort of thing," said Johnny.

"Yes; but those who go through too much of it never get out again.
Where would you be if she got a written promise of marriage from
you?"

Poor Johnny did not answer this immediately, for in very truth Amelia
Roper had such a document in her possession.

"Where should I be?" said he. "Among the breaches of promise, I
suppose."

"Either that, or else among the victims of matrimony. My belief of
you is, that if you gave such a promise, you'd carry it out."

"Perhaps I should," said Johnny; "but I don't know. It's a matter of
doubt what a man ought to do in such a case."

"But there's been nothing of that kind yet?"

"Oh dear, no!"

"If I was you, Johnny, I'd keep away from her. It's very good fun, of
course, that sort of thing; but it is so uncommon dangerous! Where
would you be now with such a girl as that for your wife?"

Such had been the caution given by Cradell to his friend. And now,
just as he was starting for Allington, Eames returned the compliment.
They had gone together to the Great Western station at Paddington,
and Johnny tendered his advice as they were walking together up and
down the platform.

"I say, Caudle, old boy, you'll find yourself in trouble with that
Mrs. Lupex, if you don't take care of yourself."

"But I shall take care of myself. There's nothing so safe as a little
nonsense with a married woman. Of course, it means nothing, you know,
between her and me."

"I don't suppose it does mean anything. But she's always talking
about Lupex being jealous; and if he was to cut up rough, you
wouldn't find it pleasant."

Cradell, however, seemed to think that there was no danger. His
little affair with Mrs. Lupex was quite platonic and safe. As for
doing any real harm, his principles, as he assured his friend, were
too high. Mrs. Lupex was a woman of talent, whom no one seemed to
understand, and, therefore, he had taken some pleasure in studying
her character. It was merely a study of character, and nothing more.
Then the friends parted, and Eames was carried away by the night
mail-train down to Guestwick.

How his mother was up to receive him at four o'clock in the morning,
how her maternal heart was rejoicing at seeing the improvement in
his gait, and the manliness of appearance imparted to him by his
whiskers, I need not describe at length. Many of the attributes of
a hobbledehoy had fallen from him, and even Lily Dale might now
probably acknowledge that he was no longer a boy. All which might be
regarded as good, if only in putting off childish things he had taken
up things which were better than childish.

On the very first day of his arrival he made his way over to
Allington. He did not walk on this occasion as he had used to do in
the old happy days. He had an idea that it might not be well for him
to go into Mrs. Dale's drawing-room with the dust of the road on his
boots, and the heat of the day on his brow. So he borrowed a horse
and rode over, taking some pride in a pair of spurs which he had
bought in Piccadilly, and in his kid gloves, which were brought out
new for the occasion. Alas, alas! I fear that those two years in
London have not improved John Eames; and yet I have to acknowledge
that John Eames is one of the heroes of my story.

On entering Mrs. Dale's drawing-room he found Mrs. Dale and her
eldest daughter. Lily at the moment was not there, and as he shook
hands with the other two, of course, he asked for her.

"She is only in the garden," said Bell. "She will be here directly."

"She has walked across to the Great House with Mr. Crosbie," said
Mrs. Dale; "but she is not going to remain. She will be so glad to
see you, John! We all expected you to-day."

"Did you?" said Johnny, whose heart had been plunged into cold water
at the mention of Mr. Crosbie's name. He had been thinking of Lilian
Dale ever since his friend had left him on the railway platform; and,
as I beg to assure all ladies who may read my tale, the truth of his
love for Lily had moulted no feather through that unholy liaison
between him and Miss Roper. I fear that I shall be disbelieved in
this; but it was so. His heart was and ever had been true to Lilian,
although he had allowed himself to be talked into declarations of
affection by such a creature as Amelia Roper. He had been thinking
of his meeting with Lily all the night and throughout the morning,
and now he heard that she was walking alone about the gardens with
a strange gentleman. That Mr. Crosbie was very grand and very
fashionable he had heard, but he knew no more of him. Why should Mr.
Crosbie be allowed to walk with Lily Dale? And why should Mrs. Dale
mention the circumstance as though it were quite a thing of course?
Such mystery as there was in this was solved very quickly.

"I'm sure Lily won't object to my telling such a dear friend as you
what has happened," said Mrs. Dale. "She is engaged to be married to
Mr. Crosbie."

The water into which Johnny's heart had been plunged now closed over
his head and left him speechless. Lily Dale was engaged to be married
to Mr. Crosbie! He knew that he should have spoken when he heard the
tidings. He knew that the moments of silence as they passed by told
his secret to the two women before him,--that secret which it would
now behove him to conceal from all the world. But yet he could not
speak.

"We are all very well pleased at the match," said Mrs. Dale, wishing
to spare him.

"Nothing can be nicer than Mr. Crosbie," said Bell. "We have often
talked about you, and he will be so happy to know you."

"He won't know much about me," said Johnny; and even in speaking
these few senseless words--words which he uttered because it was
necessary that he should say something--the tone of his voice was
altered. He would have given the world to have been master of himself
at this moment, but he felt that he was utterly vanquished.

"There is Lily coming across the lawn," said Mrs. Dale.

"Then I'd better go," said Eames. "Don't say anything about it; pray
don't." And then, without waiting for another word, he escaped out of
the drawing-room.




CHAPTER VI.

BEAUTIFUL DAYS.


I am well aware that I have not as yet given any description of Bell
and Lilian Dale, and equally well aware that the longer the doing
so is postponed the greater the difficulty becomes. I wish it could
be understood without any description that they were two pretty,
fair-haired girls, of whom Bell was the tallest and the prettiest,
whereas Lily was almost as pretty as her sister, and perhaps was more
attractive.

They were fair-haired girls, very like each other, of whom I have
before my mind's eye a distinct portrait, which I fear I shall not be
able to draw in any such manner as will make it distinct to others.
They were something below the usual height, being slight and slender
in all their proportions. Lily was the shorter of the two, but the
difference was so trifling that it was hardly remembered unless the
two were together. And when I said that Bell was the prettier, I
should, perhaps, have spoken more justly had I simply declared that
her features were more regular than her sister's. The two girls
were very fair, so that the soft tint of colour which relieved the
whiteness of their complexion was rather acknowledged than distinctly
seen. It was there, telling its own tale of health, as its absence
would have told a tale of present or coming sickness; and yet nobody
could ever talk about the colour in their cheeks. The hair of the two
girls was so alike in hue and texture, that no one, not even their
mother, could say that there was a difference. It was not flaxen
hair, and yet it was very light. Nor did it approach to auburn;
and yet there ran through it a golden tint that gave it a distinct
brightness of its own. But with Bell it was more plentiful than
with Lily, and therefore Lily would always talk of her own scanty
locks, and tell how beautiful were those belonging to her sister.
Nevertheless Lily's head was quite as lovely as her sister's; for its
form was perfect, and the simple braids in which they both wore their
hair did not require any great exuberance in quantity. Their eyes
were brightly blue; but Bell's were long, and soft, and tender,
often hardly daring to raise themselves to your face; while those
of Lily were rounder, but brighter, and seldom kept by any want of
courage from fixing themselves where they pleased. And Lily's face
was perhaps less oval in its form--less perfectly oval--than her
sister's. The shape of the forehead was, I think, the same, but with
Bell the chin was something more slender and delicate. But Bell's
chin was unmarked, whereas on her sister's there was a dimple which
amply compensated for any other deficiency in its beauty. Bell's
teeth were more even than her sister's; but then she showed her teeth
more frequently. Her lips were thinner and, as I cannot but think,
less expressive. Her nose was decidedly more regular in its beauty,
for Lily's nose was somewhat broader than it should have been. It
may, therefore, be understood that Bell would be considered the
beauty by the family.

But there was, perhaps, more in the general impression made by
these girls, and in the whole tone of their appearance, than in the
absolute loveliness of their features or the grace of their figures.
There was about them a dignity of demeanour devoid of all stiffness
or pride, and a maidenly modesty which gave itself no airs. In them
was always apparent that sense of security which women should receive
from an unconscious dependence on their own mingled purity and
weakness. These two girls were never afraid of men,--never looked as
though they were so afraid. And I may say that they had little cause
for that kind of fear to which I allude. It might be the lot of
either of them to be ill-used by a man, but it was hardly possible
that either of them should ever be insulted by one. Lily, as may,
perhaps, have been already seen, could be full of play, but in her
play she never so carried herself that any one could forget what was
due to her.

And now Lily Dale was engaged to be married, and the days of her
playfulness were over. It sounds sad, this sentence against her, but
I fear that it must be regarded as true. And when I think that it
is true,--when I see that the sportiveness and kitten-like gambols
of girlhood should be over, and generally are over, when a girl
has given her troth, it becomes a matter of regret to me that the
feminine world should be in such a hurry after matrimony. I have,
however, no remedy to offer for the evil; and, indeed, am aware that
the evil, if there be an evil, is not well expressed in the words I
have used. The hurry is not for matrimony, but for love. Then, the
love once attained, matrimony seizes it for its own, and the evil is
accomplished.

And Lily Dale was engaged to be married to Adolphus Crosbie,--to
Apollo Crosbie, as she still called him, confiding her little joke
to his own ears. And to her he was an Apollo, as a man who is loved
should be to the girl who loves him. He was handsome, graceful,
clever, self-confident, and always cheerful when she asked him to be
cheerful. But he had also his more serious moments, and could talk
to her of serious matters. He would read to her, and explain to her
things which had hitherto been too hard for her young intelligence.
His voice, too, was pleasant, and well under command. It could be
pathetic if pathos were required, or ring with laughter as merry as
her own. Was not such a man fit to be an Apollo to such a girl, when
once the girl had acknowledged to herself that she loved him?

She had acknowledged it to herself, and had acknowledged it to
him,--as the reader will perhaps say without much delay. But the
courtship had so been carried on that no delay had been needed. All
the world had smiled upon it. When Mr. Crosbie had first come among
them at Allington, as Bernard's guest, during those few days of his
early visit, it had seemed as though Bell had been chiefly noticed
by him. And Bell in her own quiet way had accepted his admiration,
saying nothing of it and thinking but very little. Lily was
heart-free at the time, and had ever been so. No first shadow from
Love's wing had as yet been thrown across the pure tablets of her
bosom. With Bell it was not so,--not so in absolute strictness.
Bell's story, too, must be told, but not on this page. But before
Crosbie had come among them, it was a thing fixed in her mind that
such love as she had felt must be overcome and annihilated. We may
say that it had been overcome and annihilated, and that she would
have sinned in no way had she listened to vows from this new Apollo.
It is almost sad to think that such a man might have had the love of
either of such girls, but I fear that I must acknowledge that it was
so. Apollo, in the plenitude of his power, soon changed his mind;
and before the end of his first visit, had transferred the distant
homage which he was then paying from the elder to the younger sister.
He afterwards returned, as the squire's guest, for a longer sojourn
among them, and at the end of the first month had already been
accepted as Lily's future husband.

It was beautiful to see how Bell changed in her mood towards Crosbie
and towards her sister as soon as she perceived how the affair was
going. She was not long in perceiving it, having caught the first
glimpses of the idea on that evening when they both dined at the
Great House, leaving their mother alone to eat or to neglect the
peas. For some six or seven weeks Crosbie had been gone, and during
that time Bell had been much more open in speaking of him than her
sister. She had been present when Crosbie had bid them good-by, and
had listened to his eagerness as he declared to Lily that he should
soon be back again at Allington. Lily had taken this very quietly,
as though it had not belonged at all to herself; but Bell had seen
something of the truth, and, believing in Crosbie as an earnest,
honest man, had spoken kind words of him, fostering any little
aptitude for love which might already have formed itself in Lily's
bosom.

"But he is such an Apollo, you know," Lily had said.

"He is a gentleman; I can see that."

"Oh, yes; a man can't be an Apollo unless he's a gentleman."

"And he's very clever."

"I suppose he is clever." There was nothing more said about his being
a mere clerk. Indeed, Lily had changed her mind on that subject.
Johnny Eames was a mere clerk; whereas Crosbie, if he was to be
called a clerk at all, was a clerk of some very special denomination.
There may be a great difference between one clerk and another! A
Clerk of the Council and a parish clerk are very different persons.
Lily had got some such idea as this into her head as she attempted
in her own mind to rescue Mr. Crosbie from the lower orders of the
Government service.

"I wish he were not coming," Mrs. Dale had said to her eldest
daughter.

"I think you are wrong, mamma."

"But if she should become fond of him, and then--"

"Lily will never become really fond of any man till he shall have
given her proper reason. And if he admires her, why should they not
come together?"

"But she is so young, Bell."

"She is nineteen; and if they were engaged, perhaps, they might wait
for a year or so. But it's no good talking in that way, mamma. If you
were to tell Lily not to give him encouragement, she would not speak
to him."

"I should not think of interfering."

"No, mamma; and therefore it must take its course. For myself, I like
Mr. Crosbie very much."

"So do I, my dear."

"And so does my uncle. I wouldn't have Lily take a lover of my
uncle's choosing."

"I should hope not."

"But it must be considered a good thing if she happens to choose one
of his liking."

In this way the matter had been talked over between the mother and
her elder daughter. Then Mr. Crosbie had come; and before the end
of the first month his declared admiration for Lily had proved
the correctness of her sister's foresight. And during that short
courtship all had gone well with the lovers. The squire from the
first had declared himself satisfied with the match, informing Mrs.
Dale, in his cold manner, that Mr. Crosbie was a gentleman with an
income sufficient for matrimony.

"It would be close enough in London," Mrs. Dale had said.

"He has more than my brother had when he married," said the squire.

"If he will only make her as happy as your brother made me,--while
it lasted!" said Mrs. Dale, as she turned away her face to conceal a
tear that was coming. And then there was nothing more said about it
between the squire and his sister-in-law. The squire spoke no word as
to assistance in money matters,--did not even suggest that he would
lend a hand to the young people at starting, as an uncle in such a
position might surely have done. It may well be conceived that Mrs.
Dale herself said nothing on the subject. And, indeed, it may be
conceived, also, that the squire, let his intentions be what they
might, would not divulge them to Mrs. Dale. This was uncomfortable,
but the position was one that was well understood between them.

Bernard Dale was still at Allington, and had remained there through
the period of Crosbie's absence. Whatever words Mrs. Dale might
choose to speak on the matter would probably be spoken to him; but,
then, Bernard could be quite as close as his uncle. When Crosbie
returned, he and Bernard had, of course, lived much together; and, as
was natural, there came to be close discussion between them as to the
two girls, when Crosbie allowed it to be understood that his liking
for Lily was becoming strong.

"You know, I suppose, that my uncle wishes me to marry the elder
one," Bernard had said.

"I have guessed as much."

"And I suppose the match will come off. She's a pretty girl, and as
good as gold."

"Yes, she is."

"I don't pretend to be very much in love with her. It's not my way,
you know. But, some of these days, I shall ask her to have me, and
I suppose it'll all go right. The governor has distinctly promised
to allow me eight hundred a year off the estate, and to take us in
for three months every year if we wish it. I told him simply that I
couldn't do it for less, and he agreed with me."

"You and he get on very well together."

"Oh, yes! There's never been any fal-lal between us about love, and
duty, and all that. I think we understand each other, and that's
everything. He knows the comfort of standing well with the heir,
and I know the comfort of standing well with the owner." It must be
admitted, I think, that there was a great deal of sound, common sense
about Bernard Dale.

"What will he do for the younger sister?" asked Crosbie; and, as he
asked the important question, a close observer might have perceived
that there was some slight tremor in his voice.

"Ah! that's more than I can tell you. If I were you, I should ask
him. The governor is a plain man, and likes plain business."

"I suppose you couldn't ask him?"

"No; I don't think I could. It is my belief that he will not let her
go by any means empty-handed."

"Well, I should suppose not."

"But remember this, Crosbie,--I can say nothing to you on which you
are to depend. Lily, also, is as good as gold; and, as you seem to
be fond of her, I should ask the governor, if I were you, in so many
words, what he intends to do. Of course, it's against my interest,
for every shilling he gives Lily will ultimately come out of my
pocket. But I'm not the man to care about that, as you know."

What might be Crosbie's knowledge on this subject we will not here
inquire; but we may say that it would have mattered very little to
him out of whose pocket the money came, so long as it went into his
own. When he felt quite sure of Lily,--having, in fact, received
Lily's permission to speak to her uncle, and Lily's promise that she
would herself speak to her mother,--he did tell the squire what was
his intention. This he did in an open, manly way, as though he felt
that in asking for much he also offered to give much.

"I have nothing to say against it," said the squire.

"And I have your permission to consider myself as engaged to her?"

"If you have hers and her mother's. Of course you are aware that I
have no authority over her."

"She would not marry without your sanction."

"She is very good to think so much of her uncle," said the squire;
and his words as he spoke them sounded very cold in Crosbie's ears.
After that Crosbie said nothing about money, having to confess to
himself that he was afraid to do so. "And what would be the use?"
said he to himself, wishing to make excuses for what he felt to be
weak in his own conduct. "If he should refuse to give her a shilling
I could not go back from it now." And then some ideas ran across his
mind as to the injustice to which men are subjected in this matter of
matrimony. A man has to declare himself before it is fitting that he
should make any inquiry about a lady's money; and then, when he has
declared himself, any such inquiry is unavailing. Which consideration
somewhat cooled the ardour of his happiness. Lily Dale was very
pretty, very nice, very refreshing in her innocence, her purity,
and her quick intelligence. No amusement could be more deliciously
amusing than that of making love to Lily Dale. Her way of flattering
her lover without any intention of flattery on her part, had put
Crosbie into a seventh heaven. In all his experience he had known
nothing like it. "You may be sure of this," she had said,--"I
shall love you with all my heart and all my strength." It was very
nice;--but then what were they to live upon? Could it be that he,
Adolphus Crosbie, should settle down on the north side of the New
Road, as a married man, with eight hundred a year? If indeed the
squire would be as good to Lily as he had promised to be to Bell,
then indeed things might be made to arrange themselves.

But there was no such drawback on Lily's happiness. Her ideas about
money were rather vague, but they were very honest. She knew she had
none of her own, but supposed it was a husband's duty to find what
would be needful. She knew she had none of her own, and was therefore
aware that she ought not to expect luxuries in the little household
that was to be prepared for her. She hoped, for his sake, that her
uncle might give some assistance, but was quite prepared to prove
that she could be a good poor man's wife. In the old colloquies on
such matters between her and her sister, she had always declared that
some decent income should be considered as indispensable before love
could be entertained. But eight hundred a year had been considered
as doing much more than fulfilling this stipulation. Bell had had
high-flown notions as to the absolute glory of poverty. She had
declared that income should not be considered at all. If she had
loved a man, she could allow herself to be engaged to him, even
though he had no income. Such had been their theories; and as
regarded money, Lily was quite contented with the way in which she
had carried out her own.

In these beautiful days there was nothing to check her happiness. Her
mother and sister united in telling her that she had done well,--that
she was happy in her choice, and justified in her love. On that first
day, when she told her mother all, she had been made exquisitely
blissful by the way in which her tidings had been received.

"Oh! mamma, I must tell you something," she said, coming up to her
mother's bedroom, after a long ramble with Mr. Crosbie through those
Allington fields.

"Is it about Mr. Crosbie?"

"Yes, mamma." And then the rest had been said through the medium of
warm embraces and happy tears rather than by words.

As she sat in her mother's room, hiding her face on her mother's
shoulders, Bell had come, and had knelt at her feet.

"Dear Lily," she had said, "I am so glad." And then Lily remembered
how she had, as it were, stolen her lover from her sister, and she
put her arms round Bell's neck and kissed her.

"I knew how it was going to be from the very first," said Bell. "Did
I not, mamma?"

"I'm sure I didn't," said Lily. "I never thought such a thing was
possible."

"But we did,--mamma and I."

"Did you?" said Lily.

"Bell told me that it was to be so," said Mrs. Dale. "But I could
hardly bring myself at first to think that he was good enough for my
darling."

"Oh, mamma! you must not say that. You must think that he is good
enough for anything."

"I will think that he is very good."

"Who could be better? And then, when you remember all that he is to
give up for my sake!--And what can I do for him in return? What have
I got to give him?"

Neither Mrs. Dale nor Bell could look at the matter in this light,
thinking that Lily gave quite as much as she received. But they both
declared that Crosbie was perfect, knowing that by such assurances
only could they now administer to Lily's happiness; and Lily, between
them, was made perfect in her happiness, receiving all manner of
encouragement in her love, and being nourished in her passion by the
sympathy and approval of her mother and sister.

And then had come that visit from Johnny Eames. As the poor fellow
marched out of the room, giving them no time to say farewell, Mrs.
Dale and Bell looked at each other sadly; but they were unable to
concoct any arrangement, for Lily had run across the lawn, and was
already on the ground before the window.

"As soon as we got to the end of the shrubbery there were uncle
Christopher and Bernard close to us; so I told Adolphus he might go
on by himself."

"And who do you think has been here?" said Bell. But Mrs. Dale said
nothing. Had time been given to her to use her own judgment, nothing
should have been said at that moment as to Johnny's visit.

"Has anybody been here since I went? Whoever it was didn't stay very
long."

"Poor Johnny Eames," said Bell. Then the colour came up into Lily's
face, and she bethought herself in a moment that the old friend of
her young days had loved her, that he, too, had had hopes as to his
love, and that now he had heard tidings which would put an end to
such hopes. She understood it all in a moment, but understood also
that it was necessary that she should conceal such understanding.

"Dear Johnny!" she said. "Why did he not wait for me?"

"We told him you were out," said Mrs. Dale. "He will be here again
before long, no doubt."

"And he knows--?"

"Yes; I thought you would not object to my telling him."

"No, mamma; of course not. And he has gone back to Guestwick?"

There was no answer given to this question, nor were there any
further words then spoken about Johnny Eames. Each of these women
understood exactly how the matter stood, and each knew that the
others understood it. The young man was loved by them all, but not
loved with that sort of admiring affection which had been accorded to
Mr. Crosbie. Johnny Eames could not have been accepted as a suitor
by their pet. Mrs. Dale and Bell both felt that. And yet they loved
him for his love, and for that distant, modest respect which had
restrained him from any speech regarding it. Poor Johnny! But he
was young,--hardly as yet out of his hobbledehoyhood,--and he would
easily recover this blow, remembering, and perhaps feeling to his
advantage, some slight touch of its passing romance. It is thus women
think of men who love young and love in vain.

But Johnny Eames himself, as he rode back to Guestwick, forgetful
of his spurs, and with his gloves stuffed into his pocket, thought
of the matter very differently. He had never promised to himself
any success as to his passion for Lily, and had, indeed, always
acknowledged that he could have no hope; but now, that she was
actually promised to another man, and as good as married, he was not
the less broken-hearted because his former hopes had not been high.
He had never dared to speak to Lily of his love, but he was conscious
that she knew it, and he did not now dare to stand before her as
one convicted of having loved in vain. And then, as he rode back,
he thought also of his other love, not with many of those pleasant
thoughts which Lotharios and Don Juans may be presumed to enjoy when
they contemplate their successes. "I suppose I shall marry her, and
there'll be an end of me," he said to himself, as he remembered a
short note which he had once written to her in his madness. There had
been a little supper at Mrs. Roper's, and Mrs. Lupex and Amelia had
made the punch. After supper, he had been by some accident alone with
Amelia in the dining-parlour; and when, warmed by the generous god,
he had declared his passion, she had shaken her head mournfully,
and had fled from him to some upper region, absolutely refusing
his proffered embrace. But on the same night, before his head had
found its pillow, a note had come to him, half repentant, half
affectionate, half repellent,--"If, indeed, he would swear to her
that his love was honest and manly, then, indeed, she might even
yet,--see him through the chink of the doorway with the purport of
telling him that he was forgiven." Whereupon, a perfidious pencil
being near to his hand, he had written the requisite words. "My
only object in life is to call you my own for ever." Amelia had her
misgivings whether such a promise, in order that it might be used as
legal evidence, should not have been written in ink. It was a painful
doubt; but nevertheless she was as good as her word, and saw him
through the chink, forgiving him for his impetuosity in the parlour
with, perhaps, more clemency than a mere pardon required. "By George!
how well she looked with her hair all loose," he said to himself, as
he at last regained his pillow, still warm with the generous god.
But now, as he thought of that night, returning on his road from
Allington to Guestwick, those loose, floating locks were remembered
by him with no strong feeling as to their charms. And he thought also
of Lily Dale, as she was when he had said farewell to her on that day
before he first went up to London. "I shall care more about seeing
you than anybody," he had said; and he had often thought of the words
since, wondering whether she had understood them as meaning more than
an assurance of ordinary friendship. And he remembered well the dress
she had then worn. It was an old brown merino, which he had known
before, and which, in truth, had nothing in it to recommend it
specially to a lover's notice. "Horrid old thing!" had been Lily's
own verdict respecting the frock, even before that day. But she
had hallowed it in his eyes, and he would have been only too happy
to have worn a shred of it near his heart, as a talisman. How
wonderful in its nature is that passion of which men speak when they
acknowledge to themselves that they are in love. Of all things, it
is, under one condition, the most foul, and under another, the most
fair. As that condition is, a man shows himself either as a beast
or as a god! And so we will let poor Johnny Eames ride back to
Guestwick, suffering much in that he had loved basely--and suffering
much, also, in that he had loved nobly.

Lily, as she had tripped along through the shrubbery, under her
lover's arm, looking up, every other moment, into his face, had
espied her uncle and Bernard. "Stop," she had said, giving him a
little pull at the arm; "I won't go on. Uncle is always teasing me
with some old-fashioned wit. And I've had quite enough of you to-day,
sir. Mind you come over to-morrow before you go to your shooting."
And so she had left him.

We may as well learn here what was the question in dispute between
the uncle and cousin, as they were walking there on the broad gravel
path behind the Great House. "Bernard," the old man had said, "I wish
this matter could be settled between you and Bell."

"Is there any hurry about it, sir?"

"Yes, there is hurry; or, rather, as I hate hurry in all things, I
would say that there is ground for despatch. Mind, I do not wish to
drive you. If you do not like your cousin, say so."

"But I do like her; only I have a sort of feeling that these things
grow best by degrees. I quite share your dislike to being in a
hurry."

"But time enough has been taken now. You see, Bernard, I am going to
make a great sacrifice of income on your behalf."

"I am sure I am very grateful."

"I have no children, and have therefore always regarded you as my
own. But there is no reason why my brother Philip's daughter should
not be as dear to me as my brother Orlando's son."

"Of course not, sir; or, rather, his two daughters."

"You may leave that matter to me, Bernard. The younger girl is going
to marry this friend of yours, and as he has a sufficient income to
support a wife, I think that my sister-in-law has good reason to be
satisfied by the match. She will not be expected to give up any part
of her small income, as she must have done had Lily married a poor
man."

"I suppose she could hardly give up much."

"People must be guided by circumstances. I am not disposed to put
myself in the place of a parent to them both. There is no reason
why I should, and I will not encourage false hopes. If I knew that
this matter between you and Bell was arranged, I should have reason
to feel satisfied with what I was doing." From all which Bernard
began to perceive that poor Crosbie's expectations in the matter of
money would not probably receive much gratification. But he also
perceived--or thought that he perceived--a kind of threat in this
warning from his uncle. "I have promised you eight hundred a year
with your wife," the warning seemed to say. "But if you do not at
once accept it, or let me feel that it will be accepted, it may be
well for me to change my mind--especially as this other niece is
about to be married. If I am to give you so large a fortune with
Bell, I need do nothing for Lily. But if you do not choose to take
Bell and the fortune, why then--" And so on. It was thus that Bernard
read his uncle's caution, as they walked together on the broad gravel
path.

"I have no desire to postpone the matter any longer," said Bernard.
"I will propose to Bell at once, if you wish it."

"If your mind be quite made up, I cannot see why you should delay
it."

And then, having thus arranged that matter, they received their
future relative with kind smiles and soft words.




CHAPTER VII.

THE BEGINNING OF TROUBLES.


[ILLUSTRATION: (untitled)]

Lily, as she parted with her lover in the garden, had required of him
to attend upon her the next morning as he went to his shooting, and
in obedience to this command he appeared on Mrs. Dale's lawn after
breakfast, accompanied by Bernard and two dogs. The men had guns in
their hands, and were got up with all proper sporting appurtenances,
but it so turned out that they did not reach the stubble-fields on
the farther side of the road until after luncheon. And may it not be
fairly doubted whether croquet is not as good as shooting when a man
is in love?

It will be said that Bernard Dale was not in love; but they who bring
such accusation against him, will bring it falsely. He was in love
with his cousin Bell according to his manner and fashion. It was not
his nature to love Bell as John Eames loved Lily; but then neither
would his nature bring him into such a trouble as that which the
charms of Amelia Roper had brought upon the poor clerk from the
Income-tax Office. Johnny was susceptible, as the word goes; whereas
Captain Dale was a man who had his feelings well under control. He
was not one to make a fool of himself about a girl, or to die of a
broken heart; but, nevertheless, he would probably love his wife when
he got a wife, and would be a careful father to his children.

They were very intimate with each other now,--these four. It was
Bernard and Adolphus, or sometimes Apollo, and Bell and Lily among
them; and Crosbie found it to be pleasant enough. A new position
of life had come upon him, and one exceeding pleasant; but,
nevertheless, there were moments in which cold fits of a melancholy
nature came upon him. He was doing the very thing which throughout
all the years of his manhood he had declared to himself that he
would not do. According to his plan of life he was to have eschewed
marriage, and to have allowed himself to regard it as a possible
event only under the circumstances of wealth, rank, and beauty all
coming in his way together. As he had expected no such glorious
prize, he had regarded himself as a man who would reign at the
Beaufort and be potent at Sebright's to the end of his chapter. But
now--

It was the fact that he had fallen from his settled position,
vanquished by a silver voice, a pretty wit, and a pair of moderately
bright eyes. He was very fond of Lily, having in truth a stronger
capability for falling in love than his friend Captain Dale; but was
the sacrifice worth his while? This was the question which he asked
himself in those melancholy moments; while he was lying in bed,
for instance, awake in the morning, when he was shaving himself,
and sometimes also when the squire was prosy after dinner. At
such times as these, while he would be listening to Mr. Dale, his
self-reproaches would sometimes be very bitter. Why should he undergo
this, he, Crosbie of Sebright's, Crosbie of the General Committee
Office, Crosbie who would allow no one to bore him between Charing
Cross and the far end of Bayswater,--why should he listen to the
long-winded stories of such a one as Squire Dale? If, indeed, the
squire intended to be liberal to his niece, then it might be very
well. But as yet the squire had given no sign of such intention, and
Crosbie was angry with himself in that he had not had the courage to
ask a question on that subject.

And thus the course of love was not all smooth to our Apollo. It was
still pleasant for him when he was there on the croquet ground, or
sitting in Mrs. Dale's drawing-room with all the privileges of an
accepted lover. It was pleasant to him also as he sipped the squire's
claret, knowing that his coffee would soon be handed to him by a
sweet girl who would have tripped across the two gardens on purpose
to perform for him this service. There is nothing pleasanter than all
this, although a man when so treated does feel himself to look like a
calf at the altar, ready for the knife, with blue ribbons round his
horns and neck. Crosbie felt that he was such a calf,--and the more
calf-like, in that he had not as yet dared to ask a question about
his wife's fortune. "I will have it out of the old fellow this
evening," he said to himself, as he buttoned on his dandy shooting
gaiters that morning.

"How nice he looks in them," Lily said to her sister afterwards,
knowing nothing of the thoughts which had troubled her lover's mind
while he was adorning his legs.

"I suppose we shall come back this way," Crosbie said, as they
prepared to move away on their proper business when lunch was over.

"Well, not exactly!" said Bernard. "We shall make our way round by
Darvell's farm, and so back by Gruddock's. Are the girls going to
dine up at the Great House to-day?"

The girls declared that they were not going to dine up at the Great
House,--that they did not intend going to the Great House at all that
evening.

"Then, as you won't have to dress, you might as well meet us at
Gruddock's gate, at the back of the farmyard. We'll be there exactly
at half-past five."

"That is to say, we're to be there at half-past five, and you'll keep
us waiting for three-quarters of an hour," said Lily. Nevertheless
the arrangement as proposed was made, and the two ladies were not
at all unwilling to make it. It is thus that the game is carried on
among unsophisticated people who really live in the country. The
farmyard gate at Farmer Gruddock's has not a fitting sound as a
trysting-place in romance, but for people who are in earnest it does
as well as any oak in the middle glade of a forest. Lily Dale was
quite in earnest--and so indeed was Adolphus Crosbie,--only with him
the earnest was beginning to take that shade of brown which most
earnest things have to wear in this vale of tears. With Lily it
was as yet all rose-coloured. And Bernard Dale was also in earnest.
Throughout this morning he had stood very near to Bell on the
lawn, and had thought that his cousin did not receive his little
whisperings with any aversion. Why should she? Lucky girl that she
was, thus to have eight hundred a year pinned to her skirt!

"I say, Dale," Crosbie said, as in the course of their day's work
they had come round upon Gruddock's ground, and were preparing to
finish off his turnips before they reached the farm-yard gate. And
now, as Crosbie spoke, they stood leaning on the gate, looking at the
turnips while the two dogs squatted on their haunches. Crosbie had
been very silent for the last mile or two, and had been making up his
mind for this conversation. "I say, Dale,--your uncle has never said
a word to me yet as to Lily's fortune."

"As to Lily's fortune! The question is whether Lily has got a
fortune."

"He can hardly expect that I am to take her without something. Your
uncle is a man of the world and he knows--"

"Whether or no my uncle is a man of the world, I will not say; but
you are, Crosbie, whether he is or not. Lily, as you have always
known, has nothing of her own."

"I am not talking of Lily's own. I'm speaking of her uncle. I have
been straightforward with him; and when I became attached to your
cousin I declared what I meant at once."

"You should have asked him the question, if you thought there was any
room for such a question."

"Thought there was any room! Upon my word, you are a cool fellow."

"Now look here, Crosbie; you may say what you like about my uncle,
but you must not say a word against Lily."

"Who is going to say a word against her? You can little understand me
if you don't know that the protection of her name against evil words
is already more my care than it is yours. I regard Lily as my own."

"I only meant to say, that any discontent you may feel as to her
money, or want of money, you must refer to my uncle, and not to the
family at the Small House."

"I am quite well aware of that."

"And though you are quite at liberty to say what you like to me about
my uncle, I cannot say that I can see that he has been to blame."

"He should have told me what her prospects are."

"But if she have got no prospects! It cannot be an uncle's duty to
tell everybody that he does not mean to give his niece a fortune. In
point of fact, why should you suppose that he has such an intention?"

"Do you know that he has not? because you once led me to believe that
he would give his niece money."

"Now, Crosbie, it is necessary that you and I should understand each
other in this matter--"

"But did you not?"

"Listen to me for a moment. I never said a word to you about my
uncle's intentions in any way, until after you had become fully
engaged to Lily with the knowledge of us all. Then, when my belief on
the subject could make no possible difference in your conduct, I told
you that I thought my uncle would do something for her. I told you so
because I did think so;--and as your friend, I should have told you
what I thought in any matter that concerned your interest."

"And now you have changed your opinion?"

"I have changed my opinion; but very probably without sufficient
ground."

"That's hard upon me."

"It may be hard to bear disappointment; but you cannot say that
anybody has ill-used you."

"And you don't think he will give her anything?"

"Nothing that will be of much moment to you."

"And I'm not to say that that's hard? I think it confounded hard. Of
course I must put off my marriage."

"Why do you not speak to my uncle?"

"I shall do so. To tell the truth, I think it would have come better
from him; but that is a matter of opinion. I shall tell him very
plainly what I think about it; and if he is angry, why, I suppose I
must leave his house; that will be all."

"Look here, Crosbie; do not begin your conversation with the purpose
of angering him. He is not a bad-hearted man, but is very obstinate."

"I can be quite as obstinate as he is." And, then, without further
parley, they went in among the turnips, and each swore against
his luck as he missed his birds. There are certain phases of mind
in which a man can neither ride nor shoot, nor play a stroke at
billiards, nor remember a card at whist,--and to such a phase of mind
had come both Crosbie and Dale after their conversation over the
gate.

They were not above fifteen minutes late at the trysting-place, but
nevertheless, punctual though they had been, the girls were there
before them. Of course the first inquiries were made about the game,
and of course the gentlemen declared that the birds were scarcer
than they had ever been before, that the dogs were wilder, and their
luck more excruciatingly bad,--to all which apologies very little
attention was paid. Lily and Bell had not come there to inquire after
partridges, and would have forgiven the sportsmen even though no
single bird had been killed. But they could not forgive the want of
good spirits which was apparent.

"I declare I don't know what's the matter with you," Lily said to her
lover.

"We have been over fifteen miles of ground, and--"

"I never knew anything so lackadaisical as you gentlemen from London.
Been over fifteen miles of ground! Why, uncle Christopher would think
nothing of that."

"Uncle Christopher is made of sterner stuff than we are," said
Crosbie. "They used to be born so sixty or seventy years ago." And
then they walked on through Gruddock's fields, and the home paddocks,
back to the Great House, where they found the squire standing in the
front of the porch.

The walk had not been so pleasant as they had all intended that
it should be when they made their arrangements for it. Crosbie
had endeavoured to recover his happy state of mind, but had been
unsuccessful; and Lily, fancying that her lover was not all that he
should be, had become reserved and silent. Bernard and Bell had not
shared this discomfiture, but then Bernard and Bell were, as a rule,
much more given to silence than the other two.

"Uncle," said Lily, "these men have shot nothing, and you cannot
conceive how unhappy they are in consequence. It's all the fault of
the naughty partridges."


[ILLUSTRATION: "It's all the fault of the naughty partridges."]


"There are plenty of partridges if they knew how to get them," said
the squire.

"The dogs are uncommonly wild," said Crosbie.

"They are not wild with me," said the squire; "nor yet with Dingles."
Dingles was the squire's gamekeeper. "The fact is, you young men,
nowadays, expect to have dogs trained to do all the work for you.
It's too much labour for you to walk up to your game. You'll be late
for dinner, girls, if you don't look sharp."

"We're not coming up this evening, sir," said Bell.

"And why not?"

"We're going to stay with mamma."

"And why will not your mother come with you? I'll be whipped if I
can understand it. One would have thought that under the present
circumstances she would have been glad to see you all as much
together as possible."

"We're together quite enough," said Lily. "And as for mamma, I
suppose she thinks--" And then she stopped herself, catching the
glance of Bell's imploring eye. She was going to make some indignant
excuse for her mother,--some excuse which would be calculated to make
her uncle angry. It was her practice to say such sharp words to him,
and consequently he did not regard her as warmly as her more silent
and more prudent sister. At the present moment he turned quickly
round and went into the house; and then, with a very few words of
farewell, the two young men followed him. The girls went back over
the little bridge by themselves, feeling that the afternoon had not
gone off altogether well.

"You shouldn't provoke him, Lily," said Bell.

"And he shouldn't say those things about mamma. It seems to me that
you don't mind what he says."

"Oh, Lily."

"No more you do. He makes me so angry that I cannot hold my tongue.
He thinks that because all the place is his, he is to say just what
he likes. Why should mamma go up there to please his humours?"

"You may be sure that mamma will do what she thinks best. She is
stronger-minded than uncle Christopher, and does not want any one to
help her. But, Lily, you shouldn't speak as though I were careless
about mamma. You didn't mean that, I know."

"Of course I didn't." Then the two girls joined their mother in their
own little domain; but we will return to the men at the Great House.

Crosbie, when he went up to dress for dinner, fell into one of those
melancholy fits of which I have spoken. Was he absolutely about to
destroy all the good that he had done for himself throughout the past
years of his hitherto successful life? or rather, as he at last put
the question to himself more strongly,--was it not the case that
he had already destroyed all that success? His marriage with Lily,
whether it was to be for good or bad, was now a settled thing, and
was not regarded as a matter admitting of any doubt. To do the man
justice, I must declare that in all these moments of misery he still
did the best he could to think of Lily herself as of a great treasure
which he had won,--as of a treasure which should, and perhaps would,
compensate him for his misery. But there was the misery very plain.
He must give up his clubs, and his fashion, and all that he had
hitherto gained, and be content to live a plain, humdrum, domestic
life, with eight hundred a year, and a small house, full of babies.
It was not the kind of Elysium for which he had tutored himself. Lily
was very nice, very nice indeed. She was, as he said to himself, "by
odds, the nicest girl that he had ever seen." Whatever might now turn
up, her happiness should be his first care. But as for his own,--he
began to fear that the compensation would hardly be perfect. "It
is my own doing," he said to himself, intending to be rather noble
in the purport of his soliloquy, "I have trained myself for other
things,--very foolishly. Of course I must suffer,--suffer damnably.
But she shall never know it. Dear, sweet, innocent, pretty little
thing!" And then he went on about the squire, as to whom he felt
himself entitled to be indignant by his own disinterested and manly
line of conduct towards the niece. "But I will let him know what I
think about it," he said. "It's all very well for Dale to say that I
have been treated fairly. It isn't fair for a man to put forward his
niece under false pretences. Of course I thought that he intended to
provide for her." And then, having made up his mind in a very manly
way that he would not desert Lily altogether after having promised
to marry her, he endeavoured to find consolation in the reflection
that he might, at any rate, allow himself two years' more run as a
bachelor in London. Girls who have to get themselves married without
fortunes always know that they will have to wait. Indeed, Lily had
already told him, that as far as she was concerned, she was in
no hurry. He need not, therefore, at once withdraw his name from
Sebright's. Thus he endeavoured to console himself, still, however,
resolving that he would have a little serious conversation with the
squire that very evening as to Lily's fortune.

And what was the state of Lily's mind at the same moment, while she,
also, was performing some slight toilet changes preparatory to their
simple dinner at the Small House?

"I didn't behave well to him," she said to herself; "I never do.
I forget how much he is giving up for me; and then, when anything
annoys him, I make it worse instead of comforting him." And upon that
she made accusation against herself that she did not love him half
enough,--that she did not let him see how thoroughly and perfectly
she loved him. She had an idea of her own, that as a girl should
never show any preference for a man till circumstances should have
fully entitled him to such manifestation, so also should she make no
drawback on her love, but pour it forth for his benefit with all her
strength, when such circumstances had come to exist. But she was ever
feeling that she was not acting up to her theory, now that the time
for such practice had come. She would unwittingly assume little
reserves, and make small pretences of indifference in spite of her
own judgment. She had done so on this afternoon, and had left him
without giving him her hand to press, without looking up into his
face with an assurance of love, and therefore she was angry with
herself. "I know I shall teach him to hate me," she said out loud to
Bell.

"That would be very sad," said Bell; "but I don't see it."

"If you were engaged to a man you would be much better to him. You
would not say so much, but what you did say would be all affection.
I am always making horrid little speeches, for which I should like
to cut out my tongue afterwards."

"Whatever sort of speeches they are, I think that he likes them."

"Does he? I'm not all so sure of that, Bell. Of course I don't expect
that he is to scold me,--not yet, that is. But I know by his eye when
he is pleased and when he is displeased."

And then they went down to their dinner.

Up at the Great House the three gentlemen met together in apparent
good humour. Bernard Dale was a man of an equal temperament, who
rarely allowed any feeling, or even any annoyance, to interfere
with his usual manner,--a man who could always come to table with
a smile, and meet either his friend or his enemy with a properly
civil greeting. Not that he was especially a false man. There was
nothing of deceit in his placidity of demeanour. It arose from true
equanimity; but it was the equanimity of a cold disposition rather
than of one well ordered by discipline. The squire was aware that
he had been unreasonably petulant before dinner, and having taken
himself to task in his own way, now entered the dining-room with the
courteous greeting of a host. "I find that your bag was not so bad
after all," he said, "and I hope that your appetite is at least as
good as your bag."

Crosbie smiled, and made himself pleasant, and said a few flattering
words. A man who intends to take some very decided step in an hour or
two generally contrives to bear himself in the meantime as though the
trifles of the world were quite sufficient for him. So he praised the
squire's game; said a good-natured word as to Dingles, and bantered
himself as to his own want of skill. Then all went merry,--not quite
as a marriage bell; but still merry enough for a party of three
gentlemen.

But Crosbie's resolution was fixed; and as soon, therefore, as the
old butler was permanently gone, and the wine steadily in transit
upon the table, he began his task, not without some apparent
abruptness. Having fully considered the matter, he had determined
that he would not wait for Bernard Dale's absence. He thought
it possible that he might be able to fight his battle better in
Bernard's presence than he could do behind his back.

"Squire," he began. They all called him squire when they were on good
terms together, and Crosbie thought it well to begin as though there
was nothing amiss between them. "Squire, of course I am thinking a
good deal at the present moment as to my intended marriage."

"That's natural enough," said the squire.

"Yes, by George! sir, a man doesn't make a change like that without
finding that he has got something to think of."

"I suppose not," said the squire. "I never was in the way of getting
married myself, but I can easily understand that."

"I've been the luckiest fellow in the world in finding such a girl as
your niece--" Whereupon the squire bowed, intending to make a little
courteous declaration that the luck in the matter was on the side
of the Dales. "I know that," continued Crosbie. "She is exactly
everything that a girl ought to be."

"She is a good girl," said Bernard.

"Yes; I think she is," said the squire.

"But it seems to me," said Crosbie, finding that it was necessary to
dash at once headlong into the water, "that something ought to be
said as to my means of supporting her properly."

Then he paused for a moment, expecting that the squire would speak.
But the squire sat perfectly still, looking intently at the empty
fireplace and saying nothing. "Of supporting her," continued Crosbie,
"with all those comforts to which she has been accustomed."

"She has never been used to expense," said the squire. "Her mother,
as you doubtless know, is not a rich woman."

"But living here, Lily has had great advantages,--a horse to ride,
and all that sort of thing."

"I don't suppose she expects a horse in the park," said the squire,
with a very perceptible touch of sarcasm in his voice.

"I hope not," said Crosbie.

"I believe she has had the use of one of the ponies here sometimes,
but I hope that has not made her extravagant in her ideas. I did not
think that there was anything of that nonsense about either of them."

"Nor is there,--as far as I know."

"Nothing of the sort," said Bernard.

"But the long and the short of it is this, sir!" and Crosbie, as he
spoke, endeavoured to maintain his ordinary voice and usual coolness,
but his heightened colour betrayed that he was nervous. "Am I to
expect any accession of income with my wife?"

"I have not spoken to my sister-in-law on the subject," said the
squire; "but I should fear that she cannot do much."

"As a matter of course, I would not take a shilling from her," said
Crosbie.

"Then that settles it," said the squire.

Crosbie paused a moment, during which his colour became very red. He
unconsciously took up an apricot and eat it, and then he spoke out.
"Of course I was not alluding to Mrs. Dale's income; I would not, on
any account, disturb her arrangements. But I wished to learn, sir,
whether you intend to do anything for your niece."

"In the way of giving her a fortune? Nothing at all. I intend to do
nothing at all."

"Then I suppose we understand each other,--at last," said Crosbie.

"I should have thought that we might have understood each other at
first," said the squire. "Did I ever make you any promise, or give
you any hint that I intended to provide for my niece? Have I ever
held out to you any such hope? I don't know what you mean by that
word 'at last'--unless it be to give offence."

"I meant the truth, sir;--I meant this--that seeing the manner in
which your nieces lived with you, I thought it probable that you
would treat them both as though they were your daughters. Now I find
out my mistake;--that is all!"

"You have been mistaken,--and without a shadow of excuse for your
mistake."

"Others have been mistaken with me," said Crosbie, forgetting, on the
spur of the moment, that he had no right to drag the opinion of any
other person into the question.

"What others?" said the squire, with anger; and his mind immediately
betook itself to his sister-in-law.

"I do not want to make any mischief," said Crosbie.

"If anybody connected with my family has presumed to tell you that
I intended to do more for my niece Lilian than I have already done,
such person has not only been false, but ungrateful. I have given to
no one any authority to make any promise on behalf of my niece."

"No such promise has been made. It was only a suggestion," said
Crosbie.

He was not in the least aware to whom the squire was alluding in his
anger; but he perceived that his host was angry, and having already
reflected that he should not have alluded to the words which Bernard
Dale had spoken in his friendship, he resolved to name no one.
Bernard, as he sat by listening, knew exactly how the matter stood;
but, as he thought, there could be no reason why he should subject
himself to his uncle's ill-will, seeing that he had committed no sin.

"No such suggestion should have been made," said the squire. "No one
has had a right to make such a suggestion. No one has been placed by
me in a position to make such a suggestion to you without manifest
impropriety. I will ask no further questions about it; but it is
quite as well that you should understand at once that I do not
consider it to be my duty to give my niece Lilian a fortune on her
marriage. I trust that your offer to her was not made under any such
delusion."

"No, sir; it was not," said Crosbie.

"Then I suppose that no great harm has been done. I am sorry if false
hopes have been given to you; but I am sure you will acknowledge that
they were not given to you by me."

"I think you have misunderstood me, sir. My hopes were never very
high; but I thought it right to ascertain your intentions."

"Now you know them. I trust, for the girl's sake, that it will make
no difference to her. I can hardly believe that she has been to blame
in the matter."

Crosbie hastened at once to exculpate Lily; and then, with more
awkward blunders than a man should have made who was so well
acquainted with fashionable life as the Apollo of the Beaufort, he
proceeded to explain that, as Lily was to have nothing, his own
pecuniary arrangements would necessitate some little delay in their
marriage.

"As far as I myself am concerned," said the squire, "I do not like
long engagements. But I am quite aware that in this matter I have no
right to interfere, unless, indeed--" and then he stopped himself.

"I suppose it will be well to fix some day; eh, Crosbie?" said
Bernard.

"I will discuss that matter with Mrs. Dale," said Crosbie.

"If you and she understand each other," said the squire, "that will
be sufficient. Shall we go into the drawing-room now, or out upon the
lawn?"

That evening, as Crosbie went to bed, he felt that he had not gained
the victory in his encounter with the squire.




CHAPTER VIII.

IT CANNOT BE.


On the following morning at breakfast each of the three gentlemen
at the Great House received a little note on pink paper, nominally
from Mrs. Dale, asking them to drink tea at the Small House on that
day week. At the bottom of the note which Lily had written for Mr.
Crosbie was added: "Dancing on the lawn, if we can get anybody to
stand up. Of course you must come, whether you like it or not. And
Bernard also. Do your possible to talk my uncle into coming." And
this note did something towards re-creating good-humour among them
at the breakfast-table. It was shown to the squire, and at last he
was brought to say that he would perhaps go to Mrs. Dale's little
evening-party.

It may be well to explain that this promised entertainment had been
originated with no special view to the pleasure of Mr. Crosbie, but
altogether on behalf of poor Johnny Eames. What was to be done in
that matter? This question had been fully discussed between Mrs. Dale
and Bell, and they had come to the conclusion that it would be best
to ask Johnny over to a little friendly gathering, in which he might
be able to meet Lily with some strangers around them. In this way
his embarrassment might be overcome. It would never do, as Mrs. Dale
said, that he should be suffered to stay away, unnoticed by them.
"When the ice is once broken he won't mind it," said Bell. And,
therefore, early in the day, a messenger was sent over to Guestwick,
who returned with a note from Mrs. Eames, saying that she would come
on the evening in question, with her son and daughter. They would
keep the fly and get back to Guestwick the same evening. This was
added, as an offer had been made of beds for Mrs. Eames and Mary.

Before the evening of the party another memorable occurrence had
taken place at Allington, which must be described, in order that the
feelings of the different people on that evening may be understood.
The squire had given his nephew to understand that he wished to have
that matter settled as to his niece Bell; and as Bernard's views were
altogether in accordance with the squire's, he resolved to comply
with his uncle's wishes. The project with him was not a new thing. He
did love his cousin quite sufficiently for purposes of matrimony, and
was minded that it would be a good thing for him to marry. He could
not marry without money, but this marriage would give him an income
without the trouble of intricate settlements, or the interference of
lawyers hostile to his own interests. It was possible that he might
do better; but then it was possible also that he might do much worse;
and, in addition to this, he was fond of his cousin. He discussed the
matter within himself, very calmly; made some excellent resolutions
as to the kind of life which it would behove him to live as a married
man; settled on the street in London in which he would have his
house, and behaved very prettily to Bell for four or five days
running. That he did not make love to her, in the ordinary sense of
the word, must, I suppose, be taken for granted, seeing that Bell
herself did not recognize the fact. She had always liked her cousin,
and thought that in these days he was making himself particularly
agreeable.

On the evening before the party the girls were at the Great House,
having come up nominally with the intention of discussing the
expediency of dancing on the lawn. Lily had made up her mind that it
was to be so, but Bell had objected that it would be cold and damp,
and that the drawing-room would be nicer for dancing.

"You see we've only got four young gentlemen and one ungrown," said
Lily; "and they will look so stupid standing up all properly in a
room, as though we had a regular party."

"Thank you for the compliment," said Crosbie, taking off his straw
hat.

"So you will; and we girls will look more stupid still. But out on
the lawn it won't look stupid at all. Two or three might stand up on
the lawn, and it would be jolly enough."

"I don't quite see it," said Bernard.

"Yes, I think I see it," said Crosbie. "The unadaptability of the
lawn for the purpose of a ball--"

"Nobody is thinking of a ball," said Lily, with mock petulance.

"I'm defending you, and yet you won't let me speak. The
unadaptability of the lawn for the purposes of a ball will conceal
the insufficiency of four men and a boy as a supply of male dancers.
But, Lily, who is the ungrown gentleman? Is it your old friend Johnny
Eames?"

Lily's voice became sobered as she answered him.

"Oh, no; I did not mean Mr. Eames. He is coming, but I did not mean
him. Dick Boyce, Mr. Boyce's son, is only sixteen. He is the ungrown
gentleman."

"And who is the fourth adult?"

"Dr. Crofts, from Guestwick. I do hope you will like him, Adolphus.
We think he is the very perfection of a man."

"Then of course I shall hate him; and be very jealous, too!"

And then that pair went off together, fighting their own little
battle on that head, as turtle-doves will sometimes do. They went
off, and Bernard was left with Bell standing together over the ha-ha
fence which divides the garden at the back of the house from the
field.

"Bell," he said, "they seem very happy, don't they?"

"And they ought to be happy now, oughtn't they? Dear Lily! I hope he
will be good to her. Do you know, Bernard, though he is your friend,
I am very, very anxious about it. It is such a vast trust to put in a
man when we do not quite know him."

"Yes, it is; but they'll do very well together. Lily will be happy
enough."

"And he?"

"I suppose he'll be happy, too. He'll feel himself a little
straightened as to income at first, but that will all come round."

"If he is not, she will be wretched."

"They will do very well. Lily must be prepared to make the money go
as far as she can, that's all."

"Lily won't feel the want of money. It is not that. But if he lets
her know that she has made him a poor man, then she will be unhappy.
Is he extravagant, Bernard?"

But Bernard was anxious to discuss another subject, and therefore
would not speak such words of wisdom as to Lily's engagement as might
have been expected from him had he been in a different frame of mind.

"No, I should say not," said he. "But, Bell--"

"I do not know that we could have acted otherwise than we have done,
and yet I fear that we have been rash. If he makes her unhappy,
Bernard, I shall never forgive you."

But as she said this she put her hand lovingly upon his arm, as a
cousin might do, and spoke in a tone which divested her threat of its
acerbity.

"You must not quarrel with me, Bell, whatever may happen. I cannot
afford to quarrel with you."

"Of course I was not in earnest as to that."

"You and I must never quarrel, Bell; at least, I hope not. I could
bear to quarrel with any one rather than with you." And then, as he
spoke, there was something in his voice which gave the girl some
slight, indistinct warning of what might be his intention. Not
that she said to herself at once, that he was going to make her an
offer of his hand,--now, on the spot; but she felt that he intended
something beyond the tenderness of ordinary cousinly affection.

"I hope we shall never quarrel," she said. But as she spoke, her
mind was settling itself,--forming its resolution, and coming to
a conclusion as to the sort of love which Bernard might, perhaps,
expect. And it formed another conclusion; as to the sort of love
which might be given in return.

"Bell," he said, "you and I have always been dear friends."

"Yes; always."

"Why should we not be something more than friends?"

To give Captain Dale his due I must declare that his voice was
perfectly natural as he asked this question, and that he showed no
signs of nervousness, either in his face or limbs. He had made up his
mind to do it on that occasion, and he did it without any signs of
outward disturbance. He asked his question, and then he waited for
his answer. In this he was rather hard upon his cousin; for, though
the question had certainly been asked in language that could not be
mistaken, still the matter had not been put forward with all that
fulness which a young lady, under such circumstances, has a right to
expect.

They had sat down on the turf close to the ha-ha, and they were so
near that Bernard was able to put out his hand with the view of
taking that of his cousin within his own. But she contrived to keep
her hands locked together, so that he merely held her gently by the
wrist.

"I don't quite understand, Bernard," she said, after a minute's
pause.

"Shall we be more than cousins? Shall we be man and wife?"

Now, at least, she could not say that she did not understand. If the
question was ever asked plainly, Bernard Dale had asked it plainly.
Shall we be man and wife? Few men, I fancy, dare to put it all at
once in so abrupt a way, and yet I do not know that the English
language affords any better terms for the question.

"Oh, Bernard! you have surprised me."

"I hope I have not pained you, Bell. I have been long thinking of
this, but I am well aware that my own manner, even to you, has not
been that of a lover. It is not in me to smile and say soft things,
as Crosbie can. But I do not love you the less on that account. I
have looked about for a wife, and I have thought that if I could gain
you I should be very fortunate."

He did not then say anything about his uncle, and the eight hundred a
year; but he fully intended to do so as soon as an opportunity should
serve. He was quite of opinion that eight hundred a year and the
good-will of a rich uncle were strong grounds for matrimony,--were
grounds even for love; and he did not doubt but his cousin would see
the matter in the same light.

"You are very good to me--more than good. Of course I know that. But,
oh, Bernard! I did not expect this a bit."

"But you will answer me, Bell! Or if you would like time to think, or
to speak to my aunt, perhaps you will answer me to-morrow?"

"I think I ought to answer you now."

"Not if it be a refusal, Bell. Think well of it before you do that.
I should have told you that our uncle wishes this match, and that he
will remove any difficulty there might be about money."

"I do not care for money."

"But, as you were saying about Lily, one has to be prudent. Now, in
our marriage, everything of that kind would be well arranged. My
uncle has promised me that he would at once allow us--"

"Stop, Bernard. You must not be led to suppose that any offer made by
my uncle would help to purchase-- Indeed, there can be no need for us
to talk about money."

"I wished to let you know the facts of the case, exactly as they are.
And as to our uncle, I cannot but think that you would be glad, in
such a matter, to have him on your side."

"Yes, I should be glad to have him on my side; that is, if I were
going-- But my uncle's wishes could not influence my decision. The
fact is, Bernard--"

"Well, dearest, what is the fact?"

"I have always regarded you rather as a brother than as anything
else."

"But that regard may be changed."

"No; I think not. Bernard, I will go further and speak on at once.
It cannot be changed. I know myself well enough to say that with
certainty. It cannot be changed."

"You mean that you cannot love me?"

"Not as you would have me do. I do love you very dearly,--very
dearly, indeed. I would go to you in any trouble, exactly as I would
go to a brother."

"And must that be all, Bell?"

"Is not that all the sweetest love that can be felt? But you must
not think me ungrateful, or proud. I know well that you are--are
proposing to do for me much more than I deserve. Any girl might be
proud of such an offer. But, dear Bernard--"

"Bell, before you give me a final answer, sleep upon this and talk it
over with your mother. Of course you were unprepared, and I cannot
expect that you should promise me so much without a moment's
consideration."

"I was unprepared, and therefore I have not answered you as I should
have done. But as it has gone so far, I cannot let you leave me in
uncertainty. It is not necessary that I should keep you waiting. In
this matter I do know my own mind. Dear Bernard, indeed, indeed it
cannot be as you have proposed."

She spoke in a low voice, and in a tone that had in it something of
almost imploring humility; but, nevertheless, it conveyed to her
cousin an assurance that she was in earnest; an assurance also that
that earnest would not readily be changed. Was she not a Dale? And
when did a Dale change his mind? For a while he sat silent by her;
and she too, having declared her intention, refrained from further
words. For some minutes they thus remained, looking down into the
ha-ha. She still kept her old position, holding her hands clasped
together over her knees; but he was now lying on his side, supporting
his head upon his arm, with his face indeed turned towards her, but
with his eyes fixed upon the grass. During this time, however, he was
not idle. His cousin's answer, though it had grieved him, had not
come upon him as a blow stunning him for a moment, and rendering him
unfit for instant thought. He was grieved, more grieved than he had
thought he would have been. The thing that he had wanted moderately,
he now wanted the more in that it was denied to him. But he was able
to perceive the exact truth of his position, and to calculate what
might be his chances if he went on with his suit, and what his
advantage if he at once abandoned it.

"I do not wish to press you unfairly, Bell; but may I ask if any
other preference--"

"There is no other preference," she answered. And then again they
were silent for a minute or two.

"My uncle will be much grieved at this," he said at last.

"If that be all," said Bell, "I do not think that we need either of
us trouble ourselves. He can have no right to dispose of our hearts."

"I understand the taunt, Bell."

"Dear Bernard, there was no taunt. I intended none."

"I need not speak of my own grief. You cannot but know how deep it
must be. Why should I have submitted myself to this mortification had
not my heart been concerned? But that I will bear, if I must bear
it--" And then he paused, looking up at her.

"It will soon pass away," she said.

"I will accept it at any rate without complaint. But as to my uncle's
feelings, it is open to me to speak, and to you, I should think, to
listen without indifference. He has been kind to us both, and loves
us two above any other living beings. It's not surprising that he
should wish to see us married, and it will not be surprising if your
refusal should be a great blow to him."

"I shall be sorry--very sorry."

"I also shall be sorry. I am now speaking of him. He has set his
heart upon it; and as he has but few wishes, few desires, so is he
the more constant in those which he expresses. When he knows this,
I fear that we shall find him very stern."

"Then he will be unjust."

"No; he will not be unjust. He is always a just man. But he will
be unhappy, and will, I fear, make others unhappy. Dear Bell, may
not this thing remain for a while unsettled? You will not find that
I take advantage of your goodness. I will not intrude it on you
again,--say for a fortnight,--or till Crosbie shall be gone."

"No, no, no," said Bell.

"Why are you so eager in your noes? There can be no danger in such
delay. I will not press you,--and you can let my uncle think that you
have at least taken time for consideration."

"There are things as to which one is bound to answer at once. If
I doubted myself, I would let you persuade me. But I do not doubt
myself, and I should be wrong to keep you in suspense. Dear, dearest
Bernard, it cannot be; and as it cannot be, you, as my brother, would
bid me say so clearly. It cannot be."

As she made this last assurance, they heard the steps of Lily and her
lover close to them, and they both felt that it would be well that
their intercourse should thus be brought to a close. Neither had
known how to get up and leave the place, and yet each had felt that
nothing further could then be said.

"Did you ever see anything so sweet and affectionate and romantic?"
said Lily, standing over them and looking at them. "And all the
while we have been so practical and worldly. Do you know, Bell, that
Adolphus seems to think we can't very well keep pigs in London. It
makes me so unhappy."

"It does seem a pity," said Crosbie, "for Lily seems to know all
about pigs."

"Of course I do. I haven't lived in the country all my life for
nothing. Oh, Bernard, I should so like to see you rolled down into
the bottom of the ha-ha. Just remain there, and we'll do it between
us."

Whereupon Bernard got up, as did Bell also, and they all went in to
tea.




CHAPTER IX.

MRS. DALE'S LITTLE PARTY.


The next day was the day of the party. Not a word more was said on
that evening between Bell and her cousin, at least, not a word more
of any peculiar note; and when Crosbie suggested to his friend on the
following morning that they should both step down and see how the
preparations were getting on at the Small House, Bernard declined.

"You forget, my dear fellow, that I'm not in love as you are," said
he.

"But I thought you were," said Crosbie.

"No; not at all as you are. You are an accepted lover, and will be
allowed to do anything,--whip the creams, and tune the piano, if
you know how. I'm only a half sort of lover, meditating a mariage
de convenance to oblige an uncle, and by no means required by the
terms of my agreement to undergo a very rigid amount of drill. Your
position is just the reverse." In saying all which Captain Dale was
no doubt very false; but if falseness can be forgiven to a man in any
position, it may be forgiven in that which he then filled. So Crosbie
went down to the Small House alone.

"Dale wouldn't come," said he, speaking to the three ladies together,
"I suppose he's keeping himself up for the dance on the lawn."

"I hope he will be here in the evening," said Mrs. Dale. But Bell
said never a word. She had determined, that under the existing
circumstances, it would be only fair to her cousin that his offer
and her answer to it should be kept secret. She knew why Bernard
did not come across from the Great House with his friend, but she
said nothing of her knowledge. Lily looked at her, but looked
without speaking; and as for Mrs. Dale, she took no notice of the
circumstance. Thus they passed the afternoon together without further
mention of Bernard Dale; and it may be said, at any rate of Lily and
Crosbie, that his presence was not missed.

Mrs. Eames, with her son and daughter, were the first to come. "It is
so nice of you to come early," said Lily, trying on the spur of the
moment to say something which should sound pleasant and happy, but in
truth using that form of welcome which to my ears sounds always the
most ungracious. "Ten minutes before the time named; and, of course,
you must have understood that I meant thirty minutes after it!" That
is my interpretation of the words when I am thanked for coming early.
But Mrs. Eames was a kind, patient, unexacting woman, who took all
civil words as meaning civility. And, indeed, Lily had meant nothing
else.

"Yes; we did come early," said Mrs. Eames, "because Mary thought she
would like to go up into the girls' room and just settle her hair,
you know."

"So she shall," said Lily, who had taken Mary by the hand.

"And we knew we shouldn't be in the way. Johnny can go out into the
garden if there's anything left to be done."

"He shan't be banished unless he likes it," said Mrs. Dale. "If he
finds us women too much for his unaided strength--"

John Eames muttered something about being very well as he was, and
then got himself into an arm-chair. He had shaken hands with Lily,
trying as he did so to pronounce articulately a little speech which
he had prepared for the occasion. "I have to congratulate you, Lily,
and I hope with all my heart that you will be happy." The words were
simple enough, and were not ill-chosen, but the poor young man never
got them spoken. The word "congratulate" did reach Lily's ears, and
she understood it all;--both the kindness of the intended speech and
the reason why it could not be spoken.

"Thank you, John," she said; "I hope I shall see so much of you in
London. It will be so nice to have an old Guestwick friend near me."
She had her own voice, and the pulses of her heart better under
command than had he; but she also felt that the occasion was trying
to her. The man had loved her honestly and truly,--still did love
her, paying her the great homage of bitter grief in that he had lost
her. Where is the girl who will not sympathize with such love and
such grief, if it be shown only because it cannot be concealed, and
be declared against the will of him who declares it?

Then came in old Mrs. Hearn, whose cottage was not distant two
minutes' walk from the Small House. She always called Mrs. Dale "my
dear," and petted the girls as though they had been children. When
told of Lily's marriage, she had thrown up her hands with surprise,
for she had still left in some corner of her drawers remnants of
sugar-plums which she had bought for Lily. "A London man is he? Well,
well. I wish he lived in the country. Eight hundred a year, my dear?"
she had said to Mrs. Dale. "That sounds nice down here, because we
are all so poor. But I suppose eight hundred a year isn't very much
up in London?"

"The squire's coming, I suppose, isn't he?" said Mrs. Hearn, as she
seated herself on the sofa close to Mrs. Dale.

"Yes, he'll be here by-and-by; unless he changes his mind, you know.
He doesn't stand on ceremony with me."

"He change his mind! When did you ever know Christopher Dale change
his mind?"

"He is pretty constant, Mrs. Hearn."

"If he promised to give a man a penny, he'd give it. But if he
promised to take away a pound, he'd take it, though it cost him years
to get it. He's going to turn me out of my cottage, he says."

"Nonsense, Mrs. Hearn!"

"Jolliffe came and told me"--Jolliffe, I should explain, was the
bailiff,--"that if I didn't like it as it was, I might leave it, and
that the squire could get double the rent for it. Now all I asked was
that he should do a little painting in the kitchen; and the wood is
all as black as his hat."

"I thought it was understood you were to paint inside."

"How can I do it, my dear, with a hundred and forty pounds for
everything? I must live, you know! And he that has workmen about him
every day of the year! And was that a message to send to me, who have
lived in the parish for fifty years? Here he is." And Mrs. Hearn
majestically raised herself from her seat as the squire entered the
room.

With him entered Mr. and Mrs. Boyce, from the parsonage, with Dick
Boyce, the ungrown gentleman, and two girl Boyces, who were fourteen
and fifteen years of age. Mrs. Dale, with the amount of good-nature
usual on such occasions, asked reproachfully why Jane, and Charles,
and Florence, and Bessy, did not come,--Boyce being a man who had
his quiver full of them,--and Mrs. Boyce, giving the usual answer,
declared that she already felt that they had come as an avalanche.

"But where are the--the--the young men?" asked Lily, assuming a look
of mock astonishment.

"They'll be across in two or three hours' time," said the squire.
"They both dressed for dinner, and, as I thought, made themselves
very smart; but for such a grand occasion as this they thought a
second dressing necessary. How do you do, Mrs. Hearn? I hope you
are quite well. No rheumatism left, eh?" This the squire said very
loud into Mrs. Hearn's ear. Mrs. Hearn was perhaps a little hard of
hearing; but it was very little, and she hated to be thought deaf.
She did not, moreover, like to be thought rheumatic. This the squire
knew, and therefore his mode of address was not good-natured.

"You needn't make me jump so, Mr. Dale. I'm pretty well now, thank
ye. I did have a twinge in the spring,--that cottage is so badly
built for draughts! 'I wonder you can live in it,' my sister said to
me the last time she was over. I suppose I should be better off over
with her at Hamersham, only one doesn't like to move, you know, after
living fifty years in one parish."

"You mustn't think of going away from us," Mrs. Boyce said, speaking
by no means loud, but slowly and plainly, hoping thereby to flatter
the old woman. But the old woman understood it all. "She's a sly
creature, is Mrs. Boyce," Mrs. Hearn said to Mrs. Dale, before the
evening was out. There are some old people whom it is very hard to
flatter, and with whom it is, nevertheless, almost impossible to live
unless you do flatter them.

At last the two heroes came in across the lawn at the drawing-room
window; and Lily, as they entered, dropped a low curtsey before them,
gently swelling down upon the ground with her light muslin dress,
till she looked like some wondrous flower that had bloomed upon the
carpet, and putting her two hands, with the backs of her fingers
pressed together, on the buckle of her girdle, she said, "We are
waiting upon your honours' kind grace, and feel how much we owe to
you for favouring our poor abode." And then she gently rose up again,
smiling, oh, so sweetly, on the man she loved, and the puffings and
swellings went out of her muslin.

I think there is nothing in the world so pretty as the conscious
little tricks of love played off by a girl towards the man she loves,
when she has made up her mind boldly that all the world may know that
she has given herself away to him.

I am not sure that Crosbie liked it all as much as he should have
done. The bold assurance of her love when they two were alone
together he did like. What man does not like such assurances on such
occasions? But perhaps he would have been better pleased had Lily
shown more reticence,--been more secret, as it were, as to her
feelings, when others were around them. It was not that he accused
her in his thoughts of any want of delicacy. He read her character
too well;--was, if not quite aright in his reading of it, at least
too nearly so to admit of his making against her any such accusation
as that. It was the calf-like feeling that was disagreeable to him.
He did not like to be presented, even to the world of Allington, as
a victim caught for the sacrifice, and bound with ribbon for the
altar. And then there lurked behind it all a feeling that it might be
safer that the thing should not be so openly manifested before all
the world. Of course, everybody knew that he was engaged to Lily
Dale; nor had he, as he said to himself, perhaps too frequently,
the slightest idea of breaking from that engagement. But then the
marriage might possibly be delayed. He had not discussed that matter
yet with Lily, having, indeed, at the first moment of his gratified
love, created some little difficulty for himself by pressing for an
early day. "I will refuse you nothing," she had said to him; "but
do not make it too soon." He saw, therefore, before him some little
embarrassment, and was inclined to wish that Lily would abstain from
that manner which seemed to declare to all the world that she was
about to be married immediately. "I must speak to her to-morrow," he
said to himself, as he accepted her salute with a mock gravity equal
to her own.

Poor Lily! How little she understood as yet what was passing through
his mind. Had she known his wish she would have wrapped up her love
carefully in a napkin, so that no one should have seen it,--no one
but he, when he might choose to have the treasure uncovered for his
sight. And it was all for his sake that she had been thus open in her
ways. She had seen girls who were half ashamed of their love; but she
would never be ashamed of hers or of him. She had given herself to
him; and now all the world might know it, if all the world cared
for such knowledge. Why should she be ashamed of that which, to her
thinking, was so great an honour to her? She had heard of girls who
would not speak of their love, arguing to themselves cannily that
there may be many a slip between the cup and the lip. There could be
no need of any such caution with her. There could surely be no such
slip! Should there be such a fall,--should any such fate, either by
falseness or misfortune, come upon her,--no such caution could be of
service to save her. The cup would have been so shattered in its fall
that no further piecing of its parts would be in any way possible. So
much as this she did not exactly say to herself; but she felt it all,
and went bravely forward,--bold in her love, and careful to hide it
from none who chanced to see it.

They had gone through the ceremony with the cake and teacups, and had
decided that, at any rate, the first dance or two should be held upon
the lawn when the last of the guests arrived.

"Oh, Adolphus, I am so glad he has come," said Lily. "Do try to like
him." Of Dr. Crofts, who was the new comer, she had sometimes spoken
to her lover, but she had never coupled her sister's name with that
of the doctor, even in speaking to him. Nevertheless, Crosbie had in
some way conceived the idea that this Crofts either had been, or was,
or was to be, in love with Bell; and as he was prepared to advocate
his friend Dale's claims in that quarter, he was not particularly
anxious to welcome the doctor as a thoroughly intimate friend of the
family. He knew nothing as yet of Dale's offer, or of Bell's refusal,
but he was prepared for war, if war should be necessary. Of the
squire, at the present moment, he was not very fond; but if his
destiny intended to give him a wife out of this family, he should
prefer the owner of Allington and nephew of Lord De Guest as a
brother-in-law to a village doctor,--as he took upon himself, in his
pride, to call Dr. Crofts.

"It is very unfortunate," said he, "but I never do like Paragons."

"But you must like this Paragon. Not that he is a Paragon at all, for
he smokes and hunts, and does all manner of wicked things." And then
she went forward to welcome her friend.

Dr. Crofts was a slight, spare man, about five feet nine in height,
with very bright dark eyes, 

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