

E-text prepared by Andrew Turek
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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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[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. VAE 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 orne 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-. 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, a broad forehead, with dark hair that
almost curled, but which did not come so forward over his brow as it
should have done for purposes of beauty,--with a thin well-cut nose,
and a mouth that would have been perfect had the lips been a little
fuller. The lower part of his face, when seen alone, had in it
somewhat of sternness, which, however, was redeemed by the brightness
of his eyes. And yet an artist would have declared that the lower
features of his face were by far the more handsome.

Lily went across to him and greeted him heartily, declaring how glad
she was to have him there. "And I must introduce you to Mr. Crosbie,"
she said, as though she was determined to carry her point. The two
men shook hands with each other, coldly, without saying a word, as
young men are apt to do when they are brought together in that way.
Then they separated at once, somewhat to the disappointment of Lily.
Crosbie stood off by himself, both his eyes turned up towards the
ceiling, and looking as though he meant to give himself airs; while
Crofts got himself quickly up to the fireplace, making civil little
speeches to Mrs. Dale, Mrs. Boyce, and Mrs. Hearn. And then at last
he made his way round to Bell.

"I am so glad," he said, "to congratulate you on your sister's
engagement."

"Yes," said Bell; "we knew that you would be glad to hear of her
happiness."

"Indeed, I am glad; and thoroughly hope that she may be happy. You
all like him, do you not?"

"We like him very much."

"And I am told that he is well off. He is a very fortunate man,--very
fortunate,--very fortunate."

"Of course we think so," said Bell. "Not, however, because he is
rich."

"No; not because he is rich. But because, being worthy of such
happiness, his circumstances should enable him to marry, and to enjoy
it."

"Yes, exactly," said Bell. "That is just it." Then she sat down, and
in sitting down put an end to the conversation. "That is just it,"
she had said. But as soon as the words were spoken she declared to
herself that it was not so, and that Crofts was wrong. "We love him,"
she said to herself, "not because he is rich enough to marry without
anxious thought, but because he dares to marry although he is not
rich." And then she told herself that she was angry with the doctor.

After that Dr. Crofts got off towards the door, and stood there by
himself, leaning against the wall, with the thumbs of both his hands
stuck into the armholes of his waistcoat. People said that he was a
shy man. I suppose he was shy, and yet he was a man that was by no
means afraid of doing anything that he had to do. He could speak
before a multitude without being abashed, whether it was a multitude
of men or of women. He could be very fixed too in his own opinion,
and eager, if not violent, in the prosecution of his purpose. But he
could not stand and say little words, when he had in truth nothing
to say. He could not keep his ground when he felt that he was not
using the ground upon which he stood. He had not learned the art of
assuming himself to be of importance in whatever place he might find
himself. It was this art which Crosbie had learned, and by this art
that he had flourished. So Crofts retired and leaned against the wall
near the door; and Crosbie came forward and shone like an Apollo
among all the guests. "How is it that he does it?" said John Eames to
himself, envying the perfect happiness of the London man of fashion.

At last Lily got the dancers out upon the lawn, and then they managed
to go through one quadrille. But it was found that it did not answer.
The music of the single fiddle which Crosbie had hired from Guestwick
was not sufficient for the purpose; and then the grass, though it was
perfect for purposes of croquet, was not pleasant to the feet for
dancing.

"This is very nice," said Bernard to his cousin. "I don't know
anything that could be nicer; but perhaps--"

"I know what you mean," said Lily. "But I shall stay here. There's no
touch of romance about any of you. Look at the moon there at the back
of the steeple. I don't mean to go in all night." Then she walked off
by one of the paths, and her lover went after her.

"Don't you like the moon?" she said, as she took his arm, to which
she was now so accustomed that she hardly thought of it as she took
it.

"Like the moon?--well; I fancy I like the sun better. I don't quite
believe in moonlight. I think it does best to talk about when one
wants to be sentimental."

"Ah; that is just what I fear. That is what I say to Bell when I tell
her that her romance will fade as the roses do. And then I shall have
to learn that prose is more serviceable than poetry, and that the
mind is better than the heart, and--and that money is better than
love. It's all coming, I know; and yet I do like the moonlight."

"And the poetry,--and the love?"

"Yes. The poetry much, and the love more. To be loved by you is
sweeter even than any of my dreams,--is better than all the poetry
I have read."

"Dearest Lily," and his unchecked arm stole round her waist.

"It is the meaning of the moonlight, and the essence of the poetry,"
continued the impassioned girl. "I did not know then why I liked such
things, but now I know. It was because I longed to be loved."

"And to love."

"Oh, yes. I would be nothing without that. But that, you know, is
your delight,--or should be. The other is mine. And yet it is a
delight to love you; to know that I may love you."

"You mean that this is the realization of your romance."

"Yes; but it must not be the end of it, Adolphus. You must like the
soft twilight, and the long evenings when we shall be alone; and you
must read to me the books I love, and you must not teach me to think
that the world is hard, and dry, and cruel,--not yet. I tell Bell so
very often; but you must not say so to me."

"It shall not be dry and cruel, if I can prevent it."

"You understand what I mean, dearest. I will not think it dry and
cruel, even though sorrow should come upon us, if you-- I think you
know what I mean."

"If I am good to you."

"I am not afraid of that;--I am not the least afraid of that. You do
not think that I could ever distrust you? But you must not be ashamed
to look at the moonlight, and to read poetry, and to--"

"To talk nonsense, you mean."

But as he said it, he pressed her closer to his side, and his tone
was pleasant to her.

"I suppose I'm talking nonsense now?" she said, pouting. "You liked
me better when I was talking about the pigs; didn't you?"

"No; I like you best now."

"And why didn't you like me then? Did I say anything to offend you?"

"I like you best now, because--"

They were standing in the narrow pathway of the gate leading from
the bridge into the gardens of the Great House, and the shadow of
the thick-spreading laurels was around them. But the moonlight still
pierced brightly through the little avenue, and she, as she looked up
to him, could see the form of his face and the loving softness of his
eye.

"Because--," said he; and then he stooped over her and pressed her
closely, while she put up her lips to his, standing on tip-toe that
she might reach to his face.

"Oh, my love!" she said. "My love! my love!"

As Crosbie walked back to the Great House that night, he made a firm
resolution that no consideration of worldly welfare should ever
induce him to break his engagement with Lily Dale. He went somewhat
further also, and determined that he would not put off the marriage
for more than six or eight months, or, at the most, ten, if he could
possibly get his affairs arranged in that time. To be sure, he must
give up everything,--all the aspirations and ambition of his life;
but then, as he declared to himself somewhat mournfully, he was
prepared to do that. Such were his resolutions, and, as he thought of
them in bed, he came to the conclusion that few men were less selfish
than he was.

"But what will they say to us for staying away?" said Lily,
recovering herself. "And I ought to be making the people dance, you
know. Come along, and do make yourself nice. Do waltz with Mary
Eames;--pray, do. If you don't, I won't speak to you all night!"

Acting under which threat, Crosbie did, on his return, solicit the
honour of that young lady's hand, thereby elating her into a seventh
heaven of happiness. What could the world afford better than a waltz
with such a partner as Adolphus Crosbie? And poor Mary Eames could
waltz well; though she could not talk much as she danced, and would
pant a good deal when she stopped. She put too much of her energy
into the motion, and was too anxious to do the mechanical part of
the work in a manner that should be satisfactory to her partner.
"Oh! thank you;--it's very nice. I shall be able to go on--again
directly." Her conversation with Crosbie did not get much beyond
that, and yet she felt that she had never done better than on this
occasion.

Though there were, at most, not above five couples of dancers, and
though they who did not dance, such as the squire and Mr. Boyce, and
a curate from a neighbouring parish, had, in fact, nothing to amuse
them, the affair was kept on very merrily for a considerable number
of hours. Exactly at twelve o'clock there was a little supper, which,
no doubt, served to relieve Mrs. Hearn's ennui, and at which Mrs.
Boyce also seemed to enjoy herself. As to the Mrs. Boyces on such
occasions, I profess that I feel no pity. They are generally happy in
their children's happiness, or if not, they ought to be. At any rate,
they are simply performing a manifest duty, which duty, in their
time, was performed on their behalf. But on what account do the Mrs.
Hearns betake themselves to such gatherings? Why did that ancient
lady sit there hour after hour yawning, longing for her bed, looking
every ten minutes at her watch, while her old bones were stiff and
sore, and her old ears pained with the noise? It could hardly have
been simply for the sake of the supper. After the supper, however,
her maid took her across to her cottage, and Mrs. Boyce also then
stole away home, and the squire went off with some little parade,
suggesting to the young men that they should make no noise in the
house as they returned. But the poor curate remained, talking a dull
word every now and then to Mrs. Dale, and looking on with tantalized
eyes at the joys which the world had prepared for others than him. I
must say that I think that public opinion and the bishops together
are too hard upon curates in this particular.

In the latter part of the night's delight, when time and practice had
made them all happy together, John Eames stood up for the first time
to dance with Lily. She had done all she could, short of asking him,
to induce him to do her this favour; for she felt that it would be a
favour. How great had been the desire on his part to ask her, and, at
the same time, how great the repugnance, Lily, perhaps, did not quite
understand. And yet she understood much of it. She knew that he was
not angry with her. She knew that he was suffering from the injured
pride of futile love, almost as much as from the futile love itself.
She wished to put him at his ease in this; but she did not quite give
him credit for the full sincerity, and the upright, uncontrolled
heartiness of his feelings.

At length he did come up to her, and though, in truth, she was
engaged, she at once accepted his offer. Then she tripped across the
room. "Adolphus," she said, "I can't dance with you, though I said
I would. John Eames has asked me, and I haven't stood up with him
before. You understand, and you'll be a good boy, won't you?"

Crosbie, not being in the least jealous, was a good boy, and sat
himself down to rest, hidden behind a door.

For the first few minutes the conversation between Eames and Lily
was of a very matter-of-fact kind. She repeated her wish that she
might see him in London, and he said that of course he should come
and call. Then there was silence for a little while, and they went
through their figure dancing.

"I don't at all know yet when we are to be married," said Lily, as
soon as they were again standing together.

"No; I dare say not," said Eames.

"But not this year, I suppose. Indeed, I should say, of course not."

"In the spring, perhaps," suggested Eames. He had an unconscious
desire that it might be postponed to some Greek kalends, and yet he
did not wish to injure Lily.

"The reason I mention it is this, that we should be so very glad if
you could be here. We all love you so much, and I should so like to
have you here on that day."

Why is it that girls so constantly do this,--so frequently ask men
who have loved them to be present at their marriages with other
men? There is no triumph in it. It is done in sheer kindness and
affection. They intend to offer something which shall soften and
not aggravate the sorrow that they have caused. "You can't marry me
yourself," the lady seems to say. "But the next greatest blessing
which I can offer you shall be yours,--you shall see me married to
somebody else." I fully appreciate the intention, but in honest
truth, I doubt the eligibility of the proffered entertainment.

On the present occasion John Eames seemed to be of this opinion, for
he did not at once accept the invitation.

"Will you not oblige me so far as that?" said she softly.

"I would do anything to oblige you," said he gruffly; "almost
anything."

"But not that?"

"No; not that. I could not do that." Then he went off upon his
figure, and when they were next both standing together, they remained
silent till their turn for dancing had again come. Why was it, that
after that night Lily thought more of John Eames than ever she had
thought before;--felt for him, I mean, a higher respect, as for a man
who had a will of his own?

And in that quadrille Crofts and Bell had been dancing together, and
they also had been talking of Lily's marriage. "A man may undergo
what he likes for himself," he had said, "but he has no right to make
a woman undergo poverty."

"Perhaps not," said Bell.

"That which is no suffering for a man,--which no man should think of
for himself,--will make a hell on earth for a woman."

"I suppose it would," said Bell, answering him without a sign of
feeling in her face or voice. But she took in every word that he
spoke, and disputed their truth inwardly with all the strength of
her heart and mind, and with the very vehemence of her soul. "As if
a woman cannot bear more than a man!" she said to herself, as she
walked the length of the room alone, when she had got herself free
from the doctor's arm.




CHAPTER X.

MRS. LUPEX AND AMELIA ROPER.


[ILLUSTRATION: (untitled)]

I should simply mislead a confiding reader if I were to tell him that
Mrs. Lupex was an amiable woman. Perhaps the fact that she was not
amiable is the one great fault that should be laid to her charge;
but that fault had spread itself so widely, and had cropped forth in
so many different places of her life, like a strong rank plant that
will show itself all over a garden, that it may almost be said that
it made her odious in every branch of life, and detestable alike
to those who knew her little and to those who knew her much. If a
searcher could have got at the inside spirit of the woman, that
searcher would have found that she wished to go right,--that she did
make, or at any rate promise to herself that she would make, certain
struggles to attain decency and propriety. But it was so natural to
her to torment those whose misfortune brought them near to her, and
especially that wretched man who in an evil day had taken her to his
bosom as his wife, that decency fled from her, and propriety would
not live in her quarters.

Mrs. Lupex was, as I have already described her, a woman not without
some feminine attraction in the eyes of those who like morning
negligence and evening finery, and do not object to a long nose
somewhat on one side. She was clever in her way, and could say
smart things. She could flatter also, though her very flattery had
always in it something that was disagreeable. And she must have had
some power of will, as otherwise her husband would have escaped
from her before the days of which I am writing. Otherwise, also,
she could hardly have obtained her footing and kept it in Mrs.
Roper's drawing-room. For though the hundred pounds a year, either
paid, or promised to be paid, was matter with Mrs. Roper of vast
consideration, nevertheless the first three months of Mrs. Lupex's
sojourn in Burton Crescent were not over before the landlady of that
house was most anxiously desirous of getting herself quit of her
married boarders.

I shall perhaps best describe a little incident that had occurred
in Burton Crescent during the absence of our friend Eames, and the
manner in which things were going on in that locality, by giving at
length two letters which Johnny received by post at Guestwick on the
morning after Mrs. Dale's party. One was from his friend Cradell,
and the other from the devoted Amelia. In this instance I will give
that from the gentleman first, presuming that I shall best consult
my reader's wishes by keeping the greater delicacy till the last.


   Income-tax Office, September, 186--.

   MY DEAR JOHNNY,--We have had a terrible affair in the
   Crescent; and I really hardly know how to tell you; and
   yet I must do it, for I want your advice. You know the
   sort of standing that I was on with Mrs. Lupex, and
   perhaps you remember what we were saying on the platform
   at the station. I have, no doubt, been fond of her
   society, as I might be of that of any other friend. I
   knew, of course, that she was a fine woman; and if her
   husband chose to be jealous, I couldn't help that. But I
   never intended anything wrong; and, if it was necessary,
   couldn't I call you as a witness to prove it? I never
   spoke a word to her out of Mrs. Roper's drawing-room; and
   Miss Spruce, or Mrs. Roper, or somebody has always been
   there. You know he drinks horribly sometimes, but I do
   not think he ever gets downright drunk. Well, he came
   home last night about nine o'clock after one of these
   bouts. From what Jemima says [Jemima was Mrs. Roper's
   parlour-maid], I believe he had been at it down at the
   theatre for three days. We hadn't seen him since Tuesday.
   He went straight into the parlour and sent up Jemima to
   me, to say that he wanted to see me. Mrs. Lupex was in
   the room and heard the girl summon me, and, jumping up,
   she declared that if there was going to be blood shed she
   would leave the house. There was nobody else in the room
   but Miss Spruce, and she didn't say a word, but took her
   candle and went upstairs. You must own it looked very
   uncomfortable. What was I to do with a drunken man down in
   the parlour? However, she seemed to think I ought to go.
   "If he comes up here," said she, "I shall be the victim.
   You little know of what that man is capable when his wrath
   has been inflamed by wine!" Now, I think you are aware
   that I am not likely to be very much afraid of any man;
   but why was I to be got into a row in such a way as this?
   I hadn't done anything. And then, if there was to be a
   quarrel, and anything was to come of it, as she seemed to
   expect,--like bloodshed, I mean, or a fight, or if he were
   to knock me on the head with the poker, where should I be
   at my office? A man in a public office, as you and I are,
   can't quarrel like anybody else. It was this that I felt
   so much at the moment. "Go down to him," said she, "unless
   you wish to see me murdered at your feet." Fisher says,
   that if what I say is true, they must have arranged it all
   between them. I don't think that; for I do believe that
   she really is fond of me. And then everybody knows that
   they never do agree about anything. But she certainly did
   implore me to go down to him. Well, I went down; and, as I
   got to the bottom of the stairs, where I found Jemima, I
   heard him walking up and down the parlour. "Take care of
   yourself, Mr. Cradell," said the girl; and I could see by
   her face that she was in a terrible fright.

   At that moment I happened to see my hat on the hall table,
   and it occurred to me that I ought to put myself into the
   hands of a friend. Of course, I was not afraid of that
   man in the dining-room; but should I have been justified
   in engaging in a struggle, perhaps for dear life, in Mrs.
   Roper's house? I was bound to think of her interests.
   So I took up my hat, and deliberately walked out of the
   front door. "Tell him," said I to Jemima, "that I'm not at
   home." And so I went away direct to Fisher's, meaning to
   send him back to Lupex as my friend; but Fisher was at his
   chess-club.

   As I thought there was no time to be lost on such an
   occasion as this, I went down to the club and called
   him out. You know what a cool fellow Fisher is. I don't
   suppose anything would ever excite him. When I told him
   the story, he said that he would sleep upon it; and I had
   to walk up and down before the club while he finished
   his game. Fisher seemed to think that I might go back to
   Burton Crescent; but, of course, I knew that that would
   be out of the question. So it ended in my going home and
   sleeping on his sofa, and sending for some of my things in
   the morning. I wanted him to get up and see Lupex before
   going to the office this morning. But he said it would be
   better to put it off, and so he will call upon him at the
   theatre immediately after office hours.

   I want you to write to me at once saying what you know
   about the matter. I ask you, as I don't want to lug in any
   of the other people at Roper's. It is very uncomfortable,
   as I can't exactly leave her at once because of last
   quarter's money, otherwise I should cut and run; for the
   house is not the sort of place either for you or me. You
   may take my word for that, Master Johnny. And I could tell
   you something, too, about A. R., only I don't want to make
   mischief. But do you write immediately. And now I think of
   it, you had better write to Fisher, so that he can show
   your letter to Lupex,--just saying, that to the best of
   your belief there had never been anything between her and
   me but mere friendship; and that, of course, you, as my
   friend, must have known everything. Whether I shall go
   back to Roper's to-night will depend on what Fisher says
   after the interview.

   Good-by, old fellow! I hope you are enjoying yourself, and
   that L. D. is quite well.--Your sincere friend,

   JOSEPH CRADELL.


John Eames read this letter over twice before he opened that from
Amelia. He had never yet received a letter from Miss Roper; and felt
very little of that ardour for its perusal which young men generally
experience on the receipt of a first letter from a young lady. The
memory of Amelia was at the present moment distasteful to him; and he
would have thrown the letter unopened into the fire, had he not felt
it might be dangerous to do so. As regarded his friend Cradell, he
could not but feel ashamed of him,--ashamed of him, not for running
away from Mr. Lupex, but for excusing his escape on false pretences.

And then, at last, he opened the letter from Amelia. "Dearest John,"
it began; and as he read the words, he crumpled the paper up between
his fingers. It was written in a fair female hand, with sharp points
instead of curves to the letters, but still very legible, and looking
as though there were a decided purport in every word of it.


   DEAREST JOHN,--It feels so strange to me to write to you
   in such language as this. And yet you are dearest, and
   have I not a right to call you so? And are you not my own,
   and am not I yours?


Again he crunched the paper up in his hand, and, as he did so, he
muttered words which I need not repeat at length. But still he went
on with his letter.


   I know that we understand each other perfectly, and when
   that is the case, heart should be allowed to speak openly
   to heart. Those are my feelings, and I believe that you
   will find them reciprocal in your own bosom. Is it not
   sweet to be loved? I find it so. And, dearest John, let me
   assure you, with open candour, that there is no room for
   jealousy in this breast with regard to you. I have too
   much confidence for that, I can assure you, both in your
   honour and in my own--I would say charms, only you would
   call me vain. You must not suppose that I meant what I
   said about L. D. Of course, you will be glad to see the
   friends of your childhood; and it would be far from your
   Amelia's heart to begrudge you such delightful pleasure.
   Your friends will, I hope, some day be my friends.
   [Another crunch.] And if there be any one among them, any
   real L. D. whom you have specially liked, I will receive
   her to my heart, specially also.


This assurance on the part of his Amelia was too much for him,
and he threw the letter from him, thinking whence he might get
relief--whether from suicide or from the colonies; but presently he
took it up again, and drained the bitter cup to the bottom.


   And if I seemed petulant to you before you went away, you
   must forgive your own Amelia. I had nothing before me but
   misery for the month of your absence. There is no one here
   congenial to my feelings,--of course not. And you would
   not wish me to be happy in your absence,--would you? I can
   assure you, let your wishes be what they may, I never can
   be happy again unless you are with me. Write to me one
   little line, and tell me that you are grateful to me for
   my devotion.

   And now, I must tell you that we have had a sad affair in
   the house; and I do not think that your friend Mr. Cradell
   has behaved at all well. You remember how he has been
   always going on with Mrs. Lupex. Mother was quite unhappy
   about it, though she didn't like to say anything. Of
   course, when a lady's name is concerned, it is particular.
   But Lupex has become dreadful jealous during the last
   week; and we all knew that something was coming. She is
   an artful woman, but I don't think she meant anything
   bad--only to drive her husband to desperation. He came
   here yesterday in one of his tantrums, and wanted to see
   Cradell; but he got frightened, and took his hat and went
   off. Now, that wasn't quite right. If he was innocent,
   why didn't he stand his ground and explain the mistake?
   As mother says, it gives the house such a name. Lupex
   swore last night that he'd be off to the Income-tax
   Office this morning, and have Cradell out before all the
   commissioners, and clerks, and everybody. If he does
   that, it will get into the papers, and all London will be
   full of it. She would like it, I know; for all she cares
   for is to be talked about; but only think what it will
   be for mother's house. I wish you were here; for your
   high prudence and courage would set everything right at
   once,--at least, I think so.

   I shall count the minutes till I get an answer to this,
   and shall envy the postman who will have your letter
   before it will reach me. Do write at once. If I do not
   hear by Monday morning I shall think that something is the
   matter. Even though you are among your dear old friends,
   surely you can find a moment to write to your own Amelia.

   Mother is very unhappy about this affair of the Lupexes.
   She says that if you were here to advise her she should
   not mind it so much. It is very hard upon her, for she
   does strive to make the house respectable and comfortable
   for everybody. I would send my duty and love to your dear
   mamma, if I only knew her, as I hope I shall do one day,
   and to your sister, and to L. D. also, if you like to tell
   her how we are situated together. So, now, no more from
   your

   Always affectionate sweetheart,

   AMELIA ROPER.


Poor Eames did not feel the least gratified by any part of this fond
letter; but the last paragraph of it was the worst. Was it to be
endured by him that this woman should send her love to his mother
and to his sister, and even to Lily Dale! He felt that there was a
pollution in the very mention of Lily's name by such an one as Amelia
Roper. And yet Amelia Roper was, as she had assured him,--his own.
Much as he disliked her at the present moment, he did believe that he
was--her own. He did feel that she had obtained a certain property
in him, and that his destiny in life would tie him to her. He had
said very few words of love to her at any time--very few, at least,
that were themselves of any moment; but among those few there had
undoubtedly been one or two in which he had told her that he loved
her. And he had written to her that fatal note! Upon the whole, would
it not be as well for him to go out to the great reservoir behind
Guestwick, by which the Hamersham Canal was fed with its waters, and
put an end to his miserable existence?

On that same day he did write a letter to Fisher, and he wrote also
to Cradell. As to those letters he felt no difficulty. To Fisher he
declared his belief that Cradell was innocent as he was himself as
regarded Mrs. Lupex. "I don't think he is the sort of man to make
up to a married woman," he said, somewhat to Cradell's displeasure,
when the letter reached the Income-tax Office; for that gentleman
was not averse to the reputation for success in love which the
little adventure was, as he thought, calculated to give him among
his brother clerks. At the first bursting of the shell, when that
desperately jealous man was raging in the parlour, incensed by the
fumes both of wine and love, Cradell had felt that the affair was
disagreeably painful. But on the morning of the third day--for he had
passed two nights on his friend Fisher's sofa--he had begun to be
somewhat proud of it, and did not dislike to hear Mrs. Lupex's name
in the mouths of the other clerks. When, therefore, Fisher read
to him the letter from Guestwick, he hardly was pleased with his
friend's tone. "Ha, ha, ha," said he, laughing. "That's just what I
wanted him to say. Make up to a married woman, indeed. No; I'm the
last man in London to do that sort of thing."

"Upon my word, Caudle, I think you are," said Fisher; "the very last
man."

And then poor Cradell was not happy. On that afternoon he boldly went
to Burton Crescent, and ate his dinner there. Neither Mr. nor Mrs.
Lupex were to be seen, nor were their names mentioned to him by Mrs.
Roper. In the course of the evening he did pluck up courage to ask
Miss Spruce where they were; but that ancient lady merely shook her
head solemnly, and declared that she knew nothing about such goings
on--no, not she.

But what was John Eames to do as to that letter from Amelia Roper? He
felt that any answer to it would be very dangerous, and yet that he
could not safely leave it unanswered. He walked off by himself across
Guestwick Common, and through the woods of Guestwick Manor, up by the
big avenue of elms in Lord De Guest's park, trying to resolve how he
might rescue himself from this scrape. Here, over the same ground,
he had wandered scores of times in his earlier years, when he knew
nothing beyond the innocency of his country home, thinking of Lily
Dale, and swearing to himself that she should be his wife. Here he
had strung together his rhymes, and fed his ambition with high hopes,
building gorgeous castles in the air, in all of which Lilian reigned
as a queen; and though in those days he had known himself to be
awkward, poor, uncared for by any in the world except his mother and
his sister, yet he had been happy in his hopes--happy in his hopes,
even though he had never taught himself really to believe that they
would be realized. But now there was nothing in his hopes or thoughts
to make him happy. Everything was black, and wretched, and ruinous.
What would it matter, after all, even if he should marry Amelia
Roper, seeing that Lily was to be given to another? But then the idea
of Amelia as he had seen her that night through the chink in the door
came upon his memory, and he confessed to himself that life with such
a wife as that would be a living death.

At one moment he thought that he would tell his mother everything,
and leave her to write an answer to Amelia's letter. Should the worst
come to the worst, the Ropers could not absolutely destroy him. That
they could bring an action against him, and have him locked up for a
term of years, and dismissed from his office, and exposed in all the
newspapers, he seemed to know. That might all, however, be endured,
if only the gauntlet could be thrown down for him by some one else.
The one thing which he felt that he could not do was, to write to
a girl whom he had professed to love, and tell her that he did not
love her. He knew that he could not himself form such words upon the
paper; nor, as he was well aware, could he himself find the courage
to tell her to her face that he had changed his mind. He knew that
he must become the victim of his Amelia, unless he could find some
friendly knight to do battle in his favour; and then again he thought
of his mother.

But when he returned home he was as far as ever from any resolve to
tell her how he was situated. I may say that his walk had done him no
good, and that he had not made up his mind to anything. He had been
building those pernicious castles in the air during more than half
the time; not castles in the building of which he could make himself
happy, as he had done in the old days, but black castles, with cruel
dungeons, into which hardly a ray of light could find its way. In all
these edifices his imagination pictured to him Lily as the wife of
Mr. Crosbie. He accepted that as a fact, and then went to work in his
misery, making her as wretched as himself, through the misconduct
and harshness of her husband. He tried to think, and to resolve what
he would do; but there is no task so hard as that of thinking, when
the mind has an objection to the matter brought before it. The mind,
under such circumstances, is like a horse that is brought to the
water, but refuses to drink. So Johnny returned to his home, still
doubting whether or no he would answer Amelia's letter. And if he did
not answer it, how would he conduct himself on his return to Burton
Crescent?

I need hardly say that Miss Roper, in writing her letter, had been
aware of all this, and that Johnny's position had been carefully
prepared for him by--his affectionate sweetheart.




CHAPTER XI.

SOCIAL LIFE.


Mr. and Mrs. Lupex had eaten a sweetbread together in much connubial
bliss on that day which had seen Cradell returning to Mrs. Roper's
hospitable board. They had together eaten a sweetbread, with
some other delicacies of the season, in the neighbourhood of the
theatre, and had washed down all unkindness with bitter beer and
brandy-and-water. But of this reconciliation Cradell had not heard;
and when he saw them come together into the drawing-room, a few
minutes after the question he had addressed to Miss Spruce, he was
certainly surprised.

Lupex was not an ill-natured man, nor one naturally savage by
disposition. He was a man fond of sweetbread and little dinners, and
one to whom hot brandy-and-water was too dear. Had the wife of his
bosom been a good helpmate to him, he might have gone through the
world, if not respectably, at any rate without open disgrace. But
she was a woman who left a man no solace except that to be found in
brandy-and-water. For eight years they had been man and wife; and
sometimes--I grieve to say it--he had been driven almost to hope
that she would commit a married woman's last sin, and leave him. In
his misery, any mode of escape would have been welcome to him. Had
his energy been sufficient he would have taken his scene-painting
capabilities off to Australia,--or to the farthest shifting of
scenes known on the world's stage. But he was an easy, listless,
self-indulgent man; and at any moment, let his misery be as keen
as might be, a little dinner, a few soft words, and a glass of
brandy-and-water would bring him round. The second glass would make
him the fondest husband living; but the third would restore to him
the memory of all his wrongs, and give him courage against his wife
or all the world,--even to the detriment of the furniture around him,
should a stray poker chance to meet his hand. All these peculiarities
of his character were not, however, known to Cradell; and when our
friend saw him enter the drawing-room with his wife on his arm, he
was astonished.

"Mr. Cradell, your hand," said Lupex, who had advanced as far as the
second glass of brandy-and-water, but had not been allowed to go
beyond it. "There has been a misunderstanding between us; let it be
forgotten."


[ILLUSTRATION: "Mr. Cradell, your hand," said Lupex.]


"Mr. Cradell, if I know him," said the lady, "is too much the
gentleman to bear any anger when a gentleman has offered him his
hand."

"Oh, I'm sure," said Cradell, "I'm quite--indeed, I'm delighted to
find there's nothing wrong after all." And then he shook hands with
both of them; whereupon Miss Spruce got up, curtseyed low, and also
shook hands with the husband and wife.

"You're not a married man, Mr. Cradell," said Lupex, "and, therefore,
you cannot understand the workings of a husband's heart. There have
been moments when my regard for that woman has been too much for me."

"Now, Lupex, don't," said she, playfully tapping him with an old
parasol which she still held.

"And I do not hesitate to say that my regard for her was too much for
me on that night when I sent for you to the dining-room."

"I'm glad it's all put right now," said Cradell.

"Very glad, indeed," said Miss Spruce.

"And, therefore, we need not say any more about it," said Mrs. Lupex.

"One word," said Lupex, waving his hand. "Mr. Cradell, I greatly
rejoice that you did not obey my summons on that night. Had you done
so,--I confess it now,--had you done so, blood would have been the
consequence. I was mistaken. I acknowledge my mistake;--but blood
would have been the consequence."

"Dear, dear, dear," said Miss Spruce.

"Miss Spruce," continued Lupex, "there are moments when the heart
becomes too strong for a man."

"I dare say," said Miss Spruce.

"Now, Lupex, that will do," said his wife.

"Yes; that will do. But I think it right to tell Mr. Cradell that I
am glad he did not come to me. Your friend, Mr. Cradell, did me the
honour of calling on me at the theatre yesterday, at half-past four;
but I was in the slings then, and could not very well come down
to him. I shall be happy to see you both any day at five, and to
bury all unkindness with a chop and glass at the Pot and Poker, in
Bow-street."

"I'm sure you're very kind," said Cradell.

"And Mrs. Lupex will join us. There's a delightful little snuggery
upstairs at the Pot and Poker; and if Miss Spruce will condescend
to--"

"Oh, I'm an old woman, sir."

"No--no--no," said Lupex, "I deny that. Come, Cradell, what do you
say?--just a snug little dinner for four, you know."

It was, no doubt, pleasant to see Mr. Lupex in his present
mood,--much pleasanter than in that other mood of which blood
would have been the consequence; but pleasant as he now was, it
was, nevertheless, apparent that he was not quite sober. Cradell,
therefore, did not settle the day for the little dinner; but merely
remarked that he should be very happy at some future day.

"And now, Lupex, suppose you get off to bed," said his wife. "You've
had a very trying day, you know."

"And you, ducky?"

"I shall come presently. Now don't be making a fool of yourself, but
get yourself off. Come--" and she stood close up against the open
door, waiting for him to pass.

"I rather think I shall remain where I am, and have a glass of
something hot," said he.

"Lupex, do you want to aggravate me again?" said the lady, and
she looked at him with a glance of her eye which he thoroughly
understood. He was not in a humour for fighting, nor was he at
present desirous of blood; so he resolved to go. But as he went he
prepared himself for new battles. "I shall do something desperate,
I am sure; I know I shall," he said, as he pulled off his boots.

"Oh, Mr. Cradell," said Mrs. Lupex as soon as she had closed the
door behind her retreating husband, "how am I ever to look you in
the face again after the events of these last memorable days?" And
then she seated herself on the sofa, and hid her face in a cambric
handkerchief.

"As for that," said Cradell, "what does it signify,--among friends
like us, you know?"

"But that it should be known at your office,--as of course it is,
because of the gentleman that went down to him at the theatre!--I
don't think I shall ever survive it."

"You see I was obliged to send somebody, Mrs. Lupex."

"I'm not finding fault, Mr. Cradell. I know very well that in my
melancholy position I have no right to find fault, and I don't
pretend to understand gentlemen's feelings towards each other. But
to have had my name mentioned up with yours in that way is-- Oh! Mr.
Cradell, I don't know how I'm ever to look you in the face again."
And again she buried hers in her pocket-handkerchief.

"Handsome is as handsome does," said Miss Spruce; and there was that
in her tone of voice which seemed to convey much hidden meaning.

"Exactly so, Miss Spruce," said Mrs. Lupex; "and that's my only
comfort at the present moment. Mr. Cradell is a gentleman who would
scorn to take advantage--I'm quite sure of that." And then she did
contrive to look at him over the edge of the hand which held the
handkerchief.

"That I wouldn't, I'm sure," said Cradell. "That is to say--" And
then he paused. He did not wish to get into a scrape about Mrs.
Lupex. He was by no means anxious to encounter her husband in one of
his fits of jealousy. But he did like the idea of being talked of as
the admirer of a married woman, and he did like the brightness of
the lady's eyes. When the unfortunate moth in his semi-blindness
whisks himself and his wings within the flame of the candle, and
finds himself mutilated and tortured, he even then will not take
the lesson, but returns again and again till he is destroyed. Such
a moth was poor Cradell. There was no warmth to be got by him
from that flame. There was no beauty in the light,--not even the
false brilliance of unhallowed love. Injury might come to him,--a
pernicious clipping of the wings, which might destroy all power of
future flight; injury, and not improbably destruction, if he should
persevere. But one may say that no single hour of happiness could
accrue to him from his intimacy with Mrs. Lupex. He felt for her no
love. He was afraid of her, and, in many respects, disliked her.
But to him, in his moth-like weakness, ignorance, and blindness, it
seemed to be a great thing that he should be allowed to fly near the
candle. Oh! my friends, if you will but think of it, how many of you
have been moths, and are now going about ungracefully with wings more
or less burnt off, and with bodies sadly scorched!

But before Mr. Cradell could make up his mind whether or no he would
take advantage of the present opportunity for another dip into
the flame of the candle,--in regard to which proceeding, however,
he could not but feel that the presence of Miss Spruce was
objectionable,--the door of the room was opened, and Amelia Roper
joined the party.

"Oh, indeed; Mrs. Lupex," she said. "And Mr. Cradell!"

"And Miss Spruce, my dear," said Mrs. Lupex, pointing to the ancient
lady.

"I'm only an old woman," said Miss Spruce.

"Oh, yes; I see Miss Spruce," said Amelia. "I was not hinting at
anything, I can assure you."

"I should think not, my dear," said Mrs. Lupex.

"Only I didn't know that you two were quite-- That is, when last I
heard about it, I fancied-- But if the quarrel's made up, there's
nobody more rejoiced than I am."

"The quarrel is made up," said Cradell.

"If Mr. Lupex is satisfied, I'm sure I am," said Amelia.

"Mr. Lupex is satisfied," said Mrs. Lupex; "and let me tell you, my
dear, seeing that you are expecting to get married yourself--"

"Mrs. Lupex, I'm not expecting to get married,--not particularly, by
any means."

"Oh, I thought you were. And let me tell you, that when you've got
a husband of your own, you won't find it so easy to keep everything
straight. That's the worst of these lodgings; if there is any little
thing, everybody knows it. Don't they, Miss Spruce?"

"Lodgings is so much more comfortable than housekeeping," said Miss
Spruce, who lived rather in fear of her relatives, the Ropers.

"Everybody knows it; does he?" said Amelia. "Why, if a gentleman will
come home at night tipsy and threaten to murder another gentleman in
the same house; and if a lady--" And then Amelia paused, for she knew
that the line-of-battle ship which she was preparing to encounter had
within her much power of fighting.

"Well, miss," said Mrs. Lupex, getting on her feet, "and what of the
lady?"

Now we may say that the battle had begun, and that the two ships were
pledged by the general laws of courage and naval warfare to maintain
the contest till one of them should be absolutely disabled, if not
blown up or sunk. And at this moment it might be difficult for a
bystander to say with which of the combatants rested the better
chance of permanent success. Mrs. Lupex had doubtless on her side
more matured power, a habit of fighting which had given her infinite
skill, a courage which deadened her to the feeling of all wounds
while the heat of the battle should last, and a recklessness which
made her almost indifferent whether she sank or swam. But then Amelia
carried the greater guns, and was able to pour in heavier metal than
her enemy could use; and she, too, swam in her own waters. Should
they absolutely come to grappling and boarding, Amelia would no doubt
have the best of it; but Mrs. Lupex would probably be too crafty to
permit such a proceeding as that. She was, however, ready for the
occasion, and greedy for the fight.

"And what of the lady?" said she, in a tone of voice that admitted of
no pacific rejoinder.

"A lady, if she is a lady," said Amelia, "will know how to behave
herself."

"And you're going to teach me, are you, Miss Roper? I'm sure I'm ever
so much obliged to you. It's Manchester manners, I suppose, that you
prefer?"

"I prefer honest manners, Mrs. Lupex, and decent manners, and manners
that won't shock a whole house full of people; and I don't care
whether they come from Manchester or London."

"Milliner's manners, I suppose?"

"I don't care whether they are milliner's manners or theatrical, Mrs.
Lupex, as long as they're not downright bad manners--as yours are,
Mrs. Lupex. And now you've got it. What are you going on for in
this way with that young man, till you'll drive your husband into a
madhouse with drink and jealousy?"

"Miss Roper! Miss Roper!" said Cradell; "now really--"

"Don't mind her, Mr. Cradell," said Mrs. Lupex; "she's not worthy
for you to speak to. And as to that poor fellow Eames, if you've any
friendship for him, you'll let him know what she is. My dear, how's
Mr. Juniper, of Grogram's house, at Salford? I know all about you,
and so shall John Eames, too--poor unfortunate fool of a fellow!
Telling me of drink and jealousy, indeed!"

"Yes, telling you! And now you've, mentioned Mr. Juniper's name, Mr.
Eames, and Mr. Cradell too, may know the whole of it. There's been
nothing about Mr. Juniper that I'm ashamed of."

"It would be difficult to make you ashamed of anything, I believe."

"But let me tell you this, Mrs. Lupex, you're not going to destroy
the respectability of this house by your goings on."

"It was a bad day for me when I let Lupex bring me into it."

"Then pay your bill, and walk out of it," said Amelia, waving her
hand towards the door. "I'll undertake to say there shan't be any
notice required. Only you pay mother what you owe, and you're free to
go at once."

"I shall go just when I please, and not one hour before. Who are you,
you gipsy, to speak to me in this way?"

"And as for going, go you shall, if we have to call in the police to
make you."

Amelia, as at this period of the fight she stood fronting her foe
with her arms akimbo, certainly seemed to have the best of the
battle. But the bitterness of Mrs. Lupex's tongue had hardly yet
produced its greatest results. I am inclined to think that the
married lady would have silenced her who was single, had the
fight been allowed to rage,--always presuming that no resort to
grappling-irons took place. But at this moment Mrs. Roper entered the
room, accompanied by her son, and both the combatants for a moment
retreated.

"Amelia, what's all this?" said Mrs. Roper, trying to assume a look
of agonized amazement.

"Ask Mrs. Lupex," said Amelia.

"And Mrs. Lupex will answer," said that lady. "Your daughter has come
in here, and attacked me--in such language--before Mr. Cradell,
too--"

"Why doesn't she pay what she owes, and leave the house?" said
Amelia.

"Hold your tongue," said her brother. "What she owes is no affair of
yours."

"But it's an affair of mine, when I'm insulted by such a creature as
that."

"Creature!" said Mrs. Lupex. "I'd like to know which is most like
a creature! But I'll tell you, what it is, Amelia Roper--" Here,
however, her eloquence was stopped, for Amelia had disappeared
through the door, having been pushed out of the room by her brother.
Whereupon Mrs. Lupex, having found a sofa convenient for the service,
betook herself to hysterics. There for the moment we will leave her,
hoping that poor Mrs. Roper was not kept late out of her bed.

"What a deuce of a mess Eames will make of it if he marries that
girl!" Such was Cradell's reflection as he betook himself to his own
room. But of his own part in the night's transactions he was rather
proud than otherwise, feeling that the married lady's regard for him
had been the cause of the battle which had raged. So, likewise, did
Paris derive much gratification from the ten years' siege of Troy.




CHAPTER XII.

LILIAN DALE BECOMES A BUTTERFLY.


And now we will go back to Allington. The same morning that brought
to John Eames the two letters which were given in the last chapter
but one, brought to the Great House, among others, the following
epistle for Adolphus Crosbie. It was from a countess, and was written
on pink paper, beautifully creamlaid and scented, ornamented with a
coronet and certain singularly-entwined initials. Altogether, the
letter was very fashionable and attractive, and Adolphus Crosbie was
by no means sorry to receive it.


   Courcy Castle, September, 186--.

   MY DEAR MR. CROSBIE,--We have heard of you from the
   Gazebees, who have come down to us, and who tell us that
   you are rusticating at a charming little village, in
   which, among other attractions, there are wood nymphs and
   water nymphs, to whom much of your time is devoted. As
   this is just the thing for your taste, I would not for
   worlds disturb you; but if you should ever tear yourself
   away from the groves and fountains of Allington, we shall
   be delighted to welcome you here, though you will find us
   very unromantic after your late Elysium.

   Lady Dumbello is coming to us, who I know is a favourite
   of yours. Or is it the other way, and are you a favourite
   of hers? I did ask Lady Hartletop, but she cannot get away
   from the poor marquis, who is, you know, so very infirm.
   The duke isn't at Gatherum at present, but, of course,
   I don't mean that that has anything to do with dear Lady
   Hartletop's not coming to us. I believe we shall have the
   house full, and shall not want for nymphs either, though
   I fear they will not be of the wood and water kind.
   Margaretta and Alexandrina particularly want you to come,
   as they say you are so clever at making a houseful of
   people go off well If you can give us a week before you go
   back to manage the affairs of the nation, pray do.

   Yours very sincerely,

   ROSINA DE COURCY.


The Countess De Courcy was a very old friend of Mr. Crosbie's; that
is to say, as old friends go in the world in which he had been
living. He had known her for the last six or seven years, and had
been in the habit of going to all her London balls, and dancing with
her daughters everywhere, in a most good-natured and affable way.
He had been intimate, from old family relations, with Mr. Mortimer
Gazebee, who, though only an attorney of the more distinguished kind,
had married the countess's eldest daughter, and now sat in Parliament
for the city of Barchester, near to which Courcy Castle was situated.
And, to tell the truth honestly at once, Mr. Crosbie had been on
terms of great friendship with Lady De Courcy's daughters, the Ladies
Margaretta and Alexandrina--perhaps especially so with the latter,
though I would not have my readers suppose by my saying so that
anything more tender than friendship had ever existed between them.

Crosbie said nothing about the letter on that morning; but during the
day, or, perhaps, as he thought over the matter in bed, he made up
his mind that he would accept Lady De Courcy's invitation. It was not
only that he would be glad to see the Gazebees, or glad to stay in
the same house with that great master in the high art of fashionable
life, Lady Dumbello, or glad to renew his friendship with the Ladies
Margaretta and Alexandrina. Had he felt that the circumstances of his
engagement with Lily made it expedient for him to stay with her till
the end of his holidays, he could have thrown over the De Courcys
without a struggle. But he told himself that it would be well for him
now to tear himself away from Lily; or perhaps he said that it would
be well for Lily that he should be torn away. He must not teach her
to think that they were to live only in the sunlight of each other's
eyes during those months, or perhaps years, which must elapse before
their engagement could be carried out. Nor must he allow her to
suppose that either he or she were to depend solely upon the other
for the amusements and employments of life. In this way he argued the
matter very sensibly within his own mind, and resolved, without much
difficulty, that he would go to Courcy Castle, and bask for a week in
the sunlight of the fashion which would be collected there. The quiet
humdrum of his own fireside would come upon him soon enough!

"I think I shall leave you on Wednesday, sir," Crosbie said to the
squire at breakfast on Sunday morning.

"Leave us on Wednesday!" said the squire, who had an old-fashioned
idea that people who were engaged to marry each other should remain
together as long as circumstances could be made to admit of their
doing so. "Nothing wrong, is there?"

"O dear, no! But everything must come to an end some day; and as I
must make one or two short visits before I get back to town, I might
as well go on Wednesday. Indeed, I have made it as late as I possibly
could."

"Where do you go from here?" asked Bernard.

"Well, as it happens, only into the next county,--to Courcy Castle."
And then there was nothing more said about the matter at that
breakfast-table.

It had become their habit to meet together on the Sunday mornings
before church, on the lawn belonging to the Small House, and on this
day the three gentlemen walked down together, and found Lily and Bell
already waiting for them. They generally had some few minutes to
spare on those occasions before Mrs. Dale summoned them to pass
through the house to church, and such was the case at present. The
squire at these times would stand in the middle of the grass-plot,
surveying his grounds, and taking stock of the shrubs, and flowers,
and fruit-trees round him; for he never forgot that it was all his
own, and would thus use this opportunity, as he seldom came down
to see the spot on other days. Mrs. Dale, as she would see him
from her own window while she was tying on her bonnet, would feel
that she knew what was passing through his mind, and would regret
that circumstances had forced her to be beholden to him for such
assistance. But, in truth, she did not know all that he thought at
such times. "It is mine," he would say to himself, as he looked
around on the pleasant place. "But it is well for me that they should
enjoy it. She is my brother's widow, and she is welcome;--very
welcome." I think that if those two persons had known more than they
did of each other's hearts and minds they might have loved each other
better.

And then Crosbie told Lily of his intention. "On Wednesday!" she
said, turning almost pale with emotion as she heard this news. He had
told her abruptly, not thinking, probably, that such tidings would
affect her so strongly.

"Well, yes. I have written to Lady De Courcy and said Wednesday. It
wouldn't do for me exactly to drop everybody, and perhaps--"

"Oh, no! And, Adolphus, you don't suppose I begrudge your going. Only
it does seem so sudden; does it not?"

"You see, I've been here over six weeks."

"Yes; you've been very good. When I think of it, what a six weeks it
has been! I wonder whether the difference seems to you as great as it
does to me. I've left off being a grub, and begun to be a butterfly."

"But you mustn't be a butterfly when you're married, Lily."

"No; not in that sense. But I meant that my real position in the
world,--that for which I would fain hope that I was created,--opened
to me only when I knew you and knew that you loved me. But mamma is
calling us, and we must go through to church. Going on Wednesday!
There are only three days more, then!"

"Yes, just three days," he said, as he took her on his arm and passed
through the house on to the road.

"And when are we to see you again?" she asked, as they reached the
churchyard.

"Ah, who is to say that yet? We must ask the Chairman of Committees
when he will let me go again." Then there was nothing more said, and
they all followed the squire through the little porch and up to the
big family-pew in which they all sat. Here the squire took his place
in one special corner which he had occupied ever since his father's
death, and from which he read the responses loudly and plainly,--so
loudly and plainly, that the parish clerk could by no means equal
him, though with emulous voice he still made the attempt. "T'
squire'd like to be squire, and parson, and clerk, and everything; so
a would," the poor clerk would say, when complaining of the ill-usage
which he suffered.

If Lily's prayers were interrupted by her new sorrow, I think that
her fault in that respect would be forgiven. Of course she had known
that Crosbie was not going to remain at Allington much longer. She
knew quite as well as he did the exact day on which his leave of
absence came to its end, and the hour at which it behoved him to
walk into his room at the General Committee Office. She had taught
herself to think that he would remain with them up to the end of his
vacation, and now she felt as a schoolboy would feel who was told
suddenly, a day or two before the time, that the last week of his
holidays was to be taken from him. The grievance would have been
slight had she known it from the first; but what schoolboy could
stand such a shock, when the loss amounted to two-thirds of his
remaining wealth? Lily did not blame her lover. She did not even
think that he ought to stay. She would not allow herself to suppose
that he could propose anything that was unkind. But she felt her
loss, and more than once, as she knelt at her prayers, she wiped a
hidden tear from her eyes.

Crosbie also was thinking of his departure more than he should have
done during Mr. Boyce's sermon. "It's easy listening to him," Mrs.
Hearn used to say of her husband's successor. "It don't give one much
trouble following him into his arguments." Mr. Crosbie perhaps found
the difficulty greater than did Mrs. Hearn, and would have devoted
his mind more perfectly to the discourse had the argument been
deeper. It is very hard, that necessity of listening to a man
who says nothing. On this occasion Crosbie ignored the necessity
altogether, and gave up his mind to the consideration of what it
might be expedient that he should say to Lily before he went. He
remembered well those few words which he had spoken in the first
ardour of his love, pleading that an early day might be fixed for
their marriage. And he remembered, also, how prettily Lily had
yielded to him. "Only do not let it be too soon," she had said.
Now he must unsay what he had then said. He must plead against his
own pleadings, and explain to her that he desired to postpone the
marriage rather than to hasten it--a task which, I presume, must
always be an unpleasant one for any man engaged to be married. "I
might as well do it at once," he said to himself, as he bobbed his
head forward into his hands by way of returning thanks for the
termination of Mr. Boyce's sermon.

As he had only three days left, it was certainly as well that he
should do this at once. Seeing that Lily had no fortune, she could
not in justice complain of a prolonged engagement. That was the
argument which he used in his own mind. But he as often told himself
that she would have very great ground of complaint if she were left
for a day unnecessarily in doubt as to this matter. Why had he rashly
spoken those hasty words to her in his love, betraying himself into
all manner of scrapes, as a schoolboy might do, or such a one as
Johnny Eames? What an ass he had been not to have remembered himself
and to have been collected,--not to have bethought himself on the
occasion of all that might be due to Adolphus Crosbie! And then
the idea came upon him whether he had not altogether made himself
an ass in this matter. And as he gave his arm to Lily outside the
church-door, he shrugged his shoulders while making that reflection.
"It is too late now," he said to himself; and then turned round
and made some sweet little loving speech to her. Adolphus Crosbie
was a clever man; and he meant also to be a true man,--if only the
temptations to falsehood might not be too great for him.

"Lily," he said to her, "will you walk in the fields after lunch?"

Walk in the fields with him! Of course she would. There were only
three days left, and would she not give up to him every moment of her
time, if he would accept of all her moments? And then they lunched at
the Small House, Mrs. Dale having promised to join the dinner-party
at the squire's table. The squire did not eat any lunch, excusing
himself on the plea that lunch in itself was a bad thing. "He can eat
lunch at his own house," Mrs. Dale afterwards said to Bell. "And I've
often seen him take a glass of sherry." While thinking of this, Mrs.
Dale made her own dinner. If her brother-in-law would not eat at her
board, neither would she eat at his.

And then in a few minutes Lily had on her hat, in place of that
decorous, church-going bonnet which Crosbie was wont to abuse with
a lover's privilege, feeling well assured that he might say what
he liked of the bonnet as long as he would praise the hat. "Only
three days," she said, as she walked down with him across the
lawn at a quick pace. But she said it in a voice which made no
complaint,--which seemed to say simply this,--that as the good
time was to be so short, they must make the most of it. And what
compliment could be paid to a man so sweet as that? What flattery
could be more gratifying? All my earthly heaven is with you; and now,
for the delight of these immediately present months or so, there are
left to me but three days of this heaven! Come, then; I will make the
most of what happiness is given to me. Crosbie felt it all as she
felt it, and recognized the extent of the debt he owed her. "I'll
come down to them for a day at Christmas, though it be only for a
day," he said to himself. Then he reflected that as such was his
intention, it might be well for him to open his present conversation
with a promise to that effect.

"Yes, Lily; there are only three days left now. But I wonder
whether--I suppose you'll all be at home at Christmas?"

"At home at Christmas?--of course we shall be at home. You don't mean
to say you'll come to us!"

"Well; I think I will, if you'll have me."

"Oh! that will make such a difference. Let me see. That will only be
three months. And to have you here on Christmas Day! I would sooner
have you then than on any other day in the year."

"It will only be for one day, Lily. I shall come to dinner on
Christmas Eve, and must go away the day after."

"But you will come direct to our house!"

"If you can spare me a room."

"Of course we can. So we could now. Only when you came, you know--"
Then she looked up into his face and smiled.

"When I came, I was the squire's friend and your cousin's, rather
than yours. But that's all changed now."

"Yes; you're my friend now,--mine specially. I'm to be now and always
your own special, dearest friend;--eh, Adolphus?" And then she
exacted from him the repetition of the promise which he had so often
given her.

By this time they had passed through the grounds of the Great House
and were in the fields. "Lily," said he, speaking rather suddenly,
and making her feel by his manner that something of importance was
to be said; "I want to say a few words to you about,--business." And
he gave a little laugh as he spoke the last word, making her fully
understand that he was not quite at his ease.

"Of course I'll listen. And, Adolphus, pray don't be afraid about
me. What I mean is, don't think that I can't bear cares and troubles.
I can bear anything as long as you love me. I say that because I'm
afraid I seemed to complain about your going. I didn't mean to."

"I never thought you complained, dearest. Nothing can be better than
you are at all times and in every way. A man would be very hard to
please if you didn't please him."

"If I can only please you--"

"You do please me, in everything. Dear Lily, I think I found an angel
when I found you. But now about this business. Perhaps I'd better
tell you everything."

"Oh, yes, tell me everything."

"But then you mustn't misunderstand me. And if I talk about money,
you mustn't suppose that it has anything to do with my love for you."

"I wish for your sake that I wasn't such a little pauper."

"What I mean to say is this, that if I seem to be anxious about
money, you must not suppose that that anxiety bears any reference
whatever to my affection for you. I should love you just the same,
and look forward just as much to my happiness in marrying you,
whether you were rich or poor. You understand that?"

She did not quite understand him; but she merely pressed his arm,
so as to encourage him to go on. She presumed that he intended to
tell her something as to their future mode of life--something which
he supposed it might not be pleasant for her to hear, and she was
determined to show him that she would receive it pleasantly.

"You know," said he, "how anxious I have been that our marriage
should not be delayed. To me, of course, it must be everything now
to call you my own as soon as possible." In answer to which little
declaration of love, she merely pressed his arm again, the subject
being one on which she had not herself much to say.

"Of course I must be very anxious, but I find it not so easy as I
expected."

"You know what I said, Adolphus. I said that I thought we had better
wait. I'm sure mamma thinks so. And if we can only see you now and
then--"

"That will be a matter of course. But, as I was saying-- Let me see.
Yes,--all that waiting will be intolerable to me. It is such a bore
for a man when he has made up his mind on such a matter as marriage,
not to make the change at once, especially when he is going to take
to himself such a little angel as you are," and as he spoke these
loving words, his arm was again put round her waist; "but--" and then
he stopped. He wanted to make her understand that this change of
intention on his part was caused by the unexpected misconduct of her
uncle. He desired that she should know exactly how the matter stood;
that he had been led to suppose that her uncle would give her some
small fortune; that he had been disappointed, and had a right to feel
the disappointment keenly; and that in consequence of this blow to
his expectations, he must put off his marriage. But he wished her
also to understand at the same time that this did not in the least
mar his love for her; that he did not join her at all in her uncle's
fault. All this he was anxious to convey to her, but he did not know
how to get it said in a manner that would not be offensive to her
personally, and that should not appear to accuse himself of sordid
motives. He had begun by declaring that he would tell her all; but
sometimes it is not easy, that task of telling a person everything.
There are things which will not get themselves told.

"You mean, dearest," said she, "that you cannot afford to marry at
once."

"Yes; that is it. I had expected that I should be able, but--"

Did any man in love ever yet find himself able to tell the lady whom
he loved that he was very much disappointed on discovering that she
had got no money? If so, his courage, I should say, was greater than
his love. Crosbie found himself unable to do it, and thought himself
cruelly used because of the difficulty. The delay to which he
intended to subject her was occasioned, as he felt, by the squire,
and not by himself. He was ready to do his part, if only the squire
had been willing to do the part which properly belonged to him. The
squire would not; and, therefore, neither could he,--not as yet.
Justice demanded that all this should be understood; but when he came
to the telling of it, he found that the story would not form itself
properly. He must let the thing go, and bear the injustice, consoling
himself as best he might by the reflection that he at least was
behaving well in the matter.

"It won't make me unhappy, Adolphus."

"Will it not?" said he. "As regards myself, I own that I cannot bear
the delay with so much indifference."

"Nay, my love; but you should not misunderstand me," she said,
stopping and facing him on the path in which they were walking. "I
suppose I ought to protest, according to the common rules, that I
would rather wait. Young ladies are expected to say so. If you were
pressing me to marry at once, I should say so, no doubt. But now, as
it is, I will be more honest. I have only one wish in the world, and
that is, to be your wife,--to be able to share everything with you.
The sooner we can be together the better it will be,--at any rate,
for me. There; will that satisfy you?"

"My own, own Lily!"

"Yes, your own Lily. You shall have no cause to doubt me, dearest.
But I do not expect that I am to have everything exactly as I want
it. I say again, that I shall not be unhappy in waiting. How can I be
unhappy while I feel certain of your love? I was disappointed just
now when you said that you were going so soon; and I am afraid I
showed it. But those little things are more unendurable than the big
things."

"Yes; that's very true."

"But there are three more days, and I mean to enjoy them so much! And
then you will write to me: and you will come at Christmas. And next
year, when you have your holiday, you will come down to us again;
will you not?"

"You may be quite sure of that."

"And so the time will go by till it suits you to come and take me. I
shall not be unhappy."

"I, at any rate, shall be impatient."

"Ah, men always are impatient. It is one of their privileges, I
suppose. And I don't think that a man ever has the same positive
and complete satisfaction in knowing that he is loved, which a girl
feels. You are my bird that I have shot with my own gun; and the
assurance of my success is sufficient for my happiness."

"You have bowled me over, and know that I can't get up again."

"I don't know about can't. I would let you up quick enough, if you
wished it."

How he made his loving assurance that he did not wish it, never would
or could wish it, the reader will readily understand. And then he
considered that he might as well leave all those money questions as
they now stood. His real object had been to convince her that their
joint circumstances did not admit of an immediate marriage; and as to
that she completely understood him. Perhaps, during the next three
days, some opportunity might arise for explaining the whole matter to
Mrs. Dale. At any rate, he had declared his own purpose honestly, and
no one could complain of him.

On the following day they all rode over to Guestwick together,--the
all consisting of the two girls, with Bernard and Crosbie. Their
object was to pay two visits,--one to their very noble and highly
exalted ally, the Lady Julia De Guest; and the other to their much
humbler and better known friend, Mrs. Eames. As Guestwick Manor lay
on their road into the town, they performed the grander ceremony the
first. The present Earl De Guest, brother of that Lady Fanny who ran
away with Major Dale, was an unmarried nobleman, who devoted himself
chiefly to the breeding of cattle. And as he bred very good cattle,
taking infinite satisfaction in the employment, devoting all his
energies thereto, and abstaining from all prominently evil courses,
it should be acknowledged that he was not a bad member of society.
He was a thorough-going old Tory, whose proxy was always in the hand
of the leader of his party; and who seldom himself went near the
metropolis, unless called thither by some occasion of cattle-showing.
He was a short, stumpy man, with red cheeks and a round face; who
was usually to be seen till dinner-time dressed in a very old
shooting coat, with breeches, gaiters, and very thick shoes. He lived
generally out of doors, and was almost as great in the preserving
of game as in the breeding of oxen. He knew every acre of his own
estate, and every tree upon it, as thoroughly as a lady knows the
ornaments in her drawing-room. There was no gap in a fence of which
he did not remember the exact bearings, no path hither or thither as
to which he could not tell the why and the wherefore. He had been
in his earlier years a poor man as regarded his income,--very poor,
seeing that he was an earl. But he was not at present by any means an
impoverished man, having been taught a lesson by the miseries of his
father and grandfather, and having learned to live within his means.
Now, as he was going down the vale of years, men said that he was
becoming rich, and that he had ready money to spend,--a position in
which no Lord De Guest had found himself for many generations back.
His father and grandfather had been known as spendthrifts; and now
men said that this earl was a miser.

There was not much of nobility in his appearance; but they greatly
mistook Lord De Guest who conceived that on that account his pride of
place was not dear to his soul. His peerage dated back to the time of
King John, and there were but three lords in England whose patents
had been conferred before his own. He knew what privileges were due
to him on behalf of his blood, and was not disposed to abate one
jot of them. He was not loud in demanding them. As he went through
the world he sent no trumpeters to the right or left, proclaiming
that the Earl De Guest was coming. When he spread his board for his
friends, which he did but on rare occasions, he entertained them
simply, with a mild, tedious, old-fashioned courtesy. We may say
that, if properly treated, the earl never walked over anybody. But he
could, if ill-treated, be grandly indignant; and if attacked, could
hold his own against all the world. He knew himself to be every
inch an earl, pottering about after his oxen with his muddy gaiters
and red cheeks, as much as though he were glittering with stars in
courtly royal ceremonies among his peers at Westminster;--ay, more an
earl than any of those who use their nobility for pageant purposes.
Woe be to him who should mistake that old coat for a badge of rural
degradation! Now and again some unlucky wight did make such a
mistake, and had to do his penance very uncomfortably.

With the earl lived a maiden sister, the Lady Julia. Bernard Dale's
father had, in early life, run away with one sister, but no suitor
had been fortunate enough to induce the Lady Julia to run with him.
Therefore she still lived, in maiden blessedness, as mistress of
Guestwick Manor; and as such had no mean opinion of the high position
which destiny had called upon her to fill. She was a tedious, dull,
virtuous old woman, who gave herself infinite credit for having
remained all her days in the home of her youth, probably forgetting,
in her present advanced years, that her temptations to leave it had
not been strong or numerous. She generally spoke of her sister Fanny
with some little contempt, as though that poor lady had degraded
herself in marrying a younger brother. She was as proud of her own
position as was the earl her brother, but her pride was maintained
with more of outward show and less of inward nobility. It was hardly
enough for her that the world should know that she was a De Guest,
and therefore she had assumed little pompous ways and certain airs of
condescension which did not make her popular with her neighbours.

The intercourse between Guestwick Manor and Allington was not very
frequent or very cordial. Soon after the running away of the Lady
Fanny, the two families had agreed to acknowledge their connection
with each other, and to let it be known by the world that they were
on friendly terms. Either that course was necessary to them, or
the other course, of letting it be known that they were enemies.
Friendship was the less troublesome, and therefore the two families
called on each other from time to time, and gave each other dinners
about once a year. The earl regarded the squire as a man who had
deserted his politics, and had thereby forfeited the respect due
to him as an hereditary land magnate; and the squire was wont to
be-little the earl as one who understood nothing of the outer world.
At Guestwick Manor Bernard was to some extent a favourite. He was
actually a relative, having in his veins blood of the De Guests, and
was not the less a favourite because he was the heir to Allington,
and because the blood of the Dales was older even than that of the
noble family to which he was allied. When Bernard should come to be
the squire, then indeed there might be cordial relations between
Guestwick Manor and Allington; unless, indeed, the earl's heir and
the squire's heir should have some fresh cause of ill-will between
themselves.

They found Lady Julia sitting in her drawing-room alone, and
introduced to her Mr. Crosbie in due form. The fact of Lily's
engagement was of course known at the manor, and it was quite
understood that her intended husband was now brought over that he
might be looked at and approved. Lady Julia made a very elaborate
curtsey, and expressed a hope that her young friend might be made
happy in that sphere of life to which it had pleased God to call her.

"I hope I shall, Lady Julia," said Lily, with a little laugh; "at any
rate I mean to try."

"We all try, my dear, but many of us fail to try with sufficient
energy of purpose. It is only by doing our duty that we can hope to
be happy, whether in single life or in married."

"Miss Dale means to be a dragon of perfection in the performance of
hers," said Crosbie.

"A dragon!" said Lady Julia. "No; I hope Miss Lily Dale will never
become a dragon." And then she turned to her nephew. It may be as
well to say at once that she never forgave Mr. Crosbie the freedom of
the expression which he had used. He had been in the drawing-room of
Guestwick Manor for two minutes only, and it did not become him to
talk about dragons. "Bernard," she said, "I heard from your mother
yesterday. I am afraid she does not seem to be very strong." And then
there was a little conversation, not very interesting in its nature,
between the aunt and the nephew as to the general health of Lady
Fanny.

"I didn't know my aunt was so unwell," said Bell.

"She isn't ill," said Bernard. "She never is ill; but then she is
never well."

"Your aunt," said Lady Julia, seeming to put a touch of sarcasm into
the tone of her voice as she repeated the word--"your aunt has never
enjoyed good health since she left this house; but that is a long
time ago."

"A very long time," said Crosbie, who was not accustomed to be left
in his chair silent. "You, Dale, at any rate, can hardly remember
it."

"But I can remember it," said Lady Julia, gathering herself up. "I
can remember when my sister Fanny was recognized as the beauty of the
country. It is a dangerous gift, that of beauty."

"Very dangerous," said Crosbie. Then Lily laughed again, and Lady
Julia became more angry than ever. What odious man was this whom her
neighbours were going to take into their very bosom! But she had
heard of Mr. Crosbie before, and Mr. Crosbie also had heard of her.

"By-the-by, Lady Julia," said he, "I think I know some very dear
friends of yours."

"Very dear friends is a very strong word. I have not many very dear
friends."

"I mean the Gazebees. I have heard Mortimer Gazebee and Lady Amelia
speak of you."

Whereupon Lady Julia confessed that she did know the Gazebees. Mr.
Gazebee, she said, was a man who in early life had wanted many
advantages, but still he was a very estimable person. He was now in
Parliament, and she understood that he was making himself useful. She
had not quite approved of Lady Amelia's marriage at the time, and
so she had told her very old friend Lady De Courcy; but-- And then
Lady Julia said many words in praise of Mr. Gazebee, which seemed to
amount to this; that he was an excellent sort of man, with a full
conviction of the too great honour done to him by the earl's daughter
who had married him, and a complete consciousness that even that
marriage had not put him on a par with his wife's relations, or even
with his wife. And then it came out that Lady Julia in the course of
the next week was going to meet the Gazebees at Courcy Castle.

"I am delighted to think that I shall have the pleasure of seeing you
there," said Crosbie.

"Indeed!" said Lady Julia.

"I am going to Courcy on Wednesday. That, I fear, will be too early
to allow of my being of any service to your ladyship."

Lady Julia drew herself up, and declined the escort which Mr. Crosbie
had seemed to offer. It grieved her to find that Lily Dale's future
husband was an intimate friend of her friend's, and it especially
grieved her to find that he was now going to that friend's house.
It was a grief to her, and she showed that it was. It also grieved
Crosbie to find that Lady Julia was to be a fellow guest with himself
at Courcy Castle; but he did not show it. He expressed nothing but
smiles and civil self-congratulation on the matter, pretending
that he would have much delight in again meeting Lady Julia; but,
in truth, he would have given much could he have invented any
manoeuvre by which her ladyship might have been kept at home.

"What a horrid old woman she is," said Lily, as they rode back down
the avenue. "I beg your pardon, Bernard; for, of course, she is your
aunt."

"Yes; she is my aunt; and though I am not very fond of her, I deny
that she is a horrid old woman. She never murdered anybody, or robbed
anybody, or stole away any other woman's lover."

"I should think not," said Lily.

"She says her prayers earnestly, I have no doubt," continued Bernard,
"and gives away money to the poor, and would sacrifice to-morrow any
desire of her own to her brother's wish. I acknowledge that she is
ugly, and pompous, and that, being a woman, she ought not to have
such a long black beard on her upper lip."

"I don't care a bit about her beard," said Lily. "But why did she
tell me to do my duty? I didn't go there to have a sermon preached to
me."

"And why did she talk about beauty being dangerous?" said Bell. "Of
course, we all knew what she meant."

"I didn't know at all what she meant," said Lily; "and I don't know
now."

"I think she's a charming woman, and I shall be especially civil to
her at Lady De Courcy's," said Crosbie.

And in this way, saying hard things of the poor old spinster whom
they had left, they made their way into Guestwick, and again
dismounted at Mrs. Eames's door.




CHAPTER XIII.

A VISIT TO GUESTWICK.


[ILLUSTRATION: (untitled)]

As the party from Allington rode up the narrow High-street
of Guestwick, and across the market square towards the small,
respectable, but very dull row of new houses in which Mrs. Eames
lived, the people of Guestwick were all aware that Miss Lily Dale was
escorted by her future husband. The opinion that she had been a very
fortunate girl was certainly general among the Guestwickians, though
it was not always expressed in open or generous terms. "It was a
great match for her," some said, but shook their heads at the same
time, hinting that Mr. Crosbie's life in London was not all that it
should be, and suggesting that she might have been more safe had she
been content to bestow herself upon some country neighbour of less
dangerous pretensions. Others declared that it was no such great
match after all. They knew his income to a penny, and believed
that the young people would find it very difficult to keep a house
in London unless the old squire intended to assist them. But,
nevertheless, Lily was envied as she rode through the town with her
handsome lover by her side.

And she was very happy. I will not deny that she had some feeling of
triumphant satisfaction in the knowledge that she was envied. Such a
feeling on her part was natural, and is natural to all men and women
who are conscious that they have done well in the adjustment of their
own affairs. As she herself had said, he was her bird, the spoil of
her own gun, the product of such capacity as she had in her, on which
she was to live, and, if possible, to thrive during the remainder of
her life. Lily fully recognized the importance of the thing she was
doing, and, in soberest guise, had thought much of this matter of
marriage. But the more she thought of it the more satisfied she was
that she was doing well. And yet she knew that there was a risk. He
who was now everything to her might die; nay, it was possible that
he might be other than she thought him to be; that he might neglect
her, desert her, or misuse her. But she had resolved to trust in
everything, and, having so trusted, she would not provide for herself
any possibility of retreat. Her ship should go out into the middle
ocean, beyond all ken of the secure port from which it had sailed;
her army should fight its battle with no hope of other safety than
that which victory gives. All the world might know that she loved him
if all the world chose to inquire about the matter. She triumphed in
her lover, and did not deny even to herself that she was triumphant.

Mrs. Eames was delighted to see them. It was so good in Mr. Crosbie
to come over and call upon such a poor, forlorn woman as her, and so
good in Captain Dale; so good also in the dear girls, who, at the
present moment, had so much to make them happy at home at Allington!
Little things, accounted as bare civilities by others, were esteemed
as great favours by Mrs. Eames.

"And dear Mrs. Dale? I hope she was not fatigued when we kept her up
the other night so unconscionably late?" Bell and Lily both assured
her that their mother was none the worse for what she had gone
through; and then Mrs. Eames got up and left the room, with the
declared purpose of looking for John and Mary, but bent, in truth, on
the production of some cake and sweet wine which she kept under lock
and key in the little parlour.

"Don't let's stay here very long," whispered Crosbie.

"No, not very long," said Lily. "But when you come to see my friends
you mustn't be in a hurry, Mr. Crosbie."

"He had his turn with Lady Julia," said Bell, "and we must have ours
now."

"At any rate, Mrs. Eames won't tell us to do our duty and to beware
of being too beautiful," said Lily.

Mary and John came into the room before their mother returned; then
came Mrs. Eames, and a few minutes afterwards the cake and wine
arrived. It certainly was rather dull, as none of the party seemed to
be at their ease. The grandeur of Mr. Crosbie was too great for Mrs.
Eames and her daughter, and John was almost silenced by the misery of
his position. He had not yet answered Miss Roper's letter, nor had he
even made up his mind whether he would answer it or no. And then the
sight of Lily's happiness did not fill him with all that friendly joy
which he should perhaps have felt as the friend of her childhood. To
tell the truth, he hated Crosbie, and so he had told himself; and had
so told his sister also very frequently since the day of the party.

"I tell you what it is, Molly," he had said, "if there was any way of
doing it, I'd fight that man."

"What; and make Lily wretched?"

"She'll never be happy with him. I'm sure she won't. I don't want to
do her any harm, but yet I'd like to fight that man,--if I only knew
how to manage it."

And then he bethought himself that if they could both be slaughtered
in such an encounter it would be the only fitting termination to the
present state of things. In that way, too, there would be an escape
from Amelia, and, at the present moment, he saw none other.

When he entered the room he shook hands with all the party from
Allington, but, as he told his sister afterwards, his flesh crept
when he touched Crosbie. Crosbie, as he contemplated the Eames family
sitting stiff and ill at ease in their own drawing-room chairs, made
up his mind that it would be well that his wife should see as little
of John Eames as might be when she came to London;--not that he was
in any way jealous of her lover. He had learned everything from
Lily,--all, at least, that Lily knew,--and regarded the matter
rather as a good joke. "Don't see him too often," he had said to
her, "for fear he should make an ass of himself." Lily had told him
everything,--all that she could tell; but yet he did not in the least
comprehend that Lily had, in truth, a warm affection for the young
man whom he despised.

"Thank you, no," said Crosbie. "I never do take wine in the middle of
the day."

"But a bit of cake?" And Mrs. Eames by her look implored him to do
her so much honour. She implored Captain Dale, also, but they were
both inexorable. I do not know that the two girls were at all more
inclined to eat and drink than the two men; but they understood
that Mrs. Eames would be broken-hearted if no one partook of her
delicacies. The little sacrifices of society are all made by women,
as are also the great sacrifices of life. A man who is good for
anything is always ready for his duty, and so is a good woman always
ready for a sacrifice.

"We really must go now," said Bell, "because of the horses." And
under this excuse they got away.

"You will come over before you go back to London, John?" said Lily,
as he came out with the intention of helping her mount, from which
purpose, however, he was forced to recede by the iron will of Mr.
Crosbie.

"Yes, I'll come over again--before I go. Good-by."

"Good-by, John," said Bell. "Good-by, Eames," said Captain Dale.
Crosbie, as he seated himself in the saddle, made the very slightest
sign of recognition, to which his rival would not condescend to pay
any attention. "I'll manage to have a fight with him in some way,"
said Eames to himself as he walked back through the passage of his
mother's house. And Crosbie, as he settled his feet in the stirrups,
felt that he disliked the young man more and more. It would be
monstrous to suppose that there could be aught of jealousy in the
feeling; and yet he did dislike him very strongly, and felt almost
angry with Lily for asking him to come again to Allington. "I must
put an end to all that," he said to himself as he rode silently out
of town.

"You must not snub my friends, sir," said Lily, smiling as she spoke,
but yet with something of earnestness in her voice. They were out of
the town by this time, and Crosbie had hardly uttered a word since
they had left Mrs. Eames's door. They were now on the high road, and
Bell and Bernard Dale were somewhat in advance of them.

"I never snub anybody," said Crosbie, petulantly; "that is, unless
they have absolutely deserved snubbing."

"And have I deserved it? Because I seem to have got it," said Lily.

"Nonsense, Lily. I never snubbed you yet, and I don't think it likely
that I shall begin. But you ought not to accuse me of not being civil
to your friends. In the first place I am as civil to them as my
nature will allow me to be. And, in the second place--"

"Well; in the second place--?"

"I am not quite sure that you are very wise to encourage that young
man's--friendship just at present."

"That means, I suppose, that I am very wrong to do so?"

"No, dearest, it does not mean that. If I meant so I would tell
you so honestly. I mean just what I say. There can, I suppose, be
no doubt that he has filled himself with some kind of romantic
attachment for you,--a foolish kind of love which I don't suppose he
ever expected to gratify, but the idea of which lends a sort of grace
to his life. When he meets some young woman fit to be his wife he
will forget all about it, but till then he will go about fancying
himself a despairing lover. And then such a young man as John Eames
is very apt to talk of his fancies."

"I don't believe for a moment that he would mention my name to any
one."

"But, Lily, perhaps I may know more of young men than you do."

"Yes, of course you do."

"And I can assure you that they are generally too well inclined to
make free with the names of girls whom they think that they like. You
must not be surprised if I am unwilling that any man should make free
with your name."

After this Lily was silent for a minute or two. She felt that an
injustice was being done to her and she was not inclined to put up
with it, but she could not quite see where the injustice lay. A great
deal was owing from her to Crosbie. In very much she was bound to
yield to him, and she was anxious to do on his behalf even more than
her duty. But yet she had a strong conviction that it would not be
well that she should give way to him in everything. She wished to
think as he thought as far as possible, but she could not say that
she agreed with him when she knew that she differed from him. John
Eames was an old friend whom she could not abandon, and so much at
the present time she felt herself obliged to say.

"But, Adolphus--"

"Well, dearest?"

"You would not wish me to be unkind to so very old a friend as John
Eames? I have known him all my life, and we have all of us had a very
great regard for the whole family. His father was my uncle's most
particular friend."

"I think, Lily, you must understand what I mean. I don't want you to
quarrel with any of them, or to be what you call unkind. But you need
not give special and pressing invitations to this young man to come
and see you before he goes back to London, and then to come and see
you directly you get to London. You tell me that he has some kind of
romantic idea of being in love with you;--of being in despair because
you are not in love with him. It's all great nonsense, no doubt, but
it seems to me that under such circumstances you'd better--just leave
him alone."

Again Lily was silent. These were her three last days, in which it
was her intention to be especially happy, but above all things to
make him especially happy. On no account would she say to him sharp
words, or encourage in her own heart a feeling of animosity against
him, and yet she believed him to be wrong; and so believing could
hardly bring herself to bear the injury. Such was her nature, as
a Dale. And let it be remembered that very many who can devote
themselves for great sacrifices, cannot bring themselves to
the endurance of little injuries. Lily could have given up any
gratification for her lover, but she could not allow herself to have
been in the wrong, believing herself to have been in the right.

"I have asked him now, and he must come," she said.

"But do not press him to come any more."

"Certainly not, after what you have said, Adolphus. If he comes over
to Allington, he will see me in mamma's house, to which he has always
been made welcome by her. Of course I understand perfectly--"

"You understand what, Lily?"

But she had stopped herself, fearing that she might say that which
would be offensive to him if she continued.

"What is it you understand, Lily?"

"Do not press me to go on, Adolphus. As far as I can, I will do all
that you want me to do."

"You meant to say that when you find yourself an inmate of my house,
as a matter of course you could not ask your own friends to come and
see you. Was that gracious?"

"Whatever I may have meant to say, I did not say that. Nor in truth
did I mean it. Pray don't go on about it now. These are to be our
last days, you know, and we shouldn't waste them by talking of things
that are unpleasant. After all poor Johnny Eames is nothing to me;
nothing, nothing. How can any one be anything to me when I think of
you?"

But even this did not bring Crosbie back at once into a pleasant
humour. Had Lily yielded to him and confessed that he was right, he
would have made himself at once as pleasant as the sun in May. But
this she had not done. She had simply abstained from her argument
because she did not choose to be vexed, and had declared her
continued purpose of seeing Eames on his promised visit. Crosbie
would have had her acknowledge herself wrong, and would have
delighted in the privilege of forgiving her. But Lily Dale was one
who did not greatly relish forgiveness, or any necessity of being
forgiven. So they rode on, if not in silence, without much joy in
their conversation. It was now late on the Monday afternoon, and
Crosbie was to go early on the Wednesday morning. What if these three
last days should come to be marred with such terrible drawbacks as
these!

Bernard Dale had not spoken a word to his cousin of his suit, since
they had been interrupted by Crosbie and Lily as they were lying
on the bank by the ha-ha. He had danced with her again and again
at Mrs. Dale's party, and had seemed to revert to his old modes of
conversation without difficulty. Bell, therefore, had believed the
matter to be over, and was thankful to her cousin, declaring within
her own bosom that the whole matter should be treated by her as
though it had never happened. To no one,--not even to her mother,
would she tell it. To such reticence she bound herself for his sake,
feeling that he would be best pleased that it should be so. But now
as they rode on together, far in advance of the other couple, he
again returned to the subject.

"Bell," said he, "am I to have any hope?"

"Any hope as to what, Bernard?"

"I hardly know whether a man is bound to take a single answer on such
a subject. But this I know, that if a man's heart is concerned, he is
not very willing to do so."

"When that answer has been given honestly and truly--"

"Oh, no doubt. I don't at all suppose that you were dishonest or
false when you refused to allow me to speak to you."

"But, Bernard, I did not refuse to allow you to speak to me."

"Something very like it. But, however, I have no doubt you were true
enough. But, Bell, why should it be so? If you were in love with any
one else I could understand it."

"I am not in love with any one else."

"Exactly. And there are so many reasons why you and I should join our
fortunes together."

"It cannot be a question of fortune, Bernard."

"Do listen to me. Do let me speak, at any rate. I presume I may at
least suppose that you do not dislike me."

"Oh, no."

"And though you might not be willing to accept any man's hand merely
on a question of fortune, surely the fact that our marriage would be
in every way suitable as regards money should not set you against it.
Of my own love for you I will not speak further, as I do not doubt
that you believe what I say; but should you not question your own
feelings very closely before you determine to oppose the wishes of
all those who are nearest to you?"

"Do you mean mamma, Bernard?"

"Not her especially, though I cannot but think she would like a
marriage that would keep all the family together, and would give you
an equal claim to the property to that which I have."

"That would not have a feather's-weight with mamma."

"Have you asked her?"

"No, I have mentioned the matter to no one."

"Then you cannot know. And as to my uncle, I have the means of
knowing that it is the great desire of his life. I must say that I
think some consideration for him should induce you to pause before
you give a final answer, even though no consideration for me should
have any weight with you."

"I would do more for you than for him,--much more."

"Then do this for me. Allow me to think that I have not yet had an
answer to my proposal; give me to this day month, to Christmas; till
any time that you like to name, so that I may think that it is not
yet settled, and may tell uncle Christopher that such is the case."

"Bernard, it would be useless."

"It would at any rate show him that you are willing to think of it."

"But I am not willing to think of it;--not in that way. I do know my
own mind thoroughly, and I should be very wrong if I were to deceive
you."

"And you wish me to give that as your only answer to my uncle?"

"To tell the truth, Bernard, I do not much care what you may say to
my uncle in this matter. He can have no right to interfere in the
disposal of my hand, and therefore I need not regard his wishes on
the subject. I will explain to you in one word what my feelings are
about it. I would accept no man in opposition to mamma's wishes; but
not even for her could I accept any man in opposition to my own. But
as concerns my uncle, I do not feel myself called on to consult him
in any way on such a matter."

"And yet he is the head of our family."

"I don't care anything about the family,--not in that way."

"And he has been very generous to you all."

"That I deny. He has not been generous to mamma. He is very hard
and ungenerous to mamma. He lets her have that house because he is
anxious that the Dales should seem to be respectable before the
world; and she lives in it, because she thinks it better for us that
she should do so. If I had my way, she should leave it to-morrow--or,
at any rate, as soon as Lily is married. I would much sooner go into
Guestwick, and live as the Eames do."

"I think you are ungrateful, Bell."

"No; I am not ungrateful. And as to consulting, Bernard,--I should
be much more inclined to consult you than him about my marriage. If
you would let me look on you altogether as a brother, I should think
little of promising to marry no one whom you did not approve."

But such an agreement between them would by no means have suited
Bernard's views. He had thought, some four or five weeks back, that
he was not personally very anxious for this match. He had declared to
himself that he liked his cousin well enough; that it would be a good
thing for him to settle himself; that his uncle was reasonable in his
wishes and sufficiently liberal in his offers; and that, therefore,
he would marry. It had hardly occurred to him as probable that his
cousin would reject so eligible an offer, and had certainly never
occurred to him that he would have to suffer anything from such
rejection. He had entertained none of that feeling of which lovers
speak when they declare that they are staking their all upon the
hazard of a die. It had not seemed to him that he was staking
anything, as he gently told his tale of languid love, lying on
the turf by the ha-ha. He had not regarded the possibility of
disappointment, of sorrow, and of a deeply-vexed mind. He would have
felt but little triumph if accepted, and had not thought that he
could be humiliated by any rejection. In this frame of mind he had
gone to his work; but now he found, to his own surprise, that this
girl's answer had made him absolutely unhappy. Having expressed a
wish for this thing, the very expression of the wish made him long to
possess it. He found, as he rode along silently by her side, that he
was capable of more earnestness of desire than he had known himself
to possess. He was at this moment unhappy, disappointed, anxious,
distrustful of the future, and more intent on one special toy than he
had ever been before, even as a boy. He was vexed, and felt himself
to be sore at heart. He looked round at her, as she sat silent,
quiet, and somewhat sad upon her pony, and declared to himself that
she was very beautiful,--that she was a thing to be gained if still
there might be the possibility of gaining her. He felt that he really
loved her, and yet he was almost angry with himself for so feeling.
Why had he subjected himself to this numbing weakness? His love
had never given him any pleasure. Indeed he had never hitherto
acknowledged it; but now he was driven to do so on finding it to be
the source of trouble and pain. I think it is open to us to doubt
whether, even yet, Bernard Dale was in love with his cousin; whether
he was not rather in love with his own desire. But against himself he
found a verdict that he was in love, and was angry with himself and
with all the world.

"Ah, Bell," he said, coming close up to her, "I wish you could
understand how I love you." And, as he spoke, his cousin
unconsciously recognized more of affection in his tone, and less of
that spirit of bargaining which had seemed to pervade all his former
pleas, than she had ever found before.

"And do I not love you? Have I not offered to be to you in all
respects as a sister?"

"That is nothing. Such an offer to me now is simply laughing at me.
Bell, I tell you what,--I will not give you up. The fact is, you do
not know me yet,--not know me as you must know any man before you
choose him for your husband. You and Lily are not alike in this.
You are cautious, doubtful of yourself, and perhaps, also, somewhat
doubtful of others. My heart is set upon this, and I shall still try
to succeed."

"Ah, Bernard, do not say that! Believe me, when I tell you that it
can never be."

"No; I will not believe you. I will not allow myself to be made
utterly wretched. I tell you fairly that I will not believe you. I
may surely hope if I choose to hope. No, Bell, I will never give you
up,--unless, indeed, I should see you become another man's wife."

As he said this, they all turned in through the squire's gate, and
rode up to the yard in which it was their habit to dismount from
their horses.




CHAPTER XIV.

JOHN EAMES TAKES A WALK.


John Eames watched the party of cavaliers as they rode away from
his mother's door, and then started upon a solitary walk, as soon
as the noise of the horses' hoofs had passed away out of the street.
He was by no means happy in his mind as he did so. Indeed, he was
overwhelmed with care and trouble, and as he went along very gloomy
thoughts passed through his mind. Had he not better go to Australia,
or Vancouver's Island, or--? I will not name the places which the
poor fellow suggested to himself as possible terminations of the long
journeys which he might not improbably be called upon to take. That
very day, just before the Dales had come in, he had received a second
letter from his darling Amelia, written very closely upon the heels
of the first. Why had he not answered her? Was he ill? Was he untrue?
No; she would not believe that, and therefore fell back upon the
probability of his illness. If it was so, she would rush down to
see him. Nothing on earth should keep her from the bedside of her
betrothed. If she did not get an answer from her beloved John by
return of post, she would be down with him at Guestwick by the
express train. Here was a position for such a young man as John
Eames! And of Amelia Roper we may say that she was a young woman who
would not give up her game, as long as the least chance remained of
her winning it. "I must go somewhere," John said to himself, as he
put on his slouched hat and wandered forth through the back streets
of Guestwick. What would his mother say when she heard of Amelia
Roper? What would she say when she saw her?

He walked away towards the Manor, so that he might roam about the
Guestwick woods in solitude. There was a path with a stile, leading
off from the high road, about half a mile beyond the lodges through
which the Dales had ridden up to the house, and by this path John
Eames turned in, and went away till he had left the Manor house
behind him, and was in the centre of the Guestwick woods. He knew
the whole ground well, having roamed there ever since he was first
allowed to go forth upon his walks alone. He had thought of Lily Dale
by the hour together, as he had lost himself among the oak-trees; but
in those former days he had thought of her with some pleasure. Now he
could only think of her as of one gone from him for ever; and then
he had also to think of her whom he had taken to himself in Lily's
place.

Young men, very young men,--men so young that it may be almost a
question whether or no they have as yet reached their manhood,--are
more inclined to be earnest and thoughtful when alone than they ever
are when with others, even though those others be their elders. I
fancy that, as we grow old ourselves, we are apt to forget that it
was so with us; and, forgetting it, we do not believe that it is
so with our children. We constantly talk of the thoughtlessness of
youth. I do not know whether we might not more appropriately speak of
its thoughtfulness. It is, however, no doubt, true that thought will
not at once produce wisdom. It may almost be a question whether such
wisdom as many of us have in our mature years has not come from the
dying out of the power of temptation, rather than as the results of
thought and resolution. Men, full fledged and at their work, are, for
the most part, too busy for much thought; but lads, on whom the work
of the world has not yet fallen with all its pressure,--they have
time for thinking.

And thus John Eames was thoughtful. They who knew him best accounted
him to be a gay, good-hearted, somewhat reckless young man, open to
temptation, but also open to good impressions; as to whom no great
success could be predicated, but of whom his friends might fairly
hope that he might so live as to bring upon them no disgrace and
not much trouble. But, above all things, they would have called him
thoughtless. In so calling him, they judged him wrong. He was ever
thinking,--thinking much of the world as it appeared to him, and of
himself as he appeared to the world; and thinking, also, of things
beyond the world. What was to be his fate here and hereafter? Lily
Dale was gone from him, and Amelia Roper was hanging round his neck
like a millstone! What, under such circumstances, was to be his fate
here and hereafter?

We may say that the difficulties in his way were not as yet very
great. As to Lily, indeed, he had no room for hope; but, then,
his love for Lily had, perhaps, been a sentiment rather than a
passion. Most young men have to go through that disappointment,
and are enabled to bear it without much injury to their prospects
or happiness. And in after-life the remembrance of such love is a
blessing rather than a curse, enabling the possessor of it to feel
that in those early days there was something within him of which he
had no cause to be ashamed. I do not pity John Eames much in regard
to Lily Dale. And then, as to Amelia Roper,--had he achieved but a
tithe of that lady's experience in the world, or possessed a quarter
of her audacity, surely such a difficulty as that need not have stood
much in his way! What could Amelia do to him if he fairly told her
that he was not minded to marry her? In very truth he had never
promised to do so. He was in no way bound to her, not even by honour.
Honour, indeed, with such as her! But men are cowards before women
until they become tyrants; and are easy dupes, till of a sudden they
recognize the fact that it is pleasanter to be the victimizer than
the victim,--and as easy. There are men, indeed, who never learn the
latter lesson.

But, though the cause for fear was so slight, poor John Eames was
thoroughly afraid. Little things which, in connection with so deep
a sorrow as his, it is almost ridiculous to mention, added to his
embarrassments, and made an escape from them seem to him to be
impossible. He could not return to London without going to Burton
Crescent, because his clothes were there, and because he owed to Mrs.
Roper some small sum of money which on his return to London he would
not have immediately in his pocket. He must therefore meet Amelia,
and he knew that he had not the courage to tell a girl, face to face,
that he did not love her, after he had been once induced to say that
he did do so. His boldest conception did not go beyond the writing
of a letter in which he would renounce her, and removing himself
altogether from that quarter of the town in which Burton Crescent was
situated. But then about his clothes, and that debt of his? And what
if Amelia should in the meantime come down to Guestwick and claim
him? Could he in his mother's presence declare that she had no right
to make such claim? The difficulties, in truth, were not very great,
but they were too heavy for that poor young clerk from the Income-tax
Office.

You will declare that he must have been a fool and a coward. Yet
he could read and understand Shakspeare. He knew much,--by far too
much,--of Byron's poetry by heart. He was a deep critic, often
writing down his criticisms in a lengthy journal which he kept. He
could write quickly, and with understanding; and I may declare that
men at his office had already ascertained that he was no fool. He
knew his business, and could do it,--as many men failed to do who
were much less foolish before the world. And as to that matter of
cowardice, he would have thought it the greatest blessing in the
world to be shut up in a room with Crosbie, having permission to
fight with him till one of them should have been brought by stress
of battle to give up his claim to Lily Dale. Eames was no coward. He
feared no man on earth. But he was terribly afraid of Amelia Roper.

He wandered about through the old Manor woods very ill at ease. The
post from Guestwick went out at seven, and he must at once make up
his mind whether or no he would write to Amelia on that day. He must
also make up his mind as to what he would say to her. He felt that he
should at least answer her letter, let his answer be what it might.
Should he promise to marry her,--say, in ten or twelve years' time?
Should he tell her that he was a blighted being, unfit for love, and
with humility entreat of her that he might be excused? Or should he
write to her mother, telling her that Burton Crescent would not suit
him any longer, promising her to send the balance on receipt of his
next payment, and asking her to send his clothes in a bundle to the
Income-tax Office? Or should he go home to his own mother, and boldly
tell it all to her?

He at last resolved that he must write the letter, and as he composed
it in his mind he sat himself down beneath an old tree which stood on
a spot at which many of the forest tracks met and crossed each other.
The letter, as he framed it here, was not a bad letter, if only he
could have got it written and posted. Every word of it he chose with
precision, and in his mind he emphasized every expression which told
his mind clearly and justified his purpose. "He acknowledged himself
to have been wrong in misleading his correspondent, and allowing her
to imagine that she possessed his heart. He had not a heart at her
disposal. He had been weak not to write to her before, having been
deterred from doing so by the fear of giving her pain; but now he
felt that he was bound in honour to tell her the truth. Having
so told her, he would not return to Burton Crescent, if it would
pain her to see him there. He would always have a deep regard for
her,"--Oh, Johnny!--"and would hope anxiously that her welfare in
life might be complete." That was the letter, as he wrote it on the
tablets of his mind under the tree; but the getting it put on to
paper was a task, as he knew, of greater difficulty. Then, as he
repeated it to himself, he fell asleep.

"Young man," said a voice in his ears as he slept. At first the voice
spoke as a voice from his dream without waking him, but when it was
repeated, he sat up and saw that a stout gentleman was standing over
him. For a moment he did not know where he was, or how he had come
there; nor could he recollect, as he saw the trees about him, how
long he had been in the wood. But he knew the stout gentleman well
enough, though he had not seen him for more than two years. "Young
man," said the voice, "if you want to catch rheumatism, that's the
way to do it. Why, it's young Eames, isn't it?"


[ILLUSTRATION: "Why, it's young Eames."]


"Yes, my lord," said Johnny, raising himself up so that he was now
sitting, instead of lying, as he looked up into the earl's rosy face.

"I knew your father, and a very good man he was; only he shouldn't
have taken to farming. People think they can farm without learning
the trade, but that's a very great mistake. I can farm, because I've
learned it. Don't you think you'd better get up?" Whereupon Johnny
raised himself to his feet. "Not but what you're very welcome to lie
there if you like it. Only, in October, you know--"

"I'm afraid I'm trespassing, my lord," said Eames. "I came in off the
path, and--"

"You're welcome; you're very welcome. If you'll come up to the house,
I'll give you some luncheon." This hospitable offer, however, Johnny
declined, alleging that it was late, and that he was going home to
dinner.

"Come along," said the earl. "You can't go any shorter way than by
the house. Dear, dear, how well I remember your father. He was a much
cleverer man than I am,--very much; but he didn't know how to send a
beast to market any better than a child. By-the-by, they have put you
into a public office, haven't they?"

"Yes, my lord."

"And a very good thing, too,--a very good thing, indeed. But why were
you asleep in the wood? It isn't warm, you know. I call it rather
cold." And the earl stopped, and looked at him, scrutinizing him, as
though resolved to inquire into so deep a mystery.

"I was taking a walk, and thinking of something, I sat down."

"Leave of absence, I suppose?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Have you got into trouble? You look as though you were in trouble.
Your poor father used to be in trouble."

"I haven't taken to farming," said Johnny, with an attempt at a
smile.

"Ha, ha, ha,--quite right. No, don't take to farming. Unless you
learn it, you know, you might just as well take to shoemaking;--just
the same. You haven't got into trouble, then; eh?"

"No, my lord, not particularly."

"Not particularly! I know very well that young men do get into
trouble when they get up to London. If you want any--any advice, or
that sort of thing, you may come to me; for I knew your father well.
Do you like shooting?"

"I never did shoot anything."

"Well, perhaps better not. To tell the truth, I'm not very fond of
young men who take to shooting without having anything to shoot at.
By-the-by, now I think of it, I'll send your mother some game." It
may, however, here be fair to mention that game very often came
from Guestwick Manor to Mrs. Eames. "And look here, cold pheasant
for breakfast is the best thing I know of. Pheasants at dinner are
rubbish,--mere rubbish. Here we are at the house. Will you come in
and have a glass of wine?"

But this John Eames declined, pleasing the earl better by doing
so than he would have done by accepting it. Not that the lord was
inhospitable or insincere in his offer, but he preferred that such a
one as John Eames should receive his proffered familiarity without
too much immediate assurance. He felt that Eames was a little in awe
of his companion's rank, and he liked him the better for it. He liked
him the better for it, and was a man apt to remember his likings. "If
you won't come in, good-by," and he gave Johnny his hand.

"Good evening, my lord," said Johnny.

"And remember this; it is the deuce of a thing to have rheumatism in
your loins. I wouldn't go to sleep under a tree, if I were you,--not
in October. But you're always welcome to go anywhere about the
place."

"Thank you, my lord."

"And if you should take to shooting,--but I dare say you won't; and
if you come to trouble, and want advice, or that sort of thing, write
to me. I knew your father well." And so they parted, Eames returning
on his road towards Guestwick.

For some reason, which he could not define, he felt better after
his interview with the earl. There had been something about the fat,
good-natured, sensible old man, which had cheered him, in spite of
his sorrow. "Pheasants for dinner are rubbish,--mere rubbish," he
said to himself, over and over again, as he went along the road;
and they were the first words which he spoke to his mother, after
entering the house.

"I wish we had some of that sort of rubbish," said she.

"So you will, to-morrow;" and then he described to her his interview.

"The earl was, at any rate, quite right about lying upon the ground.
I wonder you can be so foolish. And he is right about your poor
father too. But you have got to change your boots; and we shall be
ready for dinner almost immediately."

But Johnny Eames, before he sat down to dinner, did write his letter
to Amelia, and did go out to post it with his own hands,--much to his
mother's annoyance. But the letter would not get itself written in
that strong and appropriate language which had come to him as he was
roaming through the woods. It was a bald letter, and somewhat
cowardly withal.


   DEAR AMELIA [the letter ran],--I have received both of
   yours; and did not answer the first because I felt that
   there was a difficulty in expressing what I wish to say;
   and now it will be better that you should allow the
   subject to stand over till I am back in town. I shall be
   there in ten days from this. I have been quite well, and
   am so; but of course am much obliged by your inquiries.
   I know you will think this very cold; but when I tell you
   everything, you will agree with me that it is best. If I
   were to marry, I know that we should be unhappy, because
   we should have nothing to live on. If I have ever said
   anything to deceive you, I beg your pardon with all my
   heart;--but perhaps it will be better to let the subject
   remain till we shall meet again in London.

   Believe me to be
   Your most sincere friend,
   And I may say admirer,--[Oh, John Eames!]

   JOHN EAMES.




CHAPTER XV.

THE LAST DAY.


Last days are wretched days; and so are last moments wretched
moments. It is not the fact that the parting is coming which makes
these days and moments so wretched, but the feeling that something
special is expected from them, which something they always fail to
produce. Spasmodic periods of pleasure, of affection, or even of
study, seldom fail of disappointment when premeditated. When last
days are coming, they should be allowed to come and to glide away
without special notice or mention. And as for last moments, there
should be none such. Let them ever be ended, even before their
presence has been acknowledged.

But Lily Dale had not yet been taught these lessons by her world's
experience, and she expected that this sweetest cup of which she had
ever drank should go on being sweet--sweeter and still sweeter--as
long as she could press it to her lips. How the dregs had come to
mix themselves with the last drops we have already seen; and on that
same day--on the Monday evening--the bitter task still remained; for
Crosbie, as they walked about through the gardens in the evening,
found other subjects on which he thought it necessary to give her
sundry hints, intended for her edification, which came to her with
much of the savour of a lecture. A girl, when she is thoroughly in
love, as surely was the case with Lily, likes to receive hints as
to her future life from the man to whom she is devoted; but she
would, I think, prefer that such hints should be short, and that the
lesson should be implied rather than declared;--that they should, in
fact, be hints and not lectures. Crosbie, who was a man of tact, who
understood the world and had been dealing with women for many years,
no doubt understood all this as well as we do. But he had come to
entertain a notion that he was an injured man, that he was giving
very much more than was to be given to him, and that therefore he
was entitled to take liberties which might not fairly be within
the reach of another lover. My reader will say that in all this he
was ungenerous. Well; he was ungenerous. I do not know that I have
ever said that much generosity was to be expected from him. He had
some principles of right and wrong under the guidance of which it
may perhaps be hoped that he will not go utterly astray; but his
past life had not been of a nature to make him unselfish. He was
ungenerous, and Lily felt it, though she would not acknowledge it
even to herself. She had been very open with him,--acknowledging the
depth of her love for him; telling him that he was now all in all to
her; that life without his love would be impossible to her: and in a
certain way he took advantage of these strong avowals, treating her
as though she were a creature utterly in his power;--as indeed she
was.

On that evening he said no more of Johnny Eames, but said much of
the difficulty of a man establishing himself with a wife in London,
who had nothing but his own moderate income on which to rely. He did
not in so many words tell her that if her friends could make up for
her two or three thousand pounds,--that being much less than he had
expected when he first made his offer,--this terrible difficulty
would be removed; but he said enough to make her understand that the
world would call him very imprudent in taking a girl who had nothing.
And as he spoke of these things, Lily remaining for the most part
silent as he did so, it occurred to him that he might talk to her
freely of his past life,--more freely than he would have done had he
feared that he might lose her by any such disclosures. He had no fear
of losing her. Alas! might it not be possible that he had some such
hope!

He told her that his past life had been expensive; that, though he
was not in debt, he had lived up to every shilling that he had, and
that he had contracted habits of expenditure which it would be almost
impossible for him to lay aside at a day's notice. Then he spoke of
entanglements, meaning, as he did so, to explain more fully what were
their nature,--but not daring to do so when he found that Lily was
altogether in the dark as to what he meant. No; he was not a generous
man,--a very ungenerous man. And yet, during all this time, he
thought that he was guided by principle. "It will be best that I
should be honest with her," he said to himself. And then he told
himself, scores of times, that when making his offer he had expected,
and had a right to expect, that she would not be penniless. Under
those circumstances he had done the best he could for her--offering
her his heart honestly, with a quick readiness to make her his own
at the earliest day that she might think possible. Had he been more
cautious, he need not have fallen into this cruel mistake; but she,
at any rate, could not quarrel with him for his imprudence. And
still he was determined to stand by his engagement and willing to
marry her, although, as he the more thought of it, he felt the more
strongly that he would thereby ruin his prospects, and thrust beyond
his own reach all those good things which he had hoped to win. As
he continued to talk to her he gave himself special credit for his
generosity, and felt that he was only doing his duty by her in
pointing out to her all the difficulties which lay in the way of
their marriage.

At first Lily said some words intended to convey an assurance that
she would be the most economical wife that man ever had, but she soon
ceased from such promises as these. Her perceptions were keen, and
she discovered that the difficulties of which he was afraid were
those which he must overcome before his marriage, not any which might
be expected to overwhelm him after it. "A cheap and nasty menage
would be my aversion," he said to her. "It is that which I want to
avoid,--chiefly for your sake." Then she promised him that she would
wait patiently for his time--"even though it should be for seven
years," she said, looking up into his face and trying to find there
some sign of approbation. "That's nonsense," he said. "People are
not patriarchs now-a-days. I suppose we shall have to wait two years.
And that's a deuce of a bore,--a terrible bore." And there was that
in the tone of his voice which grated on her feelings, and made her
wretched for the moment.

As he parted with her for the night on her own side of the little
bridge which led from one garden to the other, he put his arm round
her to embrace her and kiss her, as he had often done at that spot.
It had become a habit with them to say their evening farewells there,
and the secluded little nook amongst the shrubs was inexpressibly
dear to Lily. But on the present occasion she made an effort to avoid
his caress. She turned from him--very slightly, but it was enough,
and he felt it. "Are you angry with me?" he said. "Oh, no! Adolphus;
how can I be angry with you?" And then she turned to him and gave
him her face to kiss almost before he had again asked for it. "He
shall not at any rate think that I am unkind to him,--and it will not
matter now," she said to herself, as she walked slowly across the
lawn, in the dark, up to her mother's drawing-room window.

"Well, dearest," said Mrs. Dale, who was there alone; "did the beards
wag merry in the Great Hall this evening?" That was a joke with them,
for neither Crosbie nor Bernard Dale used a razor at his toilet.

"Not specially merry. And I think it was my fault, for I have a
headache. Mamma, I believe I will go at once to bed."

"My darling, is there anything wrong?"

"Nothing, mamma. But we had such a long ride; and then Adolphus is
going, and of course we have so much to say. To-morrow will be the
last day, for I shall only just see him on Wednesday morning; and as
I want to be well, if possible, I'll go to bed." And so she took her
candle and went.

When Bell came up, Lily was still awake, but she begged her sister
not to disturb her. "Don't talk to me, Bell," she said. "I'm trying
to make myself quiet, and I half feel that I should get childish if
I went on talking. I have almost more to think of than I know how to
manage." And she strove, not altogether unsuccessfully, to speak with
a cheery tone, as though the cares which weighed upon her were not
unpleasant in their nature. Then her sister kissed her and left her
to her thoughts.

And she had great matter for thinking; so great, that many hours
sounded in her ears from the clock on the stairs before she brought
her thoughts to a shape that satisfied herself. She did so bring them
at last, and then she slept. She did so bring them, toiling over her
work with tears that made her pillow wet, with heart-burning and
almost with heart-breaking, with much doubting, and many anxious,
eager inquiries within her own bosom as to that which she ought to
do, and that which she could endure to do. But at last her resolve
was taken, and then she slept.

It had been agreed between them that Crosbie should come down to
the Small House on the next day after breakfast, and remain there
till the time came for riding. But Lily determined to alter this
arrangement, and accordingly put on her hat immediately after
breakfast, and posted herself at the bridge, so as to intercept her
lover as he came. He soon appeared with his friend Dale, and she at
once told him her purpose.

"I want to have a talk with you, Adolphus, before you go in to mamma;
so come with me into the field."

"All right," said he.

"And Bernard can finish his cigar on the lawn. Mamma and Bell will
join him there."

"All right," said Bernard. So they separated; and Crosbie went away
with Lily into the field where they had first learned to know each
other in those haymaking days.

She did not say much till they were well away from the house; but
answered what words he chose to speak,--not knowing very well of what
he spoke. But when she considered that they had reached the proper
spot, she began very abruptly.

"Adolphus," she said, "I have something to say to you,--something to
which you must listen very carefully." Then he looked at her, and at
once knew that she was in earnest.

"This is the last day on which I could say it," she continued; "and
I am very glad that I have not let the last day go by without saying
it. I should not have known how to put it in a letter."

"What is it, Lily?"

"And I do not know that I can say it properly; but I hope that you
will not be hard upon me. Adolphus, if you wish that all this between
us should be over, I will consent."

"Lily!"

"I mean what I say. If you wish it, I will consent; and when I have
said so, proposing it myself, you may be quite sure that I shall
never blame you, if you take me at my word."

"Are you tired of me, Lily?"

"No. I shall never be tired of you,--never weary with loving you. I
did not wish to say so now; but I will answer your question boldly.
Tired of you! I fancy that a girl can never grow tired of her lover.
But I would sooner die in the struggle than be the cause of your
ruin. It would be better,--in every way better."

"I have said nothing of being ruined."

"But listen to me. I should not die if you left me,--not be utterly
broken-hearted. Nothing on earth can I ever love as I have loved you.
But I have a God and a Saviour that will be enough for me. I can
turn to them with content, if it be well that you should leave me. I
have gone to them, and--" But at this moment she could utter no more
words. She had broken down in her effort, losing her voice through
the strength of her emotion. As she did not choose that he should see
her overcome, she turned from him and walked away across the grass.

Of course he followed her; but he was not so quick after her, but
that time had been given to her to recover herself. "It is true,"
she said. "I have the strength of which I tell you. Though I have
given myself to you as your wife, I can bear to be divorced from
you now,--now. And, my love, though it may sound heartless, I would
sooner be so divorced from you, than cling to you as a log that must
drag you down under the water, and drown you in trouble and care. I
would;--indeed I would. If you go, of course that kind of thing is
over for me. But the world has more than that,--much more; and I
would make myself happy;--yes, my love, I would be happy. You need
not fear that."

"But, Lily, why is all this said to me here to-day?"

"Because it is my duty to say it. I understand all your position now,
though it is only now. It never flashed on me till yesterday. When
you proposed to me, you thought that I,--that I had some fortune."

"Never mind that now, Lily."

"But you did. I see it all now. I ought perhaps to have told you that
it was not so. There has been the mistake, and we are both sufferers.
But we need not make the suffering deeper than needs be. My love, you
are free,--from this moment. And even my heart shall not blame you
for accepting your freedom."

"And are you afraid of poverty?" he asked her.

"I am afraid of poverty for you. You and I have lived differently.
Luxuries, of which I know nothing, have been your daily comforts. I
tell you I can bear to part with you, but I cannot bear to become the
source of your unhappiness. Yes; I will bear it; and none shall dare
in my hearing to speak against you. I have brought you here to say
the word; nay, more than that,--to advise you to say it."

He stood silent for a moment, during which he held her by the hand.
She was looking into his face, but he was looking away into the
clouds; striving to appear as though he was the master of the
occasion. But during those moments his mind was wracked with doubt.
What if he should take her at her word? Some few would say bitter
things against him, but such bitter things had been said against many
another man without harming him. Would it not be well for both if he
should take her at her word? She would recover and love again, as
other girls had done; and as for him, he would thus escape from the
ruin at which he had been gazing for the last week past. For it was
ruin,--utter ruin. He did love her; so he declared to himself. But
was he a man who ought to throw the world away for love? Such men
there were; but was he one of them? Could he be happy in that small
house, somewhere near the New Road, with five children and horrid
misgivings as to the baker's bill? Of all men living, was not he the
last that should have allowed himself to fall into such a trap? All
this passed through his mind as he turned his face up to the clouds
with a look that was intended to be grand and noble.

"Speak to me, Adolphus, and say that it shall be so."

Then his heart misgave him, and he lacked the courage to extricate
himself from his trouble; or, as he afterwards said to himself, he
had not the heart to do it. "If I understand you, rightly, Lily, all
this comes from no want of love on your own part?"

"Want of love on my part? But you should not ask me that."

"Until you tell me that there is such a want, I will agree to
no parting." Then he took her hand and put it within his arm.
"No, Lily; whatever may be our cares and troubles, we are bound
together,--indissolubly."

"Are we?" said she; and as she spoke, her voice trembled, and her
hand shook.

"Much too firmly for any such divorce as that. No, Lily, I claim the
right to tell you all my troubles; but I shall not let you go."

"But, Adolphus--" and the hand on his arm was beginning to cling to
it again.

"Adolphus," said he, "has got nothing more to say on that subject. He
exercises the right which he believes to be his own, and chooses to
retain the prize which he has won."

She was now clinging to him in very truth. "Oh, my love!" she
said. "I do not know how to say it again. It is of you that I am
thinking;--of you, of you!"

"I know you are; but you have misunderstood me a little; that's all."

"Have I? Then listen to me again, once more, my heart's own darling,
my love, my husband, my lord! If I cannot be to you at once like
Ruth, and never cease from coming after you, my thoughts to you shall
be like those of Ruth:--if aught but death part thee and me, may God
do so to me and more also." Then she fell upon his breast and wept.

He still hardly understood the depth of her character. He was not
himself deep enough to comprehend it all. But yet he was awed by her
great love, and exalted to a certain solemnity of feeling which for
the time made him rejoice in his late decision. For a few hours he
was minded to throw the world behind him, and wear this woman, as
such a woman should be worn,--as a comforter to him in all things,
and a strong shield against great troubles. "Lily," he said, "my own
Lily!"

"Yes, your own, to take when you please, and leave untaken while you
please; and as much your own in one way as in the other." Then she
looked up again, and essayed to laugh as she did so. "You will think
I am frantic, but I am so happy. I don't care about your going now;
indeed I don't. There; you may go now, this minute, if you like it."
And she withdrew her hand from him. "I feel so differently from what
I have done for the last few days. I am so glad you have spoken to me
as you did. Of course I ought to bear all those things with you. But
I cannot be unhappy about it now. I wonder if I went to work and made
a lot of things, whether that would help?"

"A set of shirts for me, for instance?"

"I could do that, at any rate."

"It may come to that yet, some of these days."

"I pray God that it may." Then again she was serious, and the tears
came once more into her eyes. "I pray God that it may. To be of use
to you,--to work for you,--to do something for you that may have in
it some sober, earnest purport of usefulness;--that is what I want
above all things. I want to be with you at once that I may be of
service to you. Would that you and I were alone together, that I
might do everything for you. I sometimes think that a very poor man's
wife is the happiest, because she does do everything."

"You shall do everything very soon," said he; and then they sauntered
along pleasantly through the morning hours, and when they again
appeared at Mrs. Dale's table, Mrs. Dale and Bell were astonished at
Lily's brightness. All her old ways had seemed to return to her, and
she made her little saucy speeches to Mr. Crosbie as she had used to
do when he was first becoming fascinated by her sweetness. "You know
that you'll be such a swell when you get to that countess's house
that you'll forget all about Allington."

"Of course I shall," said he.

"And the paper you write upon will be all over coronets,--that is, if
ever you do write. Perhaps you will to Bernard some day, just to show
that you are staying at a castle."

"You certainly don't deserve that he should write to you," said Mrs.
Dale.

"I don't expect it for a moment,--not till he gets back to London
and finds that he has nothing else to do at his office. But I should
so like to see how you and Lady Julia get on together. It was quite
clear that she regarded you as an ogre; didn't she, Bell?"

"So many people are ogres to Lady Julia," said Bell.

"I believe Lady Julia to be a very good woman," said Mrs. Dale, "and
I won't have her abused."

"Particularly before poor Bernard, who is her pet nephew," said Lily.
"I dare say Adolphus will become a pet too when she has been a week
with him at Courcy Castle. Do try and cut Bernard out."

From all which Mrs. Dale learned that some care which had sat heavy
on Lily's heart was now lightened, if not altogether removed. She
had asked no questions of her daughter, but she had perceived during
the past few days that Lily was in trouble, and she knew that such
trouble had arisen from her engagement. She had asked no questions,
but of course she had been told what was Mr. Crosbie's income, and
had been made to understand that it was not to be considered as
amply sufficient for all the wants of matrimony. There was little
difficulty in guessing what was the source of Lily's care, and as
little in now perceiving that something had been said between them by
which that care had been relieved.

After that they all rode, and the afternoon went by pleasantly. It
was the last day indeed, but Lily had determined that she would not
be sad. She had told him that he might go now, and that she would
not be discontented at his going. She knew that the morrow would be
very blank to her; but she struggled to live up to the spirit of her
promise, and she succeeded. They all dined at the Great House, even
Mrs. Dale doing so upon this occasion. When they had come in from the
garden in the evening, Crosbie talked more to Mrs. Dale than he did
even to Lily, while Lily sat a little distant, listening with all her
ears, sometimes saying a low-toned word, and happy beyond expression
in the feeling that her mother and her lover should understand each
other. And it must be understood that Crosbie at this time was fully
determined to conquer the difficulties of which he had thought so
much, and to fix the earliest day which might be possible for his
marriage. The solemnity of that meeting in the field still hung about
him, and gave to his present feelings a manliness and a truth of
purpose which were too generally wanting to them. If only those
feelings would last! But now he talked to Mrs. Dale about her
daughter, and about their future prospects, in a tone which he could
not have used had not his mind for the time been true to her. He
had never spoken so freely to Lily's mother, and at no time had Mrs.
Dale felt for him so much of a mother's love. He apologized for the
necessity of some delay, arguing that he could not endure to see his
young wife without the comfort of a home of her own, and that he
was now, as he always had been, afraid of incurring debt. Mrs. Dale
disliked waiting engagements,--as do all mothers,--but she could not
answer unkindly to such pleading as this.

"Lily is so very young," she said, "that she may well wait for a year
or so."

"For seven years," said Lily, jumping up and whispering into her
mother's ear. "I shall hardly be six-and-twenty then, which is not at
all too old."

And so the evening passed away very pleasantly.

"God bless you, Adolphus!" Mrs. Dale said to him, as she parted with
him at her own door. It was the first time that she had called him by
his Christian name. "I hope you understand how much we are trusting
to you."

"I do,--I do," said he, as he pressed her hand. Then as he walked
back alone, he swore to himself, binding himself to the oath with
all his heart, that he would be true to those women,--both to the
daughter and to the mother; for the solemnity of the morning was
still upon him.

He was to start the next morning before eight, Bernard having
undertaken to drive him over to the railway at Guestwick. The
breakfast was on the table shortly after seven; and just as the two
men had come down, Lily entered the room, with her hat and shawl. "I
said I would be in to pour out your tea," said she; and then she sat
herself down over against the teapot.

It was a silent meal, for people do not know what to say in those
last minutes. And Bernard, too, was there; proving how true is the
adage which says, that two are company, but that three are not. I
think that Lily was wrong to come up on that last morning; but she
would not hear of letting him start without seeing him, when her
lover had begged her not to put herself to so much trouble. Trouble!
Would she not have sat up all night to see even the last of the top
of his hat?

Then Bernard, muttering something about the horse, went away. "I have
only one minute to speak to you," said she, jumping up, "and I have
been thinking all night of what I had to say. It is so easy to think,
and so hard to speak."

"My darling, I understand it all."

"But you must understand this, that I will never distrust you. I
will never ask you to give me up again, or say that I could be happy
without you. I could not live without you; that is, without the
knowledge that you are mine. But I will never be impatient, never.
Pray, pray believe me! Nothing shall make me distrust you."

"Dearest Lily, I will endeavour to give you no cause."

"I know you will not; but I specially wanted to tell you that. And
you will write,--very soon?"

"Directly I get there."

"And as often as you can. But I won't bother you; only your letters
will make me so happy. I shall be so proud when they come to me. I
shall be afraid of writing too much to you, for fear I should tire
you."

"You will never do that."

"Shall I not? But you must write first, you know. If you could only
understand how I shall live upon your letters! And now good-by. There
are the wheels. God bless you, my own, my own!" And she gave herself
up into his arms, as she had given herself up into his heart.

She stood at the door as the two men got into the gig, and, as it
passed down through the gate, she hurried out upon the terrace, from
whence she could see it for a few yards down the lane. Then she ran
from the terrace to the gate, and, hurrying through the gate, made
her way into the churchyard, from the farther corner of which she
could see the heads of the two men till they had made the turn into
the main road beyond the parsonage. There she remained till the very
sound of the wheels no longer reached her ears, stretching her eyes
in the direction they had taken. Then she turned round slowly and
made her way out at the churchyard gate, which opened on to the road
close to the front door of the Small House.

"I should like to punch his head," said Hopkins, the gardener, to
himself, as he saw the gig driven away and saw Lily trip after it,
that she might see the last of him whom it carried. "And I wouldn't
think nothing of doing it; no more I wouldn't," Hopkins added in his
soliloquy. It was generally thought about the place that Miss Lily
was Hopkins's favourite; though he showed it chiefly by snubbing her
more frequently than he snubbed her sister.

Lily had evidently intended to return home through the front door;
but she changed her purpose before she reached the house, and made
her way slowly back through the churchyard, and by the gate of the
Great House, and by the garden at the back of it, till she crossed
the little bridge. But on the bridge she rested awhile, leaning
against the railing as she had often leant with him, and thinking of
all that had passed since that July day on which she had first met
him. On no spot had he so often told her of his love as on this, and
nowhere had she so eagerly sworn to him that she would be his own
dutiful loving wife.

"And by God's help so I will," she said to herself, as she walked
firmly up to the house. "He has gone, mamma," she said, as she
entered the breakfast-room. "And now we'll go back to our work-a-day
ways; it has been all Sunday for me for the last six weeks."




CHAPTER XVI.

MR. CROSBIE MEETS AN OLD CLERGYMAN ON HIS WAY TO COURCY CASTLE.


[ILLUSTRATION: (untitled)]

For the first mile or two of their journey Crosbie and Bernard Dale
sat, for the most part, silent in their gig. Lily, as she ran down
to the churchyard corner and stood there looking after them with
her loving eyes, had not been seen by them. But the spirit of her
devotion was still strong upon them both, and they felt that it
would not be well to strike at once into any ordinary topic of
conversation. And, moreover, we may presume that Crosbie did feel
much at thus parting from such a girl as Lily Dale, with whom he
had lived in close intercourse for the last six weeks, and whom he
loved with all his heart,--with all the heart that he had for such
purposes. In those doubts as to his marriage which had troubled him
he had never expressed to himself any disapproval of Lily. He had not
taught himself to think that she was other than he would have her be,
that he might thus give himself an excuse for parting from her. Not
as yet, at any rate, had he had recourse to that practice, so common
with men who wish to free themselves from the bonds with which they
have permitted themselves to be bound. Lily had been too sweet to
his eyes, to his touch, to all his senses for that. He had enjoyed
too keenly the pleasure of being with her, and of hearing her tell
him that she loved him, to allow of his being personally tired of
her. He had not been so spoilt by his club life but that he had
taken exquisite pleasure in all her nice country ways, and soft,
kind-hearted, womanly humour. He was by no means tired of Lily.
Better than any of his London pleasures was this pleasure of making
love in the green fields to Lily Dale. It was the consequences of
it that affrighted him. Babies with their belongings would come;
and dull evenings, over a dull fire, or else the pining grief of
a disappointed woman. He would be driven to be careful as to his
clothes, because the ordering of a new coat would entail a serious
expenditure. He could go no more among countesses and their
daughters, because it would be out of the question that his wife
should visit at their houses. All the victories that he had ever won
must be given up. He was thinking of this even while the gig was
going round the corner near the parsonage house, and while Lily's
eyes were still blessed with some view of his departing back; but he
was thinking, also, that moment, that there might be other victory
in store for him; that it might be possible for him to learn to
like that fireside, even though babies should be there, and a woman
opposite to him intent on baby cares. He was struggling as best he
knew how; for the solemnity which Lily had imparted to him had not
yet vanished from his spirit.

"I hope that, upon the whole, you feel contented with your visit?"
said Bernard to him, at last.

"Contented? Of course I do."

"That is easily said; and civility to me, perhaps, demands as much.
But I know that you have, to some extent, been disappointed."

"Well; yes. I have been disappointed as regards money. It is of no
use denying it."

"I should not mention it now, only that I want to know that you
exonerate me."

"I have never blamed you;--neither you, nor anybody else; unless,
indeed, it has been myself."

"You mean that you regret what you've done?"

"No; I don't mean that. I am too devotedly attached to that dear girl
whom we have just left to feel any regret that I have engaged myself
to her. But I do think that had I managed better with your uncle
things might have been different."

"I doubt it. Indeed I know that it is not so; and can assure you
that you need not make yourself unhappy on that score. I had
thought, as you well know, that he would have done something for
Lily;--something, though not as much as he always intended to do for
Bell. But you may be sure of this; that he had made up his mind as to
what he would do. Nothing that you or I could have said would have
changed him."

"Well; we won't say anything more about it," said Crosbie.

Then they went on again in silence, and arrived at Guestwick in ample
time for the train.

"Let me know as soon as you get to town," said Crosbie.

"Oh, of course. I'll write to you before that."

And so they parted. As Dale turned and went, Crosbie felt that he
liked him less than he had done before; and Bernard, also, as he was
driving him, came to the conclusion that Crosbie would not be so
good a fellow as a brother-in-law as he had been as a chance friend.
"He'll give us trouble, in some way; and I'm sorry that I brought him
down." That was Dale's inward conviction in the matter.

Crosbie's way from Guestwick lay, by railway, to Barchester, the
cathedral city lying in the next county, from whence he purposed to
have himself conveyed over to Courcy. There had, in truth, been no
cause for his very early departure, as he was aware that all arrivals
at country houses should take place at some hour not much previous
to dinner. He had been determined to be so soon upon the road by a
feeling that it would be well for him to get over those last hours.
Thus he found himself in Barchester at eleven o'clock, with nothing
on his hands to do; and, having nothing else to do, he went to
church. There was a full service at the cathedral, and as the verger
marshalled him up to one of the empty stalls, a little spare old man
was beginning to chant the Litany. "I did not mean to fall in for all
this," said Crosbie, to himself, as he settled himself with his arms
on the cushion. But the peculiar charm of that old man's voice soon
attracted him;--a voice that, though tremulous, was yet strong; and
he ceased to regret the saint whose honour and glory had occasioned
the length of that day's special service.

"And who is the old gentleman who chanted the Litany?" he asked
the verger afterwards, as he allowed himself to be shown round the
monuments of the cathedral.

"That's our precentor, sir; Mr. Harding. You must have heard of Mr.
Harding." But Crosbie, with a full apology, confessed his ignorance.

"Well, sir; he's pretty well known too, tho' he is so shy like. He's
father-in-law to our dean, sir; and father-in-law to Archdeacon
Grantly also."

"His daughters have all gone into the profession, then?"

"Why, yes; but Miss Eleanor--for I remember her before she was
married at all,--when they lived at the hospital--"

"At the hospital?"

"Hiram's hospital, sir. He was warden, you know. You should go and
see the hospital, sir, if you never was there before. Well, Miss
Eleanor,--that was his youngest,--she married Mr. Bold as her first.
But now she's the dean's lady."

"Oh; the dean's lady, is she?"

"Yes, indeed. And what do you think, sir? Mr. Harding might have been
dean himself if he'd liked. They did offer it to him."

"And he refused it?"

"Indeed he did, sir."

"Nolo decanari. I never heard of that before. What made him so
modest?"

"Just that, sir; because he is modest. He's past his seventy
now,--ever so much; but he's just as modest as a young girl. A deal
more modest than some of them. To see him and his granddaughter
together!"

"And who is his granddaughter?"

"Why, Lady Dumbello, as will be the Marchioness of Hartletop."

"I know Lady Dumbello," said Crosbie; not meaning, however, to boast
to the verger of his noble acquaintance.

"Oh, do you, sir?" said the man, unconsciously touching his hat at
this sign of greatness in the stranger; though in truth he had no
love for her ladyship. "Perhaps you're going to be one of the party
at Courcy Castle."

"Well, I believe I am."

"You'll find her ladyship there before you. She lunched with her aunt
at the deanery as she went through, yesterday; finding it too much
trouble to go out to her father's, at Plumstead. Her father is the
archdeacon, you know. They do say,--but her ladyship is your friend!"

"No friend at all; only a very slight acquaintance. She's quite as
much above my line as she is above her father's."

"Well, she is above them all. They say she would hardly as much as
speak to the old gentleman."

"What, her father?"

"No, Mr. Harding; he that chanted the Litany just now. There he is,
sir, coming out of the deanery."

They were now standing at the door leading out from one of the
transepts, and Mr. Harding passed them as they were speaking
together. He was a little, withered, shambling old man, with bent
shoulders, dressed in knee-breeches and long black gaiters, which
hung rather loosely about his poor old legs,--rubbing his hands one
over the other as he went. And yet he walked quickly; not tottering
as he walked, but with an uncertain, doubtful step. The verger, as
Mr. Harding passed, put his hand to his head, and Crosbie also raised
his hat. Whereupon Mr. Harding raised his, and bowed, and turned
round as though he were about to speak. Crosbie felt that he had
never seen a face on which traits of human kindness were more plainly
written. But the old man did not speak. He turned his body half
round, and then shambled back, as though ashamed of his intention,
and passed on.

"He is of that sort that they make the angels of," said the verger.
"But they can't make many if they want them all as good as he is.
I'm much obliged to you, sir." And he pocketed the half-crown which
Crosbie gave him.


[ILLUSTRATION: "He is of that sort that they make the angels of,"
said the verger.]


"So that's Lady Dumbello's grandfather," said Crosbie, to himself,
as he walked slowly round the close towards the hospital, by the
path which the verger had shown him. He had no great love for Lady
Dumbello, who had dared to snub him,--even him. "They may make an
angel of the old gentleman," he continued to say; "but they'll never
succeed in that way with the granddaughter."

He sauntered slowly on over a little bridge; and at the gate of the
hospital he again came upon Mr. Harding. "I was going to venture in,"
said he, "to look at the place. But perhaps I shall be intruding?"

"No, no; by no means," said Mr. Harding. "Pray come in. I cannot say
that I am just at home here. I do not live here,--not now. But I know
the ways of the place well, and can make you welcome. That's the
warden's house. Perhaps we won't go in so early in the day, as the
lady has a very large family. An excellent lady, and a dear friend of
mine,--as is her husband."

"And he is warden, you say?"

"Yes, warden of the hospital. You see the house, sir. Very pretty,
isn't it? Very pretty. To my idea it's the prettiest built house I
ever saw."

"I won't go quite so far as that," said Crosbie.

"But you would if you'd lived there twelve years, as I did. I lived
in that house twelve years, and I don't think there's so sweet a spot
on the earth's surface. Did you ever see such turf as that?"

"Very nice indeed," said Crosbie, who began to make a comparison
with Mrs. Dale's turf at the Small House, and to determine that the
Allington turf was better than that of the hospital.

"I had that turf laid down myself. There were borders there when I
first came, with hollyhocks, and those sort of things. The turf was
an improvement."

"There's no doubt of that, I should say."

"The turf was an improvement, certainly. And I planted those shrubs,
too. There isn't such a Portugal laurel as that in the county."

"Were you warden here, sir?" And Crosbie, as he asked the question,
remembered that, in his very young days, he had heard of some
newspaper quarrel which had taken place about Hiram's hospital at
Barchester.

"Yes, sir. I was warden here for twelve years. Dear, dear, dear! If
they had put any gentleman here that was not on friendly terms with
me it would have made me very unhappy,--very. But, as it is, I go in
and out just as I like; almost as much as I did before they-- But
they didn't turn me out. There were reasons which made it best that
I should resign."

"And you live at the deanery now, Mr. Harding?"

"Yes; I live at the deanery now. But I am not dean, you know. My
son-in-law, Dr. Arabin, is the dean. I have another daughter married
in the neighbourhood, and can truly say that my lines have fallen to
me in pleasant places."

Then he took Crosbie in among the old men, into all of whose rooms
he went. It was an almshouse for aged men of the city, and before
Crosbie had left him Mr. Harding had explained all the circumstances
of the hospital, and of the way in which he had left it. "I didn't
like going, you know; I thought it would break my heart. But I could
not stay when they said such things as that;--I couldn't stay. And,
what is more, I should have been wrong to stay. I see it all now.
But when I went out under that arch, Mr. Crosbie, leaning on my
daughter's arm, I thought that my heart would have broken." And the
tears even now ran down the old man's cheeks as he spoke.

It was a long story, and it need not be repeated here. And there was
no reason why it should have been told to Mr. Crosbie, other than
this,--that Mr. Harding was a fond garrulous old man, who loved to
indulge his mind in reminiscences of the past. But this was remarked
by Crosbie; that, in telling his story, no word was said by Mr.
Harding injurious to any one. And yet he had been injured,--injured
very deeply. "It was all for the best," he said at last; "especially
as the happiness has not been denied to me of making myself at home
at the old place. I would take you into the house, which is very
comfortable,--very; only it is not always convenient early in the
day, where there's a large family." In hearing which Crosbie was
again made to think of his own future home and limited income.

He had told the old clergyman who he was, and that he was on his way
to Courcy. "Where, as I understand, I shall meet a granddaughter of
yours."

"Yes, yes; she is my grandchild. She and I have got into different
walks of life now, so that I don't see much of her. They tell me that
she does her duty well in that sphere of life to which it has pleased
God to call her."

"That depends," thought Crosbie, "on what the duties of a viscountess
may be supposed to be." But he wished his new friend good-by, without
saying anything further as to Lady Dumbello, and, at about six
o'clock in the evening, had himself driven up under the portico of
Courcy Castle.




CHAPTER XVII.

COURCY CASTLE.


Courcy Castle was very full. In the first place, there was a great
gathering there of all the Courcy family. The earl was there,--and
the countess, of course. At this period of the year Lady De Courcy
was always at home; but the presence of the earl himself had
heretofore been by no means so certain. He was a man who had been
much given to royal visitings and attendances, to parties in the
Highlands, to--no doubt necessary--prolongations of the London
season, to sojournings at certain German watering-places, convenient,
probably, in order that he might study the ways and ceremonies of
German Courts,--and to various other absences from home, occasioned
by a close pursuit of his own special aims in life; for the Earl
De Courcy had been a great courtier. But of late gout, lumbago,
and perhaps also some diminution in his powers of making himself
generally agreeable, had reconciled him to domestic duties, and the
earl spent much of his time at home. The countess, in former days,
had been heard to complain of her lord's frequent absence. But it is
hard to please some women,--and now she would not always be satisfied
with his presence.

And all the sons and daughters were there,--excepting Lord Porlock,
the eldest, who never met his father. The earl and Lord Porlock were
not on terms, and indeed hated each other as only such fathers and
such sons can hate. The Honourable George De Courcy was there with
his bride, he having lately performed a manifest duty, in having
married a young woman with money. Very young she was not,--having
reached some years of her life in advance of thirty; but then,
neither was the Honourable George very young; and in this respect
the two were not ill-sorted. The lady's money had not been very
much,--perhaps thirty thousand pounds or so. But then the Honourable
George's money had been absolutely none. Now he had an income on
which he could live, and therefore his father and mother had forgiven
him all his sins, and taken him again to their bosom. And the
marriage was matter of great moment, for the elder scion of the house
had not yet taken to himself a wife, and the De Courcy family might
have to look to this union for an heir. The lady herself was not
beautiful, or clever, or of imposing manners--nor was she of high
birth. But neither was she ugly, nor unbearably stupid. Her manners
were, at any rate, innocent; and as to her birth,--seeing that, from
the first, she was not supposed to have had any,--no disappointment
was felt. Her father had been a coal-merchant. She was always called
Mrs. George, and the effort made respecting her by everybody in and
about the family was to treat her as though she were a figure of
a woman, a large well-dressed resemblance of a being, whom it was
necessary for certain purposes that the De Courcys should carry in
their train. Of the Honourable George we may further observe, that,
having been a spendthrift all his life, he had now become strictly
parsimonious. Having reached the discreet age of forty, he had at
last learned that beggary was objectionable; and he, therefore,
devoted every energy of his mind to saving shillings and pence
wherever pence and shillings might be saved. When first this turn
came upon him both his father and mother were delighted to observe
it; but, although it had hardly yet lasted over twelve months, some
evil results were beginning to appear. Though possessed of an income,
he would take no steps towards possessing himself of a house. He
hung by the paternal mansion, either in town or country; drank the
paternal wines, rode the paternal horses, and had even contrived
to obtain his wife's dresses from the maternal milliner. In the
completion of which little last success, however, some slight family
dissent had showed itself.

The Honourable John, the third son, was also at Courcy. He had as yet
taken to himself no wife, and as he had not hitherto made himself
conspicuously useful in any special walk of life his family were
beginning to regard him as a burden. Having no income of his own to
save, he had not copied his brother's virtue of parsimony; and, to
tell the truth plainly, had made himself so generally troublesome to
his father, that he had been on more than one occasion threatened
with expulsion from the family roof. But it is not easy to expel a
son. Human fledglings cannot be driven out of the nest like young
birds. An Honourable John turned adrift into absolute poverty will
make himself heard of in the world,--if in no other way, by his
ugliness as he starves. A thorough-going ne'er-do-well in the upper
classes has eminent advantages on his side in the battle which he
fights against respectability. He can't be sent to Australia against
his will. He can't be sent to the poor-house without the knowledge
of all the world. He can't be kept out of tradesmen's shops; nor,
without terrible scandal, can he be kept away from the paternal
properties. The earl had threatened, and snarled, and shown his
teeth; he was an angry man, and a man who could look very angry; with
eyes which could almost become red, and a brow that wrinkled itself
in perpendicular wrinkles, sometimes very terrible to behold. But
he was an inconsistent man, and the Honourable John had learned to
measure his father, and in an accurate balance.

I have mentioned the sons first, because it is to be presumed that
they were the elder, seeing that their names were mentioned before
those of their sisters in all the peerages. But there were four
daughters,--the Ladies Amelia, Rosina, Margaretta, and Alexandrina.
They, we may say, were the flowers of the family, having so lived
that they had created none of those family feuds which had been so
frequent between their father and their brothers. They were discreet,
high-bred women, thinking, perhaps, a little too much of their own
position in the world, and somewhat apt to put a wrong value on
those advantages which they possessed, and on those which they did
not possess. The Lady Amelia was already married, having made a
substantial if not a brilliant match with Mr. Mortimer Gazebee, a
flourishing solicitor, belonging to a firm which had for many years
acted as agents to the De Courcy property. Mortimer Gazebee was now
member of Parliament for Barchester, partly through the influence
of his father-in-law. That this should be so was a matter of great
disgust to the Honourable George, who thought that the seat should
have belonged to him. But as Mr. Gazebee had paid the very heavy
expenses of the election out of his own pocket, and as George De
Courcy certainly could not have paid them, the justice of his claim
may be questionable. Lady Amelia Gazebee was now the happy mother of
many babies, whom she was wont to carry with her on her visits to
Courcy Castle, and had become an excellent partner to her husband.
He would perhaps have liked it better if she had not spoken so
frequently to him of her own high position as the daughter of an
earl, or so frequently to others of her low position as the wife of
an attorney. But, on the whole, they did very well together, and Mr.
Gazebee had gotten from his marriage quite as much as he expected
when he made it.

The Lady Rosina was very religious; and I do not know that she was
conspicuous in any other way, unless it might be that she somewhat
resembled her father in her temper. It was of the Lady Rosina that
the servants were afraid, especially with reference to that so-called
day of rest which, under her dominion, had become to many of them
a day of restless torment. It had not always been so with the Lady
Rosina; but her eyes had been opened by the wife of a great church
dignitary in the neighbourhood, and she had undergone regeneration.
How great may be the misery inflicted by an energetic, unmarried,
healthy woman in that condition,--a woman with no husband, or
children, or duties, to distract her from her work--I pray that my
readers may never know.

The Lady Margaretta was her mother's favourite, and she was like her
mother in all things,--except that her mother had been a beauty. The
world called her proud, disdainful, and even insolent; but the world
was not aware that in all that she did she was acting in accordance
with a principle which had called for much self-abnegation. She had
considered it her duty to be a De Courcy and an earl's daughter at
all times; and consequently she had sacrificed to her idea of duty
all popularity, adulation, and such admiration as would have been
awarded to her as a well-dressed, tall, fashionable, and by no means
stupid young woman. To be at all times in something higher than they
who were manifestly below her in rank,--that was the effort that she
was ever making. But she had been a good daughter, assisting her
mother, as best she might, in all family troubles, and never repining
at the cold, colourless, unlovely life which had been vouchsafed to
her.

Alexandrina was the beauty of the family, and was in truth the
youngest. But even she was not very young, and was beginning to make
her friends uneasy lest she, too, should let the precious season
of hay-harvest run by without due use of her summer's sun. She had,
perhaps, counted too much on her beauty, which had been beauty
according to law rather than beauty according to taste, and had
looked, probably, for too bounteous a harvest. That her forehead, and
nose, and cheeks, and chin were well-formed, no man could deny. Her
hair was soft and plentiful. Her teeth were good, and her eyes were
long and oval. But the fault of her face was this,--that when you
left her you could not remember it. After a first acquaintance you
could meet her again and not know her. After many meetings you would
fail to carry away with you any portrait of her features. But such
as she had been at twenty, such was she now at thirty. Years had not
robbed her face of its regularity, or ruffled the smoothness of her
too even forehead. Rumour had declared that on more than one, or
perhaps more than two occasions, Lady Alexandrina had been already
induced to plight her troth in return for proffered love; but we all
know that Rumour, when she takes to such topics, exaggerates the
truth, and sets down much in malice. The lady was once engaged, the
engagement lasting for two years, and the engagement had been broken
off, owing to some money difficulties between the gentlemen of the
families. Since that she had become somewhat querulous, and was
supposed to be uneasy on that subject of her haymaking. Her glass
and her maid assured her that her sun shone still as brightly as
ever; but her spirit was becoming weary with waiting, and she dreaded
lest she should become a terror to all, as was her sister Rosina, or
an object of interest to none, as was Margaretta. It was from her
especially that this message had been sent to our friend Crosbie;
for, during the last spring in London, she and Crosbie had known
each other well. Yes, my gentle readers; it is true, as your heart
suggests to you. Under such circumstances Mr. Crosbie should not have
gone to Courcy Castle.

Such was the family circle of the De Courcys. Among their present
guests I need not enumerate many. First and foremost in all respects
was Lady Dumbello, of whose parentage and position a few words were
said in the last chapter. She was a lady still very young, having as
yet been little more than two years married. But in those two years
her triumphs had been many;--so many, that in the great world her
standing already equalled that of her celebrated mother-in-law, the
Marchioness of Hartletop, who, for twenty years, had owned no greater
potentate than herself in the realms of fashion. But Lady Dumbello
was every inch as great as she; and men said, and women also, that
the daughter-in-law would soon be the greater.

"I'll be hanged if I can understand how she does it," a certain noble
peer had once said to Crosbie, standing at the door of Sebright's,
during the latter days of the last season. "She never says anything
to any one. She won't speak ten words a whole night through."

"I don't think she has an idea in her head," said Crosbie.

"Let me tell you that she must be a very clever woman," continued the
noble peer. "No fool could do as she does. Remember, she's only a
parson's daughter; and as for beauty--"

"I don't admire her for one," said Crosbie.

"I don't want to run away with her, if you mean that," said the peer;
"but she is handsome, no doubt. I wonder whether Dumbello likes it."

Dumbello did like it. It satisfied his ambition to be led about as
the senior lacquey in his wife's train. He believed himself to be
a great man because the world fought for his wife's presence; and
considered himself to be distinguished even among the eldest sons
of marquises, by the greatness reflected from the parson's daughter
whom he had married. He had now been brought to Courcy Castle, and
felt himself proud of his situation because Lady Dumbello had made
considerable difficulty in according this week to the Countess De
Courcy.

And Lady Julia De Guest was already there, the sister of the other
old earl who lived in the next county. She had only arrived on the
day before, but had been quick in spreading the news as to Crosbie's
engagement. "Engaged to one of the Dales, is he?" said the countess,
with a pretty little smile, which showed plainly that the matter was
one of no interest to herself. "Has she got any money?"

"Not a shilling, I should think," said the Lady Julia.

"Pretty, I suppose?" suggested the countess.

"Why, yes; she is pretty--and a nice girl. I don't know whether her
mother and uncle were very wise in encouraging Mr. Crosbie. I don't
hear that he has anything special to recommend him,--in the way of
money I mean."

"I dare say it will come to nothing," said the countess, who liked to
hear of girls being engaged and then losing their promised husbands.
She did not know that she liked it, but she did; and already had
pleasure in anticipating poor Lily's discomfiture. But not the less
was she angry with Crosbie, feeling that he was making his way into
her house under false pretences.

And Alexandrina also was angry when Lady Julia repeated the same
tidings in her hearing. "I really don't think we care very much about
it, Lady Julia," said she, with a little toss of her head. "That's
three times we've been told of Miss Dale's good fortune."

"The Dales are related to you, I think?" said Margaretta.

"Not at all," said Lady Julia, bristling up. "The lady whom Mr.
Crosbie proposes to marry is in no way connected with us. Her cousin,
who is the heir to the Allington property, is my nephew by his
mother." And then the subject was dropped.

Crosbie, on his arrival, was shown up into his room, told the hour
of dinner, and left to his devices. He had been at the castle before,
and knew the ways of the house. So he sat himself down to his table,
and began a letter to Lily. But he had not proceeded far, not having
as yet indeed made up his mind as to the form in which he would
commence it, but was sitting idly with the pen in his hand, thinking
of Lily, and thinking also how such houses as this in which he now
found himself would be soon closed against him, when there came a rap
at his door, and before he could answer the Honourable John entered
the room.

"Well, old fellow," said the Honourable John, "how are you?"

Crosbie had been intimate with John De Courcy, but never felt for him
either friendship or liking. Crosbie did not like such men as John De
Courcy; but nevertheless, they called each other old fellow, poked
each other's ribs, and were very intimate.

"Heard you were here," continued the Honourable John; "so I thought I
would come up and look after you. Going to be married, ain't you?"

"Not that I know of," said Crosbie.

"Come, we know better than that. The women have been talking about it
for the last three days. I had her name quite pat yesterday, but I've
forgot it now. Hasn't got a tanner; has she?" And the Honourable John
had now seated himself upon the table.

"You seem to know a great deal more about it than I do."

"It is that old woman from Guestwick who told us, then. The women
will be at you at once, you'll find. If there's nothing in it, it's
what I call a d---- shame. Why should they always pull a fellow to
pieces in that way? They were going to marry me the other day!"

"Were they indeed, though?"

"To Harriet Twistleton. You know Harriet Twistleton? An uncommon fine
girl, you know. But I wasn't going to be caught like that. I'm very
fond of Harriet,--in my way, you know; but they don't catch an old
bird like me with chaff."

"I condole with Miss Twistleton for what she has lost."

"I don't know about condoling. But upon my word that getting married
is a very slow thing. Have you seen George's wife?"

Crosbie declared that he had not as yet had that pleasure.

"She's here now, you know. I wouldn't have taken her, not if she'd
had ten times thirty thousand pounds. By Jove, no. But he likes it
well enough. Would you believe it now?--he cares for nothing on earth
except money. You never saw such a fellow. But I'll tell you what,
his nose will be out of joint yet, for Porlock is going to marry. I
heard it from Colepepper, who almost lives with Porlock. As soon as
Porlock heard that she was in the family way he immediately made up
his mind to cut him out."

"That was a great sign of brotherly love," said Crosbie.

"I knew he'd do it," said John; "and so I told George before he got
himself spliced. But he would go on. If he'd remained as he was for
four or five years longer there would have been no danger;--for
Porlock, you know, is leading the deuce of a life. I shouldn't wonder
if he didn't reform now, and take to singing psalms or something of
that sort."

"There's no knowing what a man may come to in this world."

"By George, no. But I'll tell you what, they'll find no change in me.
If I marry it will not be with the intention of giving up life. I
say, old fellow, have you got a cigar here?"

"What, to smoke up here, do you mean?"

"Yes; why not? we're ever so far from the women."

"Not whilst I am occupier of this room. Besides, it's time to dress
for dinner."

"Is it? So it is, by George! But I mean to have a smoke first, I can
tell you. So it's all a lie about your being engaged; eh?"

"As far as I know, it is," said Crosbie. And then his friend left
him.

What was he to do at once, now, this very day, as to his engagement?
He had felt sure that the report of it would be carried to Courcy by
Lady Julia De Guest, but he had not settled down upon any resolution
as to what he would do in consequence. It had not occurred to him
that he would immediately be charged with the offence, and called
upon to plead guilty or not guilty. He had never for a moment
meditated any plea of not guilty, but he was aware of an aversion
on his part to declare himself as engaged to Lilian Dale. It seemed
that by doing so he would cut himself off at once from all pleasure
at such houses as Courcy Castle; and, as he argued to himself, why
should he not enjoy the little remnant of his bachelor life? As to
his denying his engagement to John De Courcy,--that was nothing. Any
one would understand that he would be justified in concealing a fact
concerning himself from such a one as he. The denial repeated from
John's mouth would amount to nothing,--even among John's own sisters.
But now it was necessary that Crosbie should make up his mind as to
what he would say when questioned by the ladies of the house. If he
were to deny the fact to them the denial would be very serious. And,
indeed, was it possible that he should make such denial with Lady
Julia opposite to him?

Make such a denial! And was it the fact that he could wish to do
so,--that he should think of such falsehood, and even meditate on the
perpetration of such cowardice? He had held that young girl to his
heart on that very morning. He had sworn to her, and had also sworn
to himself, that she should have no reason for distrusting him. He
had acknowledged most solemnly to himself that, whether for good or
for ill, he was bound to her; and could it be that he was already
calculating as to the practicability of disowning her? In doing so
must he not have told himself that he was a villain? But in truth
he made no such calculation. His object was to banish the subject,
if it were possible to do so; to think of some answer by which he
might create a doubt. It did not occur to him to tell the countess
boldly that there was no truth whatever in the report, and that Miss
Dale was nothing to him. But might he not skilfully laugh off the
subject, even in the presence of Lady Julia? Men who were engaged
did so usually, and why should not he? It was generally thought that
solicitude for the lady's feelings should prevent a man from talking
openly of his own engagement. Then he remembered the easy freedom
with which his position had been discussed throughout the whole
neighbourhood of Allington, and felt for the first time that the Dale
family had been almost indelicate in their want of reticence. "I
suppose it was done to tie me the faster," he said to himself, as he
pulled out the ends of his cravat. "What a fool I was to come here,
or indeed to go anywhere, after settling myself as I have done." And
then he went down into the drawing-room.

It was almost a relief to him when he found that he was not charged
with his sin at once. He himself had been so full of the subject that
he had expected to be attacked at the moment of his entrance. He was,
however, greeted without any allusion to the matter. The countess, in
her own quiet way, shook hands with him as though she had seen him
only the day before. The earl, who was seated in his arm-chair, asked
some one, out loud, who the stranger was, and then, with two fingers
put forth, muttered some apology for a welcome. But Crosbie was quite
up to that kind of thing. "How do, my lord?" he said, turning his
face away to some one else as he spoke; and then he took no further
notice of the master of the house. "Not know him, indeed!" Crippled
though he was by his matrimonial bond, Crosbie felt that, at any rate
as yet, he was the earl's equal in social importance. After that, he
found himself in the back part of the drawing-room, away from the
elder people, standing with Lady Alexandrina, with Miss Gresham, a
cousin of the De Courcys, and sundry other of the younger portion of
the assembled community.

"So you have Lady Dumbello here?" said Crosbie.

"Oh, yes; the dear creature!" said Lady Margaretta. "It was so good
of her to come, you know."

"She positively refused the Duchess of St. Bungay," said Alexandrina.
"I hope you perceive how good we've been to you in getting you to
meet her. People have actually asked to come."

"I am grateful; but, in truth, my gratitude has more to do with
Courcy Castle and its habitual inmates, than with Lady Dumbello. Is
he here?"

"Oh, yes! he's in the room somewhere. There he is, standing up by
Lady Clandidlem. He always stands in that way before dinner. In the
evening he sits down much after the same fashion."

Crosbie had seen him on first entering the room, and had seen every
individual in it. He knew better than to omit the duty of that
scrutinizing glance; but it sounded well in his line not to have
observed Lord Dumbello.

"And her ladyship is not down?" said he.

"She is generally last," said Lady Margaretta.

"And yet she has always three women to dress her," said Alexandrina.

"But when finished, what a success it is!" said Crosbie.

"Indeed it is!" said Margaretta, with energy. Then the door was
opened, and Lady Dumbello entered the room.

There was immediately a commotion among them all. Even the gouty old
lord shuffled up out of his chair, and tried, with a grin, to look
sweet and pleasant. The countess came forward, looking very sweet
and pleasant, making little complimentary speeches, to which the
viscountess answered simply by a gracious smile. Lady Clandidlem,
though she was very fat and heavy, left the viscount, and got up
to join the group. Baron Potsneuf, a diplomatic German of great
celebrity, crossed his hands upon his breast and made a low bow. The
Honourable George, who had stood silent for the last quarter of an
hour, suggested to her ladyship that she must have found the air
rather cold; and the Ladies Margaretta and Alexandrina fluttered
up with little complimentary speeches to their dear Lady Dumbello,
hoping this and beseeching that, as though the "Woman in White"
before them had been the dearest friend of their infancy.

She was a woman in white, being dressed in white silk, with white
lace over it, and with no other jewels upon her person than diamonds.
Very beautifully she was dressed; doing infinite credit, no doubt, to
those three artists who had, between them, succeeded in turning her
out of hand. And her face, also, was beautiful, with a certain cold,
inexpressive beauty. She walked up the room very slowly, smiling here
and smiling there; but still with very faint smiles, and took the
place which her hostess indicated to her. One word she said to the
countess and two to the earl. Beyond that she did not open her lips.
All the homage paid to her she received as though it were clearly her
due. She was not in the least embarrassed, nor did she show herself
to be in the slightest degree ashamed of her own silence. She did
not look like a fool, nor was she even taken for a fool; but she
contributed nothing to society but her cold, hard beauty, her gait,
and her dress. We may say that she contributed enough, for society
acknowledged itself to be deeply indebted to her.

The only person in the room who did not move at Lady Dumbello's
entrance was her husband. But he remained unmoved from no want of
enthusiasm. A spark of pleasure actually beamed in his eye as he saw
the triumphant entrance of his wife. He felt that he had made a match
that was becoming to him as a great nobleman, and that the world was
acknowledging that he had done his duty. And yet Lady Dumbello had
been simply the daughter of a country parson, of a clergyman who had
reached no higher rank than that of an archdeacon. "How wonderfully
well that woman has educated her," the countess said that evening
in her dressing-room, to Margaretta. The woman alluded to was Mrs.
Grantly, the wife of the parson and mother of Lady Dumbello.

The old earl was very cross because destiny and the table of
precedence required him to take out Lady Clandidlem to dinner. He
almost insulted her, as she kindly endeavoured to assist him in his
infirm step rather than to lean upon him.

"Ugh!" he said, "it's a bad arrangement that makes two old people
like you and me be sent out together to help each other."

"Speak for yourself," said her ladyship, with a laugh. "I, at any
rate, can get about without any assistance,"--which, indeed, was true
enough.

"It's well for you!" growled the earl, as he got himself into his
seat.

And after that he endeavoured to solace his pain by a flirtation with
Lady Dumbello on his left. The earl's smiles and the earl's teeth,
when he whispered naughty little nothings to pretty young women, were
phenomena at which men might marvel. Whatever those naughty nothings
were on the present occasion, Lady Dumbello took them all with
placidity, smiling graciously, but speaking hardly more than
monosyllables.

Lady Alexandrina fell to Crosbie's lot, and he felt gratified that
it was so. It might be necessary for him, as a married man, to give
up such acquaintances as the De Courcys, but he should like, if
possible, to maintain a friendship with Lady Alexandrina. What a
friend Lady Alexandrina would be for Lily, if any such friendship
were only possible! What an advantage would such an alliance confer
upon that dear little girl;--for, after all, though the dear little
girl's attractions were very great, he could not but admit to himself
that she wanted a something,--a way of holding herself and of
speaking, which some people call style. Lily might certainly learn
a great deal from Lady Alexandrina; and it was this conviction,
no doubt, which made him so sedulous in pleasing that lady on the
present occasion.

And she, as it seemed, was well inclined to be pleased. She said no
word to him during dinner about Lily; and yet she spoke about the
Dales, and about Allington, showing that she knew in what quarters
he had been staying, and then she alluded to their last parties in
London,--those occasions on which, as Crosbie now remembered, the
intercourse between them had almost been tender. It was manifest to
him that at any rate she did not wish to quarrel with him. It was
manifest, also, that she had some little hesitation in speaking to
him about his engagement. He did not for a moment doubt that she was
aware of it. And in this way matters went on between them till the
ladies left the room.

"So you're going to be married, too," said the Honourable George, by
whose side Crosbie found himself seated when the ladies were gone.
Crosbie was employing himself upon a walnut, and did not find it
necessary to make any answer.

"It's the best thing a fellow can do," continued George; "that is, if
he has been careful to look to the main chance,--if he hasn't been
caught napping, you know. It doesn't do for a man to go hanging on by
nothing till he finds himself an old man."

"You've feathered your own nest, at any rate."

"Yes; I've got something in the scramble, and I mean to keep it.
Where will John be when the governor goes off the hooks? Porlock
wouldn't give him a bit of bread and cheese and a glass of beer to
save his life;--that is to say, not if he wanted it."

"I'm told your elder brother is going to be married."

"You've heard that from John. He's spreading that about everywhere to
take a rise out of me. I don't believe a word of it. Porlock never
was a marrying man;--and, what's more, from all I hear, I don't think
he'll live long."

In this way Crosbie escaped from his own difficulty; and when he rose
from the dinner-table had not as yet been driven to confess anything
to his own discredit.

But the evening was not yet over. When he returned to the
drawing-room he endeavoured to avoid any conversation with the
countess herself, believing that the attack would more probably come
from her than from her daughter. He, therefore, got into conversation
first with one and then with another of the girls, till at last he
found himself again alone with Alexandrina.

"Mr. Crosbie," she said, in a low voice, as they were standing
together over one of the distant tables, with their backs to the rest
of the company, "I want you to tell me something about Miss Lilian
Dale."

"About Miss Lilian Dale!" he said, repeating her words.

"Is she very pretty?"

"Yes; she certainly is pretty."

"And very nice, and attractive, and clever,--and all that is
delightful? Is she perfect?"

"She is very attractive," said he; "but I don't think she's perfect."

"And what are her faults?"

"That question is hardly fair, is it? Suppose any one were to ask me
what were your faults, do you think I should answer the question?"

"I am quite sure you would, and make a very long list of them, too.
But as to Miss Dale, you ought to think her perfect. If a gentleman
were engaged to me, I should expect him to swear before all the world
that I was the very pink of perfection."

"But supposing the gentleman were not engaged to you?"

"That would be a different thing."

"I am not engaged to you," said Crosbie. "Such happiness and such
honour are, I fear, very far beyond my reach. But, nevertheless, I am
prepared to testify as to your perfection anywhere."

"And what would Miss Dale say?"

"Allow me to assure you that such opinions as I may choose to express
of my friends will be my own opinions, and not depend on those of any
one else."

"And you think, then, that you are not bound to be enslaved as yet?
How many more months of such freedom are you to enjoy?"

Crosbie remained silent for a minute before he answered, and then he
spoke in a serious voice. "Lady Alexandrina," said he, "I would beg
from you a great favour."

"What is the favour, Mr. Crosbie?"

"I am quite in earnest. Will you be good enough, kind enough, enough
my friend, not to connect my name again with that of Miss Dale while
I am here?"

"Has there been a quarrel?"

"No; there has been no quarrel. I cannot explain to you now why I
make this request; but to you I will explain it before I go."

"Explain it to me!"

"I have regarded you as more than an acquaintance,--as a friend. In
days now past there were moments when I was almost rash enough to
hope that I might have said even more than that. I confess that I had
no warrant for such hopes, but I believe that I may still look on you
as a friend?"

"Oh, yes, certainly," said Alexandrina, in a very low voice, and with
a certain amount of tenderness in her tone. "I have always regarded
you as a friend."

"And therefore I venture to make the request. The subject is not one
on which I can speak openly, without regret, at the present moment.
But to you, at least, I promise that I will explain it all before I
leave Courcy."

He at any rate succeeded in mystifying Lady Alexandrina. "I don't
believe he is engaged a bit," she said to Lady Amelia Gazebee that
night.

"Nonsense, my dear. Lady Julia wouldn't speak of it in that certain
way if she didn't know. Of course he doesn't wish to have it talked
about."

"If ever he has been engaged to her, he has broken it off again,"
said Lady Alexandrina.

"I dare say he will, my dear, if you give him encouragement," said
the married sister, with great sisterly good-nature.




CHAPTER XVIII.

LILY DALE'S FIRST LOVE-LETTER.


Crosbie was rather proud of himself when he went to bed. He had
succeeded in baffling the charge made against him, without saying
anything as to which his conscience need condemn him. So, at least,
he then told himself. The impression left by what he had said would
be that there had been some question of an engagement between him and
Lilian Dale, but that nothing at this moment was absolutely fixed.
But in the morning his conscience was not quite so clear. What would
Lily think and say if she knew it all? Could he dare to tell her, or
to tell any one the real state of his mind?

As he lay in bed, knowing that an hour remained to him before he need
encounter the perils of his tub, he felt that he hated Courcy Castle
and its inmates. Who was there, among them all, that was comparable
to Mrs. Dale and her daughters? He detested both George and John.
He loathed the earl. As to the countess herself, he was perfectly
indifferent, regarding her as a woman whom it was well to know, but
as one only to be known as the mistress of Courcy Castle and a house
in London. As to the daughters, he had ridiculed them all from time
to time--even Alexandrina, whom he now professed to love. Perhaps
in some sort of way he had a weak fondness for her;--but it was a
fondness that had never touched his heart. He could measure the
whole thing at its worth,--Courcy Castle with its privileges, Lady
Dumbello, Lady Clandidlem, and the whole of it. He knew that he had
been happier on that lawn at Allington, and more contented with
himself, than ever he had been even under Lady Hartletop's splendid
roof in Shropshire. Lady Dumbello was satisfied with these things,
even in the inmost recesses of her soul; but he was not a male Lady
Dumbello. He knew that there was something better, and that that
something was within his reach.

But, nevertheless, the air of Courcy was too much for him. In arguing
the matter with himself he regarded himself as one infected with
a leprosy from which there could be no recovery, and who should,
therefore, make his whole life suitable to the circumstances of that
leprosy. It was of no use for him to tell himself that the Small
House at Allington was better than Courcy Castle. Satan knew that
heaven was better than hell; but he found himself to be fitter for
the latter place. Crosbie ridiculed Lady Dumbello, even there among
her friends, with all the cutting words that his wit could find; but,
nevertheless, the privilege of staying in the same house with her was
dear to him. It was the line of life into which he had fallen, and
he confessed inwardly that the struggle to extricate himself would
be too much for him. All that had troubled him while he was yet at
Allington, but it overwhelmed him almost with dismay beneath the
hangings of Courcy Castle.

Had he not better run from the place at once? He had almost
acknowledged to himself that he repented his engagement with Lilian
Dale, but he still was resolved that he would fulfil it. He was bound
in honour to marry "that little girl," and he looked sternly up at
the drapery over his head, as he assured himself that he was a man of
honour. Yes; he would sacrifice himself. As he had been induced to
pledge his word, he would not go back from it. He was too much of a
man for that!

But had he not been wrong to refuse the result of Lily's wisdom when
she told him in the field that it would be better for them to part?
He did not tell himself that he had refused her offer merely because
he had not the courage to accept it on the spur of the moment. No.
"He had been too good to the poor girl to take her at her word." It
was thus he argued on the matter within his own breast. He had been
too true to her; and now the effect would be that they would both be
unhappy for life! He could not live in content with a family upon a
small income. He was well aware of that. No one could be harder upon
him in that matter than was he himself. But it was too late now to
remedy the ill effects of an early education.

It was thus that he debated the matter as he lay in
bed,--contradicting one argument by another over and over again; but
still in all of them teaching himself to think that this engagement
of his was a misfortune. Poor Lily! Her last words to him had
conveyed an assurance that she would never distrust him. And she
also, as she lay wakeful in her bed on this the first morning of his
absence, thought much of their mutual vows. How true she would be to
them! How she would be his wife with all her heart and spirit! It was
not only that she would love him;--but in her love she would serve
him to her utmost; serve him as regarded this world, and if possible
as regarded the next.

"Bell," she said, "I wish you were going to be married too."

"Thank'ye, dear," said Bell. "Perhaps I shall some day."

"Ah; but I'm not joking. It seems such a serious thing. And I can't
expect you to talk to me about it now as you would if you were in the
same position yourself. Do you think I shall make him happy?"

"Yes, I do, certainly."

"Happier than he would be with any one else that he might meet? I
dare not think that. I think I could give him up to-morrow, if I
could see any one that would suit him better." What would Lily have
said had she been made acquainted with all the fascinations of Lady
Alexandrina De Courcy?

The countess was very civil to him, saying nothing about his
engagement, but still talking to him a good deal about his sojourn
at Allington. Crosbie was a pleasant man for ladies in a large house.
Though a sportsman, he was not so keen a sportsman as to be always
out with the gamekeepers. Though a politician, he did not sacrifice
his mornings to the perusal of blue-books or the preparation of party
tactics. Though a reading man, he did not devote himself to study.
Though a horseman, he was not often to be found in the stables. He
could supply conversation when it was wanted, and could take himself
out of the way when his presence among the women was not needed.
Between breakfast and lunch on the day following his arrival he
talked a good deal to the countess, and made himself very agreeable.
She continued to ridicule him gently for his prolonged stay among so
primitive and rural a tribe of people as the Dales, and he bore her
little sarcasm with the utmost good-humour.

"Six weeks at Allington without a move! Why, Mr. Crosbie, you must
have felt yourself to be growing there."

"So I did--like an ancient tree. Indeed, I was so rooted that I could
hardly get away."

"Was the house full of people all the time?"

"There was nobody there but Bernard Dale, Lady Julia's nephew."

"Quite a case of Damon and Pythias. Fancy your going down to
the shades of Allington to enjoy the uninterrupted pleasures of
friendship for six weeks."

"Friendship and the partridges."

"There was nothing else, then?"

"Indeed there was. There was a widow with two very nice daughters,
living, not exactly in the same house, but on the same grounds."

"Oh, indeed. That makes such a difference; doesn't it? You are not a
man to bear much privation on the score of partridges, nor a great
deal, I imagine, for friendship. But when you talk of pretty girls--"

"It makes a difference, doesn't it?"

"A very great difference. I think I have heard of that Mrs. Dale
before. And so her girls are nice?"

"Very nice indeed."

"Play croquet, I suppose, and eat syllabub on the lawn? But, really,
didn't you get very tired of it?"

"Oh dear, no. I was happy as the day was long."

"Going about with a crook, I suppose?"

"Not exactly a live crook; but doing all that kind of thing. I
learned a great deal about pigs."

"Under the guidance of Miss Dale?"

"Yes; under the guidance of Miss Dale."

"I'm sure one is very much obliged to you for tearing yourself away
from such charms, and coming to such unromantic people as we are.
But I fancy men always do that sort of thing once or twice in their
lives,--and then they talk of their souvenirs. I suppose it won't go
beyond a souvenir with you."

This was a direct question, but still admitted of a fencing answer.
"It has, at any rate, given me one," said he, "which will last me my
life!"

The countess was quite contented. That Lady Julia's statement was
altogether true she had never for a moment doubted. That Crosbie
should become engaged to a young lady in the country, whereas he had
shown signs of being in love with her daughter in London, was not
at all wonderful. Nor, in her eyes, did such practice amount to any
great sin. Men did so daily, and girls were prepared for their so
doing. A man in her eyes was not to be regarded as safe from attack
because he was engaged. Let the young lady who took upon herself to
own him have an eye to that. When she looked back on the past careers
of her own flock, she had to reckon more than one such disappointment
for her own daughters. Others besides Alexandrina had been so
treated. Lady De Courcy had had her grand hopes respecting her
girls, and after them moderate hopes, and again after them bitter
disappointments. Only one had been married, and she was married to
an attorney. It was not to be supposed that she would have any very
high-toned feelings as to Lily's rights in this matter.

Such a man as Crosbie was certainly no great match for an earl's
daughter. Such a marriage, indeed, would, one may say, be but a poor
triumph. When the countess, during the last season in town, had
observed how matters were going with Alexandrina, she had cautioned
her child, taking her to task for her imprudence. But the child
had been at this work for fourteen years, and was weary of it. Her
sisters had been at the work longer, and had almost given it up in
despair. Alexandrina did not tell her parent that her heart was now
beyond her control, and that she had devoted herself to Crosbie for
ever; but she pouted, saying that she knew very well what she was
about, scolding her mother in return, and making Lady De Courcy
perceive that the struggle was becoming very weary. And then there
were other considerations. Mr. Crosbie had not much certainly in
his own possession, but he was a man out of whom something might be
made by family influence and his own standing. He was not a hopeless,
ponderous man, whom no leaven could raise. He was one of whose
position in society the countess and her daughters need not be
ashamed. Lady De Courcy had given no expressed consent to the
arrangement, but it had come to be understood between her and her
daughter that the scheme was to be entertained as admissible.

Then came these tidings of the little girl down at Allington. She
felt no anger against Crosbie. To be angry on such a subject would
be futile, foolish, and almost indecorous. It was a part of the game
which was as natural to her as fielding is to a cricketer. One cannot
have it all winnings at any game. Whether Crosbie should eventually
become her own son-in-law or not it came to her naturally, as a part
of her duty in life, to bowl down the stumps of that young lady at
Allington. If Miss Dale knew the game well and could protect her own
wicket, let her do so.

She had no doubt as to Crosbie's engagement with Lilian Dale, but
she had as little as to his being ashamed of that engagement. Had
he really cared for Miss Dale he would not have left her to come to
Courcy Castle. Had he been really resolved to marry her, he would not
have warded all questions respecting his engagement with fictitious
answers. He had amused himself with Lily Dale, and it was to be hoped
that the young lady had not thought very seriously about it. That was
the most charitable light in which Lady De Courcy was disposed to
regard the question.

It behoved Crosbie to write to Lily Dale before dinner. He had
promised to do so immediately on his arrival, and he was aware that
he would be regarded as being already one day beyond his promise.
Lily had told him that she would live upon his letters, and it was
absolutely necessary that he should furnish her with her first meal.
So he betook himself to his room in sufficient time before dinner,
and got out his pen, ink, and paper.

He got out his pen, ink, and paper, and then he found that his
difficulties were beginning. I beg that it may be understood that
Crosbie was not altogether a villain. He could not sit down and write
a letter as coming from his heart, of which as he wrote it he knew
the words to be false. He was an ungenerous, worldly, inconstant man,
very prone to think well of himself, and to give himself credit for
virtues which he did not possess; but he could not be false with
premeditated cruelty to a woman he had sworn to love. He could
not write an affectionate, warm-hearted letter to Lily, without
bringing himself, at any rate for the time, to feel towards her in an
affectionate, warm-hearted way. Therefore he now sat himself to work,
while his pen yet remained dry in his hand, to remodel his thoughts,
which had been turned against Lily and Allington by the craft of Lady
De Courcy. It takes some time before a man can do this. He has to
struggle with himself in a very uncomfortable way, making efforts
which are often unsuccessful. It is sometimes easier to lift a couple
of hundredweights than to raise a few thoughts in one's mind which at
other moments will come galloping in without a whistle.

He had just written the date of his letter when a little tap came at
his door, and it was opened.

"I say, Crosbie," said the Honourable John, "didn't you say something
yesterday about a cigar before dinner?"

"Not a word," said Crosbie, in rather an angry tone.

"Then it must have been me," said John. "But bring your case with
you, and come down to the harness-room, if you won't smoke here. I've
had a regular little snuggery fitted up there; and we can go in and
see the fellows making up the horses."

Crosbie wished the Honourable John at the mischief.

"I have letters to write," said he. "Besides, I never smoke before
dinner."

"That's nonsense. I've smoked hundreds of cigars with you before
dinner. Are you going to turn curmudgeon, too, like George and the
rest of them? I don't know what's coming to the world! I suppose the
fact is, that little girl at Allington won't let you smoke."

"The little girl at Allington--" began Crosbie; and then he reflected
that it would not be well for him to say anything to his present
companion about that little girl. "I'll tell you what it is," said
he. "I really have got letters to write which must go by this post.
There's my cigar-case on the dressing-table."

"I hope it will be long before I'm brought to such a state," said
John, taking up the cigars in his hand.

"Let me have the case back," said Crosbie.

"A present from the little girl, I suppose?" said John. "All right,
old fellow! you shall have it."

"There would be a nice brother-in-law for a man," said Crosbie to
himself, as the door closed behind the retreating scion of the De
Courcy family. And then, again, he took up his pen. The letter must
be written, and therefore he threw himself upon the table, resolved
that the words should come and the paper be filled.


   Courcy Castle, October, 186--.

   DEAREST LILY,--This is the first letter I ever wrote
   to you, except those little notes when I sent you my
   compliments discreetly,--and it sounds so odd. You will
   think that this does not come as soon as it should; but
   the truth is that after all I only got in here just before
   dinner yesterday. I stayed ever so long in Barchester,
   and came across such a queer character. For you must
   know I went to church, and afterwards fraternized with
   the clergyman who did the service; such a gentle old
   soul,--and, singularly enough, he is the grandfather of
   Lady Dumbello, who is staying here. I wonder what you'd
   think of Lady Dumbello, or how you'd like to be shut up in
   the same house with her for a week?

   But with reference to my staying at Barchester, I must
   tell you the truth now, though I was a gross impostor the
   day that I went away. I wanted to avoid a parting on that
   last morning, and therefore I started much sooner than
   I need have done. I know you will be very angry with me;
   but open confession is good for the soul. You frustrated
   all my little plan by your early rising; and as I saw
   you standing on the terrace, looking after us as we went,
   I acknowledged that you had been right, and that I was
   wrong. When the time came, I was very glad to have you
   with me at the last moment.

   My own dearest Lily, you cannot think how different this
   place is from the two houses at Allington, or how much I
   prefer the sort of life which belongs to the latter. I
   know that I have been what the world calls worldly, but
   you will have to cure me of that. I have questioned myself
   very much since I left you, and I do not think that I am
   quite beyond the reach of a cure. At any rate, I will
   put myself trustingly into the doctor's hands. I know it
   is hard for a man to change his habits; but I can with
   truth say this for myself, that I was happy at Allington,
   enjoying every hour of the day, and that here I am ennuye
   by everybody and nearly by everything. One of the girls of
   the house I do like; but as to other people, I can hardly
   find a companion among them, let alone a friend. However,
   it would not have done for me to have broken away from all
   such alliances too suddenly.

   When I get up to London--and now I really am anxious to
   get there--I can write to you more at my ease, and more
   freely than I do here. I know that I am hardly myself
   among these people,--or rather, I am hardly myself as
   you know me, and as I hope you always will know me. But,
   nevertheless, I am not so overcome by the miasma but what
   I can tell you how truly I love you. Even though my spirit
   should be here, which it is not, my heart would be on the
   Allington lawns. That dear lawn and that dear bridge!

   Give my kind love to Bell and your mother. I feel already
   that I might almost say my mother. And Lily, my darling,
   write to me at once. I expect your letters to me to be
   longer, and better, and brighter than mine to you. But I
   will endeavour to make mine nicer when I get back to town.

   God bless you. Yours, with all my heart,

   A. C.


As he had waxed warm with his writing he had forced himself to
be affectionate, and, as he flattered himself, frank and candid.
Nevertheless, he was partly conscious that he was preparing for
himself a mode of escape in those allusions of his to his own
worldliness; if escape should ultimately be necessary. "I have
tried," he would then say; "I have struggled honestly, with my best
efforts for success; but I am not good enough for such success." I do
not intend to say that he wrote with a premeditated intention of thus
using his words; but as he wrote them he could not keep himself from
reflecting that they might be used in that way.

He read his letter over, felt satisfied with it, and resolved that
he might now free his mind from that consideration for the next
forty-eight hours. Whatever might be his sins he had done his duty by
Lily! And with this comfortable reflection he deposited his letter in
the Courcy Castle letter-box.




CHAPTER XIX.

THE SQUIRE MAKES A VISIT TO THE SMALL HOUSE.


[ILLUSTRATION: (untitled)]

Mrs. Dale acknowledged to herself that she had not much ground for
hoping that she should ever find in Crosbie's house much personal
happiness for her future life. She did not dislike Mr. Crosbie, nor
in any great degree mistrust him; but she had seen enough of him to
make her certain that Lily's future home in London could not be a
home for her. He was worldly, or, at least, a man of the world. He
would be anxious to make the most of his income, and his life would
be one long struggle, not perhaps for money, but for those things
which money only can give. There are men to whom eight hundred a year
is great wealth, and houses to which it brings all the comforts that
life requires. But Crosbie was not such a man, nor would his house be
such a house. Mrs. Dale hoped that Lily would be happy with him, and
satisfied with his modes of life, and she strove to believe that such
would be the case; but as regarded herself she was forced to confess
that in such a marriage her child would be much divided from her.
That pleasant abode to which she had long looked forward that she
might have a welcome there in coming years should be among fields and
trees, not in some narrow London street. Lily must now become a city
lady; but Bell would still be left to her, and it might still be
hoped that Bell would find for herself some country home.

Since the day on which Lily had first told her mother of her
engagement, Mrs. Dale had found herself talking much more fully and
more frequently with Bell than with her younger daughter. As long as
Crosbie was at Allington this was natural enough. He and Lily were of
course together, while Bell remained with her mother. But the same
state of things continued even after Crosbie was gone. It was not
that there was any coolness or want of affection between the mother
and daughter, but that Lily's heart was full of her lover, and
that Mrs. Dale, though she had given her cordial consent to the
marriage, felt that she had but few points of sympathy with her
future son-in-law. She had never said, even to herself, that she
disliked him; nay, she had sometimes declared to herself that she
was fond of him. But, in truth, he was not a man after her own heart.
He was not one who could ever be to her as her own son and her own
child.

But she and Bell would pass hours together talking of Lily's
prospects. "It seems so strange to me," said Mrs. Dale, "that she
of all girls should have been fancied by such a man as Mr. Crosbie,
or that she should have liked him. I cannot imagine Lily living in
London."

"If he is good and affectionate to her she will be happy wherever he
is," said Bell.

"I hope so;--I'm sure I hope so. But it seems as though she will be
so far separated from us. It is not the distance, but the manner of
life which makes the separation. I hope you'll never be taken so far
from me."

"I don't think I shall allow myself to be taken up to London," said
Bell, laughing. "But one can never tell. If I do you must follow us,
mamma."

"I do not want another Mr. Crosbie for you, dear."

"But perhaps I may want one for myself. You need not tremble quite
yet, however. Apollos do not come this road every day."

"Poor Lily! Do you remember when she first called him Apollo? I do,
well. I remember his coming here the day after Bernard brought him
down, and how you were playing on the lawn, while I was in the other
garden. I little thought then what it would come to."

"But, mamma, you don't regret it?"

"Not if it's to make her happy. If she can be happy with him, of
course I shall not regret it; not though he were to take her to the
world's end away from us. What else have I to look for but that she
and you should both be happy?"

"Men in London are happy with their wives as well as men in the
country."

"Oh, yes; of all women I should be the first to acknowledge that."

"And as to Adolphus himself, I do not know why we should distrust
him."

"No, my dear; there is no reason. If I did distrust him, I should not
have given so ready an assent to the marriage. But, nevertheless--"

"The truth is, you don't like him, mamma."

"Not so cordially as I hope I may like any man whom you may choose
for your husband."

And Lily, though she said nothing on the subject to Mrs. Dale, felt
that her mother was in some degree estranged from her. Crosbie's name
was frequently mentioned between them, but in the tone of Mrs. Dale's
voice, and in her manner when she spoke of him, there was lacking
that enthusiasm and heartiness which real sympathy would have
produced. Lily did not analyse her own feelings, or closely make
inquiry as to those of her mother, but she perceived that it was not
all as she would have wished it to have been. "I know mamma does not
love him," she said to Bell on the evening of the day on which she
received Crosbie's first letter.

"Not as you do, Lily; but she does love him."

"Not as I do! To say that is nonsense, Bell; of course she does not
love him as I do. But the truth is she does not love him at all. Do
you think I cannot see it?"

"I'm afraid that you see too much."

"She never says a word against him; but if she really liked him she
would sometimes say a word in his favour. I do not think she would
ever mention his name unless you or I spoke of him before her. If she
did not approve of him, why did she not say so sooner?"

"That's hardly fair upon mamma," said Bell, with some earnestness.
"She does not disapprove of him, and she never did. You know mamma
well enough to be sure that she would not interfere with us in such a
matter without very strong reason. As regards Mr. Crosbie, she gave
her consent without a moment's hesitation."

"Yes, she did."

"How can you say, then, that she disapproves of him?"

"I didn't mean to find fault with mamma. Perhaps it will come all
right."

"It will come all right." But Bell, though she made this very
satisfactory promise, was as well aware as either of the others that
the family would be divided when Crosbie should have married Lily and
taken her off to London.

On the following morning Mrs. Dale and Bell were sitting together.
Lily was above in her own room, either writing to her lover, or
reading his letter, or thinking of him, or working for him. In some
way she was employed on his behalf, and with this object she was
alone. It was now the middle of October, and the fire was lit in
Mrs. Dale's drawing-room. The window which opened upon the lawn was
closed, the heavy curtains had been put back in their places, and
it had been acknowledged as an unwelcome fact that the last of the
summer was over. This was always a sorrow to Mrs. Dale; but it is one
of those sorrows which hardly admit of open expression.

"Bell," she said, looking up suddenly; "there's your uncle at the
window. Let him in." For now, since the putting up of the curtains,
the window had been bolted as well as closed. So Bell got up, and
opened a passage for the squire's entrance. It was not often that he
came down in this way, and when he did do so it was generally for
some purpose which had been expressed before.

"What! fires already?" said he. "I never have fires at the other
house in the morning till the first of November. I like to see a
spark in the grate after dinner."

"I like a fire when I'm cold," said Mrs. Dale. But this was a subject
on which the squire and his sister-in-law had differed before, and as
Mr. Dale had some business in hand, he did not now choose to waste
his energy in supporting his own views on the question of fires.

"Bell, my dear," said he, "I want to speak to your mother for a
minute or two on a matter of business. You wouldn't mind leaving us
for a little while, would you?" Whereupon Bell collected up her work
and went upstairs to her sister. "Uncle Christopher is below with
mamma," said she, "talking about business. I suppose it is something
to do with your marriage." But Bell was wrong. The squire's visit had
no reference to Lily's marriage.

Mrs. Dale did not move or speak a word when Bell was gone, though it
was evident that the squire paused in order that she might ask some
question of him. "Mary," said he, at last, "I'll tell you what it
is that I have come to say to you." Whereupon she put the piece of
needlework which was in her hands down upon the work-basket before
her, and settled herself to listen to him.

"I wish to speak to you about Bell."

"About Bell?" said Mrs. Dale, as though much surprised that he should
have anything to say to her respecting her eldest daughter.

"Yes, about Bell. Here's Lily going to be married, and it will be
well that Bell should be married too."

"I don't see that at all," said Mrs. Dale. "I am by no means in a
hurry to be rid of her."

"No, I dare say not. But, of course, you only regard her welfare,
and I can truly say that I do the same. There would be no necessity
for hurry as to a marriage for her under ordinary circumstances,
but there may be circumstances to make such a thing desirable, and
I think that there are." It was evident from the squire's tone and
manner that he was very much in earnest; but it was also evident that
he found some difficulty in opening out the budget with which he had
prepared himself. He hesitated a little in his voice, and seemed to
be almost nervous. Mrs. Dale, with some little spice of ill-nature,
altogether abstained from assisting him. She was jealous of
interference from him about her girls, and though she was of course
bound to listen to him, she did so with a prejudice against and
almost with a resolve to oppose anything that he might say. When he
had finished his little speech about circumstances, the squire paused
again; but Mrs. Dale still sat silent, with her eyes fixed upon his
face.

"I love your children very dearly," said he, "though I believe you
hardly give me credit for doing so."

"I am sure you do," said Mrs. Dale, "and they are both well aware of
it."

"And I am very anxious that they should be comfortably established in
life. I have no children of my own, and those of my two brothers are
everything to me."

Mrs. Dale had always considered it as a matter of course that Bernard
should be the squire's heir, and had never felt that her daughters
had any claim on that score. It was a well-understood thing in the
family that the senior male Dale should have all the Dale property
and all the Dale money. She fully recognized even the propriety of
such an arrangement. But it seemed to her that the squire was almost
guilty of hypocrisy in naming his nephew and his two nieces together,
as though they were the joint heirs of his love. Bernard was his
adopted son, and no one had begrudged to the uncle the right of
making such adoption. Bernard was everything to him, and as being his
heir was bound to obey him in many things. But her daughters were no
more to him than any nieces might be to any uncle. He had nothing
to do with their disposal in marriage; and the mother's spirit
was already up in arms and prepared to do battle for her own
independence, and for that of her children. "If Bernard would
marry well," said she, "I have no doubt it would be a comfort to
you,"--meaning to imply thereby that the squire had no right to
trouble himself about any other marriage.

"That's just it," said the squire. "It would be a great comfort to
me. And if he and Bell could make up their minds together, it would,
I should think, be a great comfort to you also."

"Bernard and Bell!" exclaimed Mrs. Dale. No idea of such a union
had ever yet come upon her, and now in her surprise she sat silent.
She had always liked Bernard Dale, having felt for him more family
affection than for any other of the Dale family beyond her own
hearth. He had been very intimate in her house, having made himself
almost as a brother to her girls. But she had never thought of him as
a husband for either of them.

"Then Bell has not spoken to you about it," said the squire.

"Never a word."

"And you had never thought about it?"

"Certainly not."

"I have thought about it a great deal. For some years I have always
been thinking of it. I have set my heart upon it, and shall be very
unhappy if it cannot be brought about. They are both very dear to
me,--dearer than anybody else. If I could see them man and wife, I
should not much care then how soon I left the old place to them."

There was a purer touch of feeling in this than the squire had ever
before shown in his sister-in-law's presence, and more heartiness
than she had given him the credit of possessing. And she could not
but acknowledge to herself that her own child was included in this
unexpected warmth of love, and that she was bound at any rate to
entertain some gratitude for such kindness.

"It is good of you to think of her," said the mother; "very good."

"I think a great deal about her," said the squire. "But that does not
much matter now. The fact is, that she has declined Bernard's offer."

"Has Bernard offered to her?"

"So he tells me; and she has refused him. It may perhaps be natural
that she should do so, never having taught herself to look at him in
the light of a lover. I don't blame her at all. I am not angry with
her."

"Angry with her! No. You can hardly be angry with her for not being
in love with her cousin."

"I say that I am not angry with her. But I think she might undertake
to consider the question. You would like such a match, would you
not?"

Mrs. Dale did not at first make any answer, but began to revolve the
thing in her mind, and to look at it in various points of view. There
was a great deal in such an arrangement which at the first sight
recommended it to her very strongly. All the local circumstances
were in its favour. As regarded herself it would promise to her all
that she had ever desired. It would give her a prospect of seeing
very much of Lily; for if Bell were settled at the old family house,
Crosbie would naturally be much with his friend. She liked Bernard
also; and for a moment or two fancied, as she turned it all over
in her mind, that, even yet, if such a marriage were to take place,
there might grow up something like true regard between her and the
old squire. How happy would be her old age in that Small House, if
Bell with her children were living so close to her!

"Well?" said the squire, who was looking very intently into her face.

"I was thinking," said Mrs. Dale. "Do you say that she has already
refused him?"

"I am afraid she has; but then you know--"

"It must of course be left for her to judge."

"If you mean that she cannot be made to marry her cousin, of course
we all know she can't."

"I mean rather more than that."

"What do you mean, then?"

"That the matter must be left altogether to her own decision; that
no persuasion must be used by you or me. If he can persuade her,
indeed--"

"Yes, exactly. He must persuade her. I quite agree with you that
he should have liberty to plead his own cause. But look you here,
Mary;--she has always been a very good child to you--"

"Indeed she has."

"And a word from you would go a long way with her,--as it ought. If
she knows that you would like her to marry her cousin, it will make
her think it her duty--"

"Ah! but that is just what I cannot try to make her think."

"Will you let me speak, Mary? You take me up and scold me before the
words are half out of my mouth. Of course I know that in these days
a young lady is not to be compelled into marrying anybody;--not but
that, as far as I can see, they did better than they do now when they
had not quite so much of their own way."

"I never would take upon myself to ask a child to marry any man."

"But you may explain to her that it is her duty to give such a
proposal much thought before it is absolutely refused. A girl either
is in love or she is not. If she is, she is ready to jump down a
man's throat; and that was the case with Lily."

"She never thought of the man till he had proposed to her fully."

"Well, never mind now. But if a girl is not in love, she thinks she
is bound to swear and declare that she never will be so."

"I don't think Bell ever declared anything of the kind."

"Yes, she did. She told Bernard that she didn't love him and couldn't
love him,--and, in fact, that she wouldn't think anything more about
it. Now, Mary, that's what I call being headstrong and positive. I
don't want to drive her, and I don't want you to drive her. But here
is an arrangement which for her will be a very good one; you must
admit that. We all know that she is on excellent terms with Bernard.
It isn't as though they had been falling out and hating each other
all their lives. She told him that she was very fond of him, and
talked nonsense about being his sister, and all that."

"I don't see that it was nonsense at all."

"Yes, it was nonsense,--on such an occasion. If a man asks a girl to
marry him, he doesn't want her to talk to him about being his sister.
I think it is nonsense. If she would only consider about it properly
she would soon learn to love him."

"That lesson, if it be learned at all, must be learned without any
tutor."

"You won't do anything to help me then?"

"I will, at any rate, do nothing to mar you. And, to tell the truth,
I must think over the matter fully before I can decide what I had
better say to Bell about it. From her not speaking to me--"

"I think she ought to have told you."

"No, Mr. Dale. Had she accepted him, of course she would have told
me. Had she thought of doing so she might probably have consulted me.
But if she made up her mind that she must reject him--"

"She oughtn't to have made up her mind."
"But if she did, it seems natural to me that she should speak of it
to no one. She might probably think that Bernard would be as well
pleased that it should not be known."

"Psha,--known!--of course it will be known. As you want time to
consider of it, I will say nothing more now. If she were my daughter,
I should have no hesitation in telling her what I thought best for
her welfare."

"I have none; though I may have some in making up my mind as to what
is best for her welfare. But, Mr. Dale, you may be sure of this; I
will speak to her very earnestly of your kindness and love for her.
And I wish you would believe that I feel your regard for her very
strongly."

In answer to this he merely shook his head, and hummed and hawed.
"You would be glad to see them married, as regards yourself?" he
asked.

"Certainly I would," said Mrs. Dale. "I have always liked Bernard,
and I believe my girl would be safe with him. But then, you see, it's
a question on which my own likings or dislikings should not have any
bearing."

And so they parted, the squire making his way back again through
the drawing-room window. He was not above half pleased with his
interview; but then he was a man for whom half-pleasure almost
sufficed. He rarely indulged any expectation that people would make
themselves agreeable to him. Mrs. Dale, since she had come to the
Small House, had never been a source of satisfaction to him, but he
did not on that account regret that he had brought her there. He
was a constant man; urgent in carrying out his own plans, but not
sanguine in doing so, and by no means apt to expect that all things
would go smooth with him. He had made up his mind that his nephew and
his niece should be married, and should he ultimately fail in this,
such failure would probably embitter his future life;--but it was
not in the nature of the man to be angry in the meantime, or to fume
and scold because he met with opposition. He had told Mrs. Dale that
he loved Bell dearly. So he did, though he seldom spoke to her with
much show of special regard, and never was soft and tender with her.
But, on the other hand, he did not now love her the less because she
opposed his wishes. He was a constant, undemonstrative man, given
rather to brooding than to thinking; harder in his words than in his
thoughts, with more of heart than others believed, or than he himself
knew; but, above all, he was a man who having once desired a thing
would desire it always.

Mrs. Dale, when she was left alone, began to turn over the question
in her mind in a much fuller manner than the squire's presence had
as yet made possible for her. Would not such a marriage as this be
for them all the happiest domestic arrangement which circumstances
could afford? Her daughter would have no fortune, but here would
be prepared for her all the comforts which fortune can give. She
would be received into her uncle's house, not as some penniless,
portionless bride whom Bernard might have married and brought home,
but as the wife whom of all others Bernard's friends had thought
desirable for him. And then, as regarded Mrs. Dale herself, there
would be nothing in such a marriage which would not be delightful
to her. It would give a realization to all her dreams of future
happiness.

But, as she said to herself over and over again, all that must go for
nothing. It must be for Bell, and for her only, to answer Bernard's
question. In her mind there was something sacred in that idea of
love. She would regard her daughter almost as a castaway if she were
to marry any man without absolutely loving him,--loving him as Lily
loved her lover, with all her heart and all her strength.

With such a conviction as this strong upon her, she felt that she
could not say much to Bell that would be of any service.




CHAPTER XX.

DR. CROFTS.


If there was anything in the world as to which Isabella Dale was
quite certain, it was this--that she was not in love with Dr. Crofts.
As to being in love with her cousin Bernard, she had never had
occasion to ask herself any question on that head. She liked him very
well, but she had never thought of marrying him; and now, when he
made his proposal, she could not bring herself to think of it. But
as regards Dr. Crofts, she had thought of it, and had made up her
mind;--in the manner above described.

It may be said that she could not have been justified in discussing
the matter even within her own bosom, unless authorized to do so
by Dr. Crofts himself. Let it then be considered that Dr. Crofts
had given her some such authority. This may be done in more ways
than one; and Miss Dale could not have found herself asking herself
questions about him, unless there had been fitting occasion for her
to do so.

The profession of a medical man in a small provincial town is not
often one which gives to its owner in early life a large income.
Perhaps in no career has a man to work harder for what he earns, or
to do more work without earning anything. It has sometimes seemed
to me as though the young doctors and the old doctors had agreed to
divide between them the different results of their profession,--the
young doctors doing all the work and the old doctors taking all the
money. If this be so it may account for that appearance of premature
gravity which is borne by so many of the medical profession. Under
such an arrangement a man may be excused for a desire to put away
childish things very early in life.

Dr. Crofts had now been practising in Guestwick nearly seven years,
having settled himself in that town when he was twenty-three years
old, and being at this period about thirty. During those seven
years his skill and industry had been so fully admitted that he had
succeeded in obtaining the medical care of all the paupers in the
union, for which work he was paid at the rate of one hundred pounds
a year. He was also assistant-surgeon at a small hospital which was
maintained in that town, and held two or three other similar public
positions, all of which attested his respectability and general
proficiency. They, moreover, thoroughly saved him from any of the
dangers of idleness; but, unfortunately, they did not enable him
to regard himself as a successful professional man. Whereas old
Dr. Gruffen, of whom but few people spoke well, had made a fortune
in Guestwick, and even still drew from the ailments of the town a
considerable and hardly yet decreasing income. Now this was hard
upon Dr. Crofts--unless there was existing some such well-understood
arrangement as that above named.

He had been known to the family of the Dales long previous to his
settlement at Guestwick, and had been very intimate with them from
that time to the present day. Of all the men, young or old, whom Mrs.
Dale counted among her intimate friends, he was the one whom she most
trusted and admired. And he was a man to be trusted by those who knew
him well. He was not bright and always ready, as was Crosbie, nor had
he all the practical worldly good sense of Bernard Dale. In mental
power I doubt whether he was superior to John Eames;--to John Eames,
such as he might become when the period of his hobbledehoyhood should
have altogether passed away. But Crofts, compared with the other
three, as they all were at present, was a man more to be trusted than
any of them. And there was, moreover, about him an occasional dash
of humour, without which Mrs. Dale would hardly have regarded him
with that thorough liking which she had for him. But it was a quiet
humour, apt to show itself when he had but one friend with him,
rather than in general society. Crosbie, on the other hand, would
be much more bright among a dozen, than he could with a single
companion. Bernard Dale was never bright; and as for Johnny Eames--;
but in this matter of brightness, Johnny Eames had not yet shown to
the world what his character might be.

It was now two years since Crofts had been called upon for medical
advice on behalf of his friend Mrs. Dale. She had then been ill for
a long period--some two or three months, and Dr. Crofts had been
frequent in his visits at Allington. At that time he became very
intimate with Mrs. Dale's daughters, and especially so with the
eldest. Young unmarried doctors ought perhaps to be excluded from
houses in which there are young ladies. I know, at any rate, that
many sage matrons hold very strongly to that opinion, thinking, no
doubt, that doctors ought to get themselves married before they
venture to begin working for a living. Mrs. Dale, perhaps, regarded
her own girls as still merely children, for Bell, the elder, was then
hardly eighteen; or perhaps she held imprudent and heterodox opinions
on this subject; or it may be that she selfishly preferred Dr.
Crofts, with all the danger to her children, to Dr. Gruffen, with
all the danger to herself. But the result was that the young doctor
one day informed himself, as he was riding back to Guestwick, that
much of his happiness in this world would depend on his being able
to marry Mrs. Dale's eldest daughter. At that time his total income
amounted to little more than two hundred a year, and he had resolved
within his own mind that Dr. Gruffen was esteemed as much the better
doctor by the general public opinion of Guestwick, and that Dr.
Gruffen's sandy-haired assistant would even have a better chance of
success in the town than himself, should it ever come to pass that
the doctor was esteemed too old for personal practice. Crofts had no
fortune of his own, and he was aware that Miss Dale had none. Then,
under those circumstances, what was he to do?

It is not necessary that we should inquire at any great length into
those love passages of the doctor's life which took place three years
before the commencement of this narrative. He made no declaration to
Bell; but Bell, young as she was, understood well that he would fain
have done so, had not his courage failed him, or rather had not his
prudence prevented him. To Mrs. Dale he did speak, not openly avowing
his love even to her, but hinting at it, and then talking to her of
his unsatisfied hopes and professional disappointments. "It is not
that I complain of being poor as I am," said he; "or at any rate, not
so poor that my poverty must be any source of discomfort to me; but I
could hardly marry with such an income as I have at present."

"But it will increase, will it not?" said Mrs. Dale.

"It may some day, when I am becoming an old man," he said. "But of
what use will it be to me then?"

Mrs. Dale could not tell him that, as far as her voice in the matter
went, he was welcome to woo her daughter and marry her, poor as
he was, and doubly poor as they would both be together on such a
pittance. He had not even mentioned Bell's name, and had he done
so she could only have bade him wait and hope. After that he said
nothing further to her upon the subject. To Bell he spoke no word
of overt love; but on an autumn day, when Mrs. Dale was already
convalescent, and the repetition of his professional visits had
become unnecessary, he got her to walk with him through the
half-hidden shrubbery paths, and then told her things which he should
never have told her, if he really wished to bind her heart to his.
He repeated that story of his income, and explained to her that
his poverty was only grievous to him in that it prevented him from
thinking of marriage. "I suppose it must," said Bell. "I should think
it wrong to ask any lady to share such an income as mine," said he.
Whereupon Bell had suggested to him that some ladies had incomes of
their own, and that he might in that way get over the difficulty. "I
should be afraid of myself in marrying a girl with money," said he;
"besides, that is altogether out of the question now." Of course
Bell did not ask him why it was out of the question, and for a time
they went on walking in silence. "It is a hard thing to do," he then
said,--not looking at her, but looking at the gravel on which he
stood. "It is a hard thing to do, but I will determine to think of
it no further. I believe a man may be as happy single as he may
married,--almost." "Perhaps more so," said Bell. Then the doctor left
her, and Bell, as I have said before, made up her mind with great
firmness that she was not in love with him. I may certainly say that
there was nothing in the world as to which she was so certain as she
was of this.

And now, in these days, Dr. Crofts did not come over to Allington
very often. Had any of the family in the Small House been ill, he
would have been there of course. The squire himself employed the
apothecary in the village, or if higher aid was needed, would send
for Dr. Gruffen. On the occasion of Mrs. Dale's party, Crofts was
there, having been specially invited; but Mrs. Dale's special
invitations to her friends were very few, and the doctor was well
aware that he must himself make occasion for going there if he
desired to see the inmates of the house. But he very rarely made such
occasion, perhaps feeling that he was more in his element at the
workhouse and the hospital.

Just at this time, however, he made one very great and unexpected
step towards success in his profession. He was greatly surprised one
morning by being summoned to the Manor House to attend upon Lord
De Guest. The family at the Manor had employed Dr. Gruffen for the
last thirty years, and Crofts, when he received the earl's message,
could hardly believe the words. "The earl ain't very bad," said the
servant, "but he would be glad to see you if possible a little before
dinner."

"You're sure he wants to see me?" said Crofts.

"Oh, yes; I'm sure enough of that, sir."

"It wasn't Dr. Gruffen?"

"No, sir; it wasn't Dr. Gruffen. I believe his lordship's had about
enough of Dr. Gruffen. The doctor took to chaffing his lordship one
day."

"Chaffed his lordship;--his hands and feet, and that sort of thing?"
suggested the doctor.

"Hands and feet!" said the man. "Lord bless you, sir, he poked his
fun at him, just as though he was nobody. I didn't hear, but Mrs.
Connor says that my lord's back was up terribly high." And so Dr.
Crofts got on his horse and rode up to Guestwick Manor.

The earl was alone, Lady Julia having already gone to Courcy Castle.
"How d'ye do, how d'ye do?" said the earl. "I'm not very ill, but
I want to get a little advice from you. It's quite a trifle, but
I thought it well to see somebody." Whereupon Dr. Crofts of course
declared that he was happy to wait upon his lordship.

"I know all about you, you know," said the earl. "Your grandmother
Stoddard was a very old friend of my aunt's. You don't remember Lady
Jemima?"

"No," said Crofts. "I never had that honour."

"An excellent old woman, and knew your grandmother Stoddard well. You
see, Gruffen has been attending us for I don't know how many years;
but upon my word--" and then the earl stopped himself.

"It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good," said Crofts, with a
slight laugh.

"Perhaps it 'll blow me some good, for Gruffen never did me any. The
fact is this; I'm very well, you know;--as strong as a horse."

"You look pretty well."

"No man could be better,--not of my age. I'm sixty, you know."

"You don't look as though you were ailing."

"I'm always out in the open air, and that, I take it, is the best
thing for a man."

"There's nothing like plenty of exercise, certainly."

"And I'm always taking exercise," said the earl. "There isn't a man
about the place works much harder than I do. And, let me tell you,
sir, when you undertake to keep six or seven hundred acres of land in
your own hand, you must look after it, unless you mean to lose money
by it."

"I've always heard that your lordship is a good farmer."

"Well, yes; wherever the grass may grow about my place, it doesn't
grow under my feet. You won't often find me in bed at six o'clock,
I can tell you."

After this Dr. Crofts ventured to ask his lordship as to what special
physical deficiency his own aid was invoked at the present time.

"Ah, I was just coming to that," said the earl. "They tell me it's a
very dangerous practice to go to sleep after dinner."

"It's not very uncommon at any rate," said the doctor.

"I suppose not; but Lady Julia is always at me about it. And, to
tell the truth, I think I sleep almost too sound when I get to my
arm-chair in the drawing-room. Sometimes my sister really can't wake
me;--so, at least, she says."

"And how's your appetite at dinner?"

"Oh, I'm quite right there. I never eat any luncheon, you know, and
enjoy my dinner thoroughly. Then I drink three or four glasses of
port wine--"

"And feel sleepy afterwards?"

"That's just it," said the earl.

It is not perhaps necessary that we should inquire what was the exact
nature of the doctor's advice; but it was, at any rate, given in such
a way that the earl said he would be glad to see him again.

"And look here, Doctor Crofts, I'm all alone just at present. Suppose
you come over and dine with me to-morrow; then, if I should go to
sleep, you know, you'll be able to let me know whether Lady Julia
doesn't exaggerate. Just between ourselves, I don't quite believe all
she says about my--my snoring, you know."

Whether it was that the earl restrained his appetite when at dinner
under the doctor's eyes, or whether the mid-day mutton chop which had
been ordered for him had the desired effect, or whether the doctor's
conversation was more lively than that of the Lady Julia, we will not
say; but the earl, on the evening in question, was triumphant. As he
sat in his easy-chair after dinner he hardly winked above once or
twice; and when he had taken the large bowl of tea, which he usually
swallowed in a semi-somnolent condition, he was quite lively.

"Ah, yes," he said, jumping up and rubbing his eyes; "I think I do
feel lighter. I enjoy a snooze after dinner; I do indeed; I like it;
but then, when one comes to go to bed, one does it in such a sneaking
sort of way, as though one were in disgrace! And my sister, she
thinks it a crime--literally a sin, to go to sleep in a chair. Nobody
ever caught her napping! By-the-by, Dr. Crofts, did you know that Mr.
Crosbie whom Bernard Dale brought down to Allington? Lady Julia and
he are staying at the same house now."

"I met him once at Mrs. Dale's."

"Going to marry one of the girls, isn't he?"

Whereupon Dr. Crofts explained that Mr. Crosbie was engaged to Lilian
Dale.

"Ah, yes; a nice girl, I'm told. You know all those Dales are
connections of ours. My sister Fanny married their uncle Orlando. My
brother-in-law doesn't like travelling, and so I don't see very much
of him; but of course I'm interested about the family."

"They're very old friends of mine," said Crofts.

"Yes, I daresay. There are two girls, are there not?"

"Yes, two."

"And Miss Lily is the youngest. There's nothing about the elder one
getting married, is there?"

"I've not heard anything of it."

"A very pretty girl she is, too. I remember seeing her at her uncle's
last year. I shouldn't wonder if she were to marry her cousin
Bernard. He is to have the property, you know; and he's my nephew."

"I'm not quite sure that it's a good thing for cousins to marry,"
said Crofts.

"They do, you know, very often; and it suits some family
arrangements. I suppose Dale must provide for them, and that would
take one off his hands without any trouble."

Dr. Crofts didn't exactly see the matter in this light, but he was
not anxious to argue it very closely with the earl. "The younger
one," he said, "has provided for herself."

"What; by getting a husband? But I suppose Dale must give her
something. They're not married yet, you know, and, from what I hear,
that fellow may prove a slippery customer. He'll not marry her unless
old Dale gives her something. You'll see if he does. I'm told that he
has got another string to his bow at Courcy Castle."

Soon after this, Crofts took his horse and rode home, having promised
the earl that he would dine with him again before long.

"It'll be a great convenience to me if you'd come about that time,"
said the earl, "and as you're a bachelor perhaps you won't mind it.
You'll come on Thursday at seven, will you? Take care of yourself.
It's as dark as pitch. John, go and open the first gates for Dr.
Crofts." And then the earl took himself off to bed.

Crofts, as he rode home, could not keep his mind from thinking of
the two girls at Allington. "He'll not marry her unless old Dale
gives her something." Had it come to that with the world, that a man
must be bribed into keeping his engagement with a lady? Was there
no romance left among mankind,--no feeling of chivalry? "He's got
another string to his bow at Courcy Castle," said the earl; and his
lordship seemed to be in no degree shocked as he said it. It was in
this tone that men spoke of women now-a-days, and yet he himself had
felt such awe of the girl he loved, and such a fear lest he might
injure her in her worldly position, that he had not dared to tell her
that he loved her.




CHAPTER XXI.

JOHN EAMES ENCOUNTERS TWO ADVENTURES, AND DISPLAYS GREAT COURAGE IN
BOTH.


Lily thought that her lover's letter was all that it should be.
She was not quite aware what might be the course of post between
Courcy and Allington, and had not, therefore, felt very grievously
disappointed when the letter did not come on the very first day.
She had, however, in the course of the morning, walked down to
the post-office, in order that she might be sure that it was not
remaining there.

"Why, miss, they be all delivered; you know that," said Mrs. Crump,
the post-mistress.

"But one might be left behind, I thought."

"John Postman went up to the house this very day, with a newspaper
for your mamma. I can't make letters for people if folks don't write
them.".

"But they are left behind sometimes, Mrs. Crump. He wouldn't come up
with one letter if he'd got nothing else for anybody in the street."

"Indeed but he would then. I wouldn't let him leave a letter here
no how, nor yet a paper. It's no good you're coming down here for
letters, Miss Lily. If he don't write to you, I can't make him do
it." And so poor Lily went home discomforted.

But the letter came on the next morning, and all was right. According
to her judgment it lacked nothing, either in fulness or in affection.
When he told her how he had planned his early departure in order that
he might avoid the pain of parting with her on the last moment, she
smiled and pressed the paper, and rejoiced inwardly that she had
got the better of him as to that manoeuvre. And then she kissed the
words which told her that he had been glad to have her with him
at the last moment. When he declared that he had been happier at
Allington than he was at Courcy, she believed him thoroughly, and
rejoiced that it should be so. And when he accused himself of being
worldly, she excused him, persuading herself that he was nearly
perfect in this respect as in others. Of course a man living in
London, and having to earn his bread out in the world, must be more
worldly than a country girl; but the fact of his being able to love
such a girl, to choose such a one for his wife,--was not that alone
sufficient proof that the world had not enslaved him? "My heart is on
the Allington lawns," he said; and then, as she read the words, she
kissed the paper again.

In her eyes, and to her ears, and to her heart, the letter was a
beautiful letter. I believe there is no bliss greater than that which
a thorough love-letter gives to a girl who knows that in receiving it
she commits no fault,--who can open it before her father and mother
with nothing more than the slight blush which the consciousness of
her position gives her. And of all love-letters the first must be the
sweetest! What a value there is in every word! How each expression is
scanned and turned to the best account! With what importance are all
those little phrases invested, which too soon become mere phrases,
used as a matter of course. Crosbie had finished his letter by
bidding God bless her; "And you too," said Lily, pressing the letter
to her bosom.

"Does he say anything particular?" asked Mrs. Dale.

"Yes, mamma; it's all very particular."

"But there's nothing for the public ear."

"He sends his love to you and Bell."

"We are very much obliged to him."

"So you ought to be. And he says that he went to church going through
Barchester, and that the clergyman was the grandfather of that Lady
Dumbello. When he got to Courcy Castle Lady Dumbello was there."

"What a singular coincidence!" said Mrs. Dale.

"I won't tell you a word more about his letter," said Lily. So she
folded it up, and put it in her pocket. But as soon as she found
herself alone in her own room, she had it out again, and read it over
some half-a-dozen times.

That was the occupation of her morning;--that, and the manufacture
of some very intricate piece of work which was intended for the
adornment of Mr. Crosbie's person. Her hands, however, were very full
of work;--or, rather, she intended that they should be full. She
would take with her to her new home, when she was married, all manner
of household gear, the produce of her own industry and economy. She
had declared that she wanted to do something for her future husband,
and she would begin that something at once. And in this matter she
did not belie her promises to herself, or allow her good intentions
to evaporate unaccomplished. She soon surrounded herself with harder
tasks than those embroidered slippers with which she indulged herself
immediately after his departure. And Mrs. Dale and Bell,--though in
their gentle way they laughed at her,--nevertheless they worked with
her, sitting sternly to their long tasks, in order that Crosbie's
house might not be empty when their darling should go to take her
place there as his wife.

But it was absolutely necessary that the letter should be answered.
It would in her eyes have been a great sin to have let that day's
post go without carrying a letter from her to Courcy Castle,--a sin
of which she felt no temptation to be guilty. It was an exquisite
pleasure to her to seat herself at her little table, with her neat
desk and small appurtenances for epistle-craft, and to feel that she
had a letter to write in which she had truly much to say. Hitherto
her correspondence had been uninteresting and almost weak in its
nature. From her mother and sister she had hardly yet been parted;
and though she had other friends, she had seldom found herself with
very much to tell them by post. What could she communicate to Mary
Eames at Guestwick, which should be in itself exciting as she wrote
it? When she wrote to John Eames, and told "Dear John" that mamma
hoped to have the pleasure of seeing him to tea at such an hour, the
work of writing was of little moment to her, though the note when
written became one of the choicest treasures of him to whom it was
addressed.

But now the matter was very different. When she saw the words
"Dearest Adolphus" on the paper before her, she was startled with
their significance. "And four months ago I had never even heard of
him," she said to herself, almost with awe. And now he was more to
her, and nearer to her, than even was her sister or her mother! She
recollected how she had laughed at him behind his back, and called
him a swell on the first day of his coming to the Small House, and
how, also, she had striven, in her innocent way, to look her best
when called upon to go out and walk with the stranger from London.
He was no longer a stranger now, but her own dearest friend.

She had put down her pen that she might think of all this--by no
means for the first time--and then resumed it with a sudden start
as though fearing that the postman might be in the village before
her letter was finished. "Dearest Adolphus, I need not tell you how
delighted I was when your letter was brought to me this morning."
But I will not repeat the whole of her letter here. She had no
incident to relate, none even so interesting as that of Mr. Crosbie's
encounter with Mr. Harding at Barchester. She had met no Lady
Dumbello, and had no counterpart to Lady Alexandrina, of whom, as
a friend, she could say a word in praise. John Eames's name she did
not mention, knowing that John Eames was not a favourite with Mr.
Crosbie; nor had she anything to say of John Eames, that had not been
already said. He had, indeed, promised to come over to Allington;
but this visit had not been made when Lily wrote her first letter to
Crosbie. It was a sweet, good, honest love-letter, full of assurances
of unalterable affection and unlimited confidence, indulging in a
little quiet fun as to the grandees of Courcy Castle, and ending with
a promise that she would be happy and contented if she might receive
his letters constantly, and live with the hope of seeing him at
Christmas.

"I am in time, Mrs. Crump, am I not?" she said, as she walked into
the post-office.

"Of course you be,--for the next half-hour. T' postman--he bain't
stirred from t' ale'us yet. Just put it into t' box, wull ye?"

"But you won't leave it there?"

"Leave it there! Did you ever hear the like of that? If you're
afeared to put it in, you can take it away; that's all about it,
Miss Lily." And then Mrs. Crump turned away to her avocations at the
washing-tub. Mrs. Crump had a bad temper, but perhaps she had some
excuse. A separate call was made upon her time with reference to
almost every letter brought to her office, and for all this, as she
often told her friends in profound disgust, she received as salary no
more than "tuppence farden a day. It don't find me in shoe-leather;
no more it don't." As Mrs. Crump was never seen out of her own house,
unless it was in church once a month, this latter assertion about her
shoe-leather, could hardly have been true.

Lily had received another letter, and had answered it before Eames
made his promised visit to Allington. He, as will be remembered, had
also had a correspondence. He had answered Miss Roper's letter, and
had since that been living in fear of two things; in a lesser fear of
some terrible rejoinder from Amelia, and in a greater fear of a more
terrible visit from his lady-love. Were she to swoop down in very
truth upon his Guestwick home, and declare herself to his mother and
sister as his affianced bride, what mode of escape would then be left
for him? But this she had not yet done, nor had she even answered his
cruel missive.

"What an ass I am to be afraid of her!" he said to himself as he
walked along under the elms of Guestwick manor, which overspread the
road to Allington. When he first went over to Allington after his
return home, he had mounted himself on horseback, and had gone forth
brilliant with spurs, and trusting somewhat to the glories of his
dress and gloves. But he had then known nothing of Lily's engagement.
Now he was contented to walk; and as he had taken up his slouched
hat and stick in the passage of his mother's house, he had been very
indifferent as to his appearance. He walked quickly along the road,
taking for the first three miles the shade of the Guestwick elms, and
keeping his feet on the broad greensward which skirts the outside of
the earl's palings. "What an ass I am to be afraid of her!" And as he
swung his big stick in his hand, striking a tree here and there, and
knocking the stones from his path, he began to question himself in
earnest, and to be ashamed of his position in the world. "Nothing on
earth shall make me marry her," he said; "not if they bring a dozen
actions against me. She knows as well as I do, that I have never
intended to marry her. It's a cheat from beginning to end. If she
comes down here, I'll tell her so before my mother." But as the
vision of her sudden arrival came before his eyes, he acknowledged to
himself that he still held her in great fear. He had told her that he
loved her. He had written as much as that. If taxed with so much, he
must confess his sin.

Then, by degrees, his mind turned away from Amelia Roper to Lily
Dale, not giving him a prospect much more replete with enjoyment than
that other one. He had said that he would call at Allington before he
returned to town, and he was now redeeming his promise. But he did
not know why he should go there. He felt that he should sit silent
and abashed in Mrs. Dale's drawing-room, confessing by his demeanour
that secret which it behoved him now to hide from every one. He could
not talk easily before Lily, nor could he speak to her of the only
subject which would occupy his thoughts when in her presence. If
indeed, he might find her alone-- But, perhaps that might be worse
for him than any other condition.

When he was shown into the drawing-room there was nobody there. "They
were here a minute ago, all three," said the servant girl. "If you'll
walk down the garden, Mr. John, you'll be sure to find some of 'em."
So John Eames, with a little hesitation, walked down the garden.

First of all he went the whole way round the walks, meeting nobody.
Then he crossed the lawn, returning again to the farther end; and
there, emerging from the little path which led from the Great House,
he encountered Lily alone. "Oh, John," she said, "how d'ye do? I'm
afraid you did not find anybody in the house. Mamma and Bell are with
Hopkins, away in the large kitchen-garden."

"I've just come over," said Eames, "because I promised. I said I'd
come before I went back to London."

"And they'll be very glad to see you, and so am I. Shall we go after
them into the other grounds? But perhaps you walked over and are
tired."

"I did walk," said Eames; "not that I am very tired." But in truth
he did not wish to go after Mrs. Dale, though he was altogether at
a loss as to what he would say to Lily while remaining with her. He
had fancied that he would like to have some opportunity of speaking
to her alone before he went away;--of making some special use of the
last interview which he should have with her before she became a
married woman. But now the opportunity was there, and he hardly dared
to avail himself of it.

"You'll stay and dine with us," said Lily.

"No, I'll not do that, for I especially told my mother that I would
be back."

"I'm sure it was very good of you to walk so far to see us. If you
really are not tired, I think we will go to mamma, as she would be
very sorry to miss you."

This she said, remembering at the moment what had been Crosbie's
injunctions to her about John Eames. But John had resolved that
he would say those words which he had come to speak, and that, as
Lily was there with him, he would avail himself of the chance which
fortune had given him.

"I don't think I'll go into the squire's garden," he said.

"Uncle Christopher is not there. He is about the farm somewhere."

"If you don't mind, Lily, I think I'll stay here. I suppose they'll
be back soon. Of course I should like to see them before I go away to
London. But, Lily, I came over now chiefly to see you. It was you who
asked me to promise."

Had Crosbie been right in those remarks of his? Had she been
imprudent in her little endeavour to be cordially kind to her old
friend? "Shall we go into the drawing-room?" she said, feeling that
she would be in some degree safer there than out among the shrubs and
paths of the garden. And I think she was right in this. A man will
talk of love out among the lilacs and roses, who would be stricken
dumb by the demure propriety of the four walls of a drawing-room.
John Eames also had some feeling of this kind, for he determined to
remain out in the garden, if he could so manage it.

"I don't want to go in unless you wish it," he said. "Indeed, I'd
rather stay here. So, Lily, you're going to be married?" And thus he
rushed at once into the middle of his discourse.

"Yes," said she, "I believe I am."

"I have not told you yet that I congratulated you."

"I have known very well that you did so in your heart. I have always
been sure that you wished me well."

"Indeed I have. And if congratulating a person is hoping that she
may always be happy, I do congratulate you. But, Lily--" And then he
paused, abashed by the beauty, purity, and woman's grace which had
forced him to love her.

"I think I understand all that you would say. I do not want ordinary
words to tell me that I am to count you among my best friends."

"No, Lily; you don't understand all that I would say. You have never
known how often and how much I have thought of you; how dearly I have
loved you."

"John, you must not talk of that now."

"I cannot go without telling you. When I came over here, and Mrs.
Dale told me that you were to be married to that man--"

"You must not speak of Mr. Crosbie in that way," she said, turning
upon him almost fiercely.

"I did not mean to say anything disrespectful of him to you. I should
hate myself if I were to do so. Of course you like him better than
anybody else?"

"I love him better than all the world besides."

"And so do I love you better than all the world besides." And as he
spoke he got up from his seat and stood before her. "I know how poor
I am, and unworthy of you; and only that you are engaged to him,
I don't suppose that I should now tell you. Of course you couldn't
accept such a one as me. But I have loved you ever since you
remember; and now that you are going to be his wife, I cannot but
tell you that it is so. You will go and live in London; but as to my
seeing you there, it will be impossible. I could not go into that
man's house."

"Oh, John."

"No, never; not if you become his wife. I have loved you as well
as he does. When Mrs. Dale told me of it, I thought I should have
fallen. I went away without seeing you because I was unable to speak
to you. I made a fool of myself, and have been a fool all along. I am
foolish now to tell you this, but I cannot help it."

"You will forget it all when you meet some girl that you can really
love."

"And have I not really loved you? Well, never mind. I have said what
I came to say, and I will now go. If it ever happens that we are down
in the country together, perhaps I may see you again; but never in
London. Good-by, Lily." And he put out his hand to her.


[ILLUSTRATION: "And have I not really loved you?"]


"And won't you stay for mamma?" she said.

"No. Give her my love, and to Bell. They understand all about it.
They will know why I have gone. If ever you should want anybody to do
anything for you, remember that I will do it, whatever it is." And
as he paced away from her across the lawn, the special deed in her
favour to which his mind was turned,--that one thing which he most
longed to do on her behalf,--was an act of corporal chastisement upon
Crosbie. If Crosbie would but ill-treat her,--ill-treat her with
some antenuptial barbarity,--and if only he could be called in to
avenge her wrongs! And as he made his way back along the road towards
Guestwick, he built up within his own bosom a castle in the air,
for her part in which Lily Dale would by no means have thanked him.

Lily when she was left alone burst into tears. She had certainly
said very little to encourage her forlorn suitor, and had so borne
herself during the interview that even Crosbie could hardly have
been dissatisfied; but now that Eames was gone her heart became very
tender towards him. She felt that she did love him also;--not at
all as she loved Crosbie, but still with a love that was tender,
soft, and true. If Crosbie could have known all her thoughts at that
moment, I doubt whether he would have liked them. She burst into
tears, and then hurried away into some nook where she could not be
seen by her mother and Bell on their return.

Eames went on his way, walking very quietly, swinging his stick and
kicking through the dust, with his heart full of the scene which had
just passed. He was angry with himself, thinking that he had played
his part badly, accusing himself in that he had been rough to her,
and selfish in the expression of his love; and he was angry with her
because she had declared to him that she loved Crosbie better than
all the world besides. He knew that of course she must do so;--that
at any rate it was to be expected that such was the case. Yet, he
thought, she might have refrained from saying so to him. "She chooses
to scorn me now," he said to himself; "but the time may come when she
will wish that she had scorned him." That Crosbie was wicked, bad,
and selfish, he believed most fully. He felt sure that the man would
ill-use her and make her wretched. He had some slight doubt whether
he would marry her, and from this doubt he endeavoured to draw a
scrap of comfort. If Crosbie would desert her, and if to him might
be accorded the privilege of beating the man to death with his fists
because of this desertion, then the world would not be quite blank
for him. In all this he was no doubt very cruel to Lily;--but then
had not Lily been very cruel to him?

He was still thinking of these things when he came to the first of
the Guestwick pastures. The boundary of the earl's property was very
plainly marked, for with it commenced also the shady elms along the
roadside, and the broad green margin of turf, grateful equally to
those who walked and to those who rode. Eames had got himself on to
the grass, but, in the fulness of his thoughts, was unconscious of
the change in his path, when he was startled by a voice in the next
field and the loud bellowing of a bull. Lord De Guest's choice cattle
he knew were there, and there was one special bull which was esteemed
by his lordship as of great value, and regarded as a high favourite.
The people about the place declared that the beast was vicious, but
Lord De Guest had often been heard to boast that it was never vicious
with him. "The boys tease him, and the men are almost worse than the
boys," said the earl; "but he'll never hurt any one that has not hurt
him." Guided by faith in his own teaching the earl had taught himself
to look upon his bull as a large, horned, innocent lamb of the flock.

As Eames paused on the road, he fancied that he recognized the earl's
voice, and it was the voice of one in distress. Then the bull's roar
sounded very plain in his ear, and almost close; upon hearing which
he rushed on to the gate, and, without much thinking what he was
doing, vaulted over it, and advanced a few steps into the field.

"Halloo!" shouted the earl. "There's a man. Come on." And then his
continued shoutings hardly formed themselves into intelligible words;
but Eames plainly understood that he was invoking assistance under
great pressure and stress of circumstances. The bull was making short
runs at his owner, as though determined in each run to have a toss
at his lordship; and at each run the earl would retreat quickly
for a few paces, but he retreated always facing his enemy, and as
the animal got near to him, would make digs at his face with the
long spud which he carried in his hand. But in thus making good his
retreat he had been unable to keep in a direct line to the gate,
and there seemed to be great danger lest the bull should succeed in
pressing him up against the hedge. "Come on!" shouted the earl, who
was fighting his battle manfully, but was by no means anxious to
carry off all the laurels of the victory himself. "Come on, I say!"
Then he stopped in his path, shouted into the bull's face, brandished
his spud, and threw about his arms, thinking that he might best
dismay the beast by the display of these warlike gestures.

Johnny Eames ran on gallantly to the peer's assistance, as he would
have run to that of any peasant in the land. He was one to whom I
should be perhaps wrong to attribute at this period of his life the
gift of very high courage. He feared many things which no man should
fear; but he did not fear personal mishap or injury to his own skin
and bones. When Cradell escaped out of the house in Burton Crescent,
making his way through the passage into the outer air, he did so
because he feared that Lupex would beat him or kick him, or otherwise
ill-use him. John Eames would also have desired to escape under
similar circumstances; but he would have so desired because he could
not endure to be looked upon in his difficulties by the people of the
house, and because his imagination would have painted the horrors
of a policeman dragging him off with a black eye and a torn coat.
There was no one to see him now, and no policeman to take offence.
Therefore he rushed to the earl's assistance, brandishing his stick,
and roaring in emulation of the bull.

When the animal saw with what unfairness he was treated, and that
the number of his foes was doubled, while no assistance had lent
itself on his side, he stood for a while, disgusted by the injustice
of humanity. He stopped, and throwing his head up to the heavens,
bellowed out his complaint. "Don't come close!" said the earl, who
was almost out of breath. "Keep a little apart. Ugh! ugh! whoop,
whoop!" And he threw up his arms manfully, jobbing about with his
spud, ever and anon rubbing the perspiration from off his eyebrows
with the back of his hand.

As the bull stood pausing, meditating whether under such
circumstances flight would not be preferable to gratified passion,
Eames made a rush in at him, attempting to hit him on the head. The
earl, seeing this, advanced a step also, and got his spud almost up
to the animal's eye. But these indignities the beast could not stand.
He made a charge, bending his head first towards John Eames, and
then, with that weak vacillation which is as disgraceful in a bull
as in a general, he changed his purpose, and turned his horns upon
his other enemy. The consequence was that his steps carried him in
between the two, and that the earl and Eames found themselves for a
while behind his tail.

"Now for the gate," said the earl.

"Slowly does it; slowly does it; don't run!" said Johnny, assuming in
the heat of the moment a tone of counsel which would have been very
foreign to him under other circumstances.

The earl was not a whit offended. "All right," said he, taking with
a backward motion the direction of the gate. Then as the bull again
faced towards him, he jumped from the ground, labouring painfully
with arms and legs, and ever keeping his spud well advanced against
the foe. Eames, holding his position a little apart from his friend,
stooped low and beat the ground with his stick, and as though defying
the creature. The bull felt himself defied, stood still and roared,
and then made another vacillating attack.

"Hold on till we reach the gate," said Eames.

"Ugh! ugh! Whoop! whoop!" shouted the earl. And so gradually they
made good their ground.

"Now get over," said Eames, when they had both reached the corner of
the field in which the gate stood.

"And what'll you do?" said the earl.

"I'll go at the hedge to the right." And Johnny as he spoke dashed
his stick about, so as to monopolize, for a moment, the attention of
the brute. The earl made a spring at the gate, and got well on to the
upper rung. The bull seeing that his prey was going, made a final
rush upon the earl and struck the timber furiously with his head,
knocking his lordship down on the other side. Lord De Guest was
already over, but not off the rail; and thus, though he fell, he
fell in safety on the sward beyond the gate. He fell in safety, but
utterly exhausted. Eames, as he had purposed, made a leap almost
sideways at a thick hedge which divided the field from one of the
Guestwick copses. There was a fairly broad ditch, and on the other
side a quickset hedge, which had, however, been weakened and injured
by trespassers at this corner, close to the gate. Eames was young and
active and jumped well. He jumped so well that he carried his body
full into the middle of the quickset, and then scrambled through to
the other side, not without much injury to his clothes, and some
damage also to his hands and face.

The beast, recovering from his shock against the wooden bars, looked
wistfully at his last retreating enemy, as he still struggled amidst
the bushes. He looked at the ditch and at the broken hedge, but he
did not understand how weak were the impediments in his way. He had
knocked his head against the stout timber, which was strong enough
to oppose him, but was dismayed by the brambles which he might have
trodden under foot without an effort. How many of us are like the
bull, turning away conquered by opposition which should be as nothing
to us, and breaking our feet, and worse still, our hearts, against
rocks of adamant. The bull at last made up his mind that he did not
dare to face the hedge; so he gave one final roar, and then turning
himself round, walked placidly back amidst the herd.

Johnny made his way on to the road by a stile that led out of the
copse, and was soon standing over the earl, while the blood ran down
his cheeks from the scratches. One of the legs of his trowsers had
been caught by a stake, and was torn from the hip downward, and his
hat was left in the field, the only trophy for the bull. "I hope
you're not hurt, my lord," he said.

"Oh dear, no; but I'm terribly out of breath. Why, you're bleeding
all over. He didn't get at you, did he?"

"It's only the thorns in the hedge," said Johnny, passing his hand
over his face. "But I've lost my hat."

"There are plenty more hats," said the earl.

"I think I'll have a try for it," said Johnny, with whom the means of
getting hats had not been so plentiful as with the earl. "He looks
quiet now." And he moved towards the gate.

But Lord De Guest jumped upon his feet, and seized the young man by
the collar of his coat. "Go after your hat!" said he. "You must be
a fool to think of it. If you're afraid of catching cold, you shall
have mine."

"I'm not the least afraid of catching cold," said Johnny. "Is he
often like that, my lord?" And he made a motion with his head towards
the bull.

"The gentlest creature alive; he's like a lamb generally--just like a
lamb. Perhaps he saw my red pocket-handkerchief." And Lord De Guest
showed his friend that he carried such an article. "But where should
I have been if you hadn't come up?"

"You'd have got to the gate, my lord."

"Yes; with my feet foremost, and four men carrying me. I'm very
thirsty. You don't happen to carry a flask, do you?"

"No, my lord, I don't."

"Then we'll make the best of our way home, and have a glass of wine
there." And on this occasion his lordship intended that his offer
should be accepted.




CHAPTER XXII.

LORD DE GUEST AT HOME.


[ILLUSTRATION: (untitled)]

The earl and John Eames, after their escape from the bull, walked up
to the Manor House together. "You can write a note to your mother,
and I'll send it by one of the boys," said the earl. This was his
lordship's answer when Eames declined to dine at the Manor House,
because he would be expected home.

"But I'm so badly off for clothes, my lord," pleaded Johnny. "I tore
my trowsers in the hedge."

"There will be nobody there beside us two and Dr. Crofts. The doctor
will forgive you when he hears the story; and as for me, I didn't
care if you hadn't a stitch to your back. You'll have company back to
Guestwick, so come along."

Eames had no further excuse to offer, and therefore did as he was
bidden. He was by no means as much at home with the earl now as
during those minutes of the combat. He would rather have gone home,
being somewhat ashamed of being seen in his present tattered and
bare-headed condition by the servants of the house; and moreover, his
mind would sometimes revert to the scene which had taken place in the
garden at Allington. But he found himself obliged to obey the earl,
and so he walked on with him through the woods.

The earl did not say very much, being tired and somewhat thoughtful.
In what little he did say he seemed to be specially hurt by the
ingratitude of the bull towards himself. "I never teased him, or
annoyed him in any way."

"I suppose they are dangerous beasts?" said Eames.

"Not a bit of it, if they're properly treated. It must have been my
handkerchief, I suppose. I remember that I did blow my nose."

He hardly said a word in the way of thanks to his assistant. "Where
should I have been if you had not come to me?" he had exclaimed
immediately after his deliverance; but having said that he didn't
think it necessary to say much more to Eames. But he made himself
very pleasant, and by the time he had reached the house his companion
was almost glad that he had been forced to dine at the Manor House.
"And now we'll have a drink," said the earl. "I don't know how you
feel, but I never was so thirsty in my life."

Two servants immediately showed themselves, and evinced some surprise
at Johnny's appearance. "Has the gentleman hurt hisself, my lord?"
asked the butler, looking at the blood upon our friend's face.

"He has hurt his trowsers the worst, I believe," said the earl. "And
if he was to put on any of mine they'd be too short and too big,
wouldn't they? I am sorry you should be so uncomfortable, but you
mustn't mind it for once."

"I don't mind it a bit," said Johnny.

"And I'm sure I don't," said the earl. "Mr. Eames is going to dine
here, Vickers."

"Yes, my lord."

"And his hat is down in the middle of the nineteen acres. Let three
or four men go for it."

"Three or four men, my lord!"

"Yes,--three or four men. There's something gone wrong with that
bull. And you must get a boy with a pony to take a note into
Guestwick, to Mrs. Eames. Oh dear, I'm better now," and he put down
the tumbler from which he'd been drinking. "Write your note here, and
then we'll go and see my pet pheasants before dinner."

Vickers and the footman knew that something had happened of
much moment, for the earl was usually very particular about his
dinner-table. He expected every guest who sat there to be dressed in
such guise as the fashion of the day demanded; and he himself, though
his morning costume was by no means brilliant, never dined, even when
alone, without having put himself into a suit of black, with a white
cravat, and having exchanged the old silver hunting-watch which he
carried during the day tied round his neck by a bit of old ribbon,
for a small gold watch, with a chain and seals, which in the evening
always dangled over his waistcoat. Dr. Gruffen had once been asked to
dinner at Guestwick Manor. "Just a bachelor's chop," said the earl;
"for there's nobody at home but myself." Whereupon Dr. Gruffen had
come in  trowsers,--and had never again been asked to dine
at Guestwick Manor. All this Vickers knew well; and now his lordship
had brought young Eames home to dine with him with his clothes all
hanging about him in a manner which Vickers declared in the servants'
hall wasn't more than half decent. Therefore, they all knew that
something very particular must have happened. "It's some trouble
about the bull, I know," said Vickers;--"but bless you, the bull
couldn't have tore his things in that way!"

Eames wrote his note, in which he told his mother that he had had an
adventure with Lord De Guest, and that his lordship had insisted on
bringing him home to dinner. "I have torn my trowsers all to pieces,"
he added in a postscript, "and have lost my hat. Everything else is
all right." He was not aware that the earl also sent a short note to
Mrs. Eames.


   DEAR MADAM [ran the earl's note],--

   Your son has, under Providence, probably saved my life.
   I will leave the story for him to tell. He has been
   good enough to accompany me home, and will return to
   Guestwick after dinner with Dr. Crofts, who dines here. I
   congratulate you on having a son with so much cool courage
   and good feeling.

   Your very faithful servant,

   DE GUEST.

   Guestwick Manor,
   Thursday, October, 186--.


And then they went to see the pheasants. "Now, I'll tell you what,"
said the earl. "I advise you to take to shooting. It's the amusement
of a gentleman when a man chances to have the command of game."

"But I'm always up in London."

"No, you're not. You're not up in London now. You always have your
holidays. If you choose to try it, I'll see that you have shooting
enough while you're here. It's better than going to sleep under the
trees. Ha, ha, ha! I wonder what made you lay yourself down there.
You hadn't been fighting a bull that day?"

"No, my lord. I hadn't seen the bull then."

"Well; you think of what I've been saying. When I say a thing, I mean
it. You shall have shooting enough, if you have a mind to try it."
Then they looked at the pheasants, and pottered about the place till
the earl said it was time to dress for dinner. "That's hard upon you,
isn't it?" said he. "But, at any rate, you can wash your hands, and
get rid of the blood. I'll be down in the little drawing-room five
minutes before seven, and I suppose I'll find you there."

At five minutes before seven Lord De Guest came into the small
drawing-room, and found Johnny seated there, with a book before him.
The earl was a little fussy, and showed by his manner that he was not
quite at his ease, as some men do when they have any piece of work on
hand which is not customary to them. He held something in his hand,
and shuffled a little as he made his way up the room. He was dressed,
as usual, in black; but his gold chain was not, as usual, dangling
over his waistcoat.

"Eames," he said, "I want you to accept a little present from
me,--just as a memorial of our affair with the bull. It will make you
think of it sometimes, when I'm perhaps gone."

"Oh, my lord--"

"It's my own watch, that I have been wearing for some time; but
I've got another;--two or three, I believe, somewhere upstairs. You
mustn't refuse me. I can't bear being refused. There are two or three
little seals, too, which I have worn. I have taken off the one with
my arms, because that's of no use to you, and it is to me. It doesn't
want a key, but winds up at the handle, in this way," and the earl
proceeded to explain the nature of the toy.

"My lord, you think too much of what happened to-day," said Eames,
stammering.

"No, I don't; I think very little about it. I know what I think of.
Put the watch in your pocket before the doctor comes. There; I hear
his horse. Why didn't he drive over, and then he could have taken you
back?"

"I can walk very well."

"I'll make that all right. The servant shall ride Crofts' horse,
and bring back the little phaeton. How d'you do, doctor? You know
Eames, I suppose? You needn't look at him in that way. His leg is not
broken; it's only his trowsers." And then the earl told the story of
the bull.

"Johnny will become quite a hero in town," said Crofts.

"Yes; I fear he'll get the most of the credit; and yet I was at it
twice as long as he was. I'll tell you what, young men, when I got
to that gate I didn't think I'd breath enough left in me to get
over it. It's all very well jumping into a hedge when you're only
two-and-twenty; but when a man comes to be sixty he likes to take his
time about such things. Dinner ready, is it? So am I. I quite forgot
that mutton chop of yours to-day, doctor. But I suppose a man may eat
a good dinner after a fight with a bull?"

The evening passed by without any very pleasurable excitement, and I
regret to say that the earl went fast to sleep in the drawing-room as
soon as he had swallowed his cup of coffee. During dinner he had been
very courteous to both his guests, but towards Eames he had used a
good-humoured and almost affectionate familiarity. He had quizzed him
for having been found asleep under the tree, telling Crofts that he
had looked very forlorn,--"So that I haven't a doubt about his being
in love," said the earl. And he had asked Johnny to tell the name
of the fair one, bringing up the remnants of his half-forgotten
classicalities to bear out the joke. "If I am to take more of the
severe Falernian," said he, laying his hand on the decanter of port,
"I must know the lady's name. Whoever she be, I'm well sure you need
not blush for her. What! you refuse to tell! Then I'll drink no
more." And so the earl had walked out of the dining-room; but not
till he had perceived by his guest's cheeks that the joke had been
too true to be pleasant. As he went, however, he leaned with his hand
on Eames's shoulder, and the servants looking on saw that the young
man was to be a favourite. "He'll make him his heir," said Vickers.
"I shouldn't wonder a bit if he don't make him his heir." But to this
the footman objected, endeavouring to prove to Mr. Vickers that, in
accordance with the law of the land, his lordship's second cousin,
once removed, whom the earl had never seen, but whom he was supposed
to hate, must be his heir. "A hearl can never choose his own heir,
like you or me," said the footman, laying down the law. "Can't he
though really, now? That's very hard on him; isn't it?" said the
pretty housemaid. "Psha," said Vickers: "you know nothing about it.
My lord could make young Eames his heir to-morrow; that is, the heir
of his property. He couldn't make him a hearl, because that must go
to the heirs of his body. As to his leaving him the place here, I
don't just know how that'd be; and I'm sure Richard don't."

"But suppose he hasn't got any heirs of his body?" asked the pretty
housemaid, who was rather fond of putting down Mr. Vickers.

"He must have heirs of his body," said the butler. "Everybody has
'em. If a man don't know 'em himself, the law finds 'em out." And
then Mr. Vickers walked away, avoiding further dispute.

In the meantime, the earl was asleep upstairs, and the two young men
from Guestwick did not find that they could amuse themselves with any
satisfaction. Each took up a book; but there are times at which a
man is quite unable to read, and when a book is only a cover for his
idleness or dulness. At last, Dr. Crofts suggested, in a whisper,
that they might as well begin to think of going home.

"Eh; yes; what?" said the earl: "I'm not asleep." In answer to
which the doctor said that he thought he'd go home, if his lordship
would let him order his horse. But the earl was again fast bound in
slumber, and took no further notice of the proposition.

"Perhaps we could get off without waking him," suggested Eames, in a
whisper.

"Eh; what?" said the earl. So they both resumed their books, and
submitted themselves to their martyrdom for a further period of
fifteen minutes. At the expiration of that time, the footman brought
in tea.

"Eh, what? tea!" said the earl. "Yes, we'll have a little tea. I've
heard every word you've been saying." It was that assertion on the
part of the earl which always made Lady Julia so angry. "You cannot
have heard what I have been saying, Theodore, because I have said
nothing," she would reply. "But I should have heard it if you had,"
the earl would rejoin, snappishly. On the present occasion neither
Crofts nor Eames contradicted him, and he took his tea and swallowed
it while still three parts asleep.

"If you'll allow me, my lord, I think I'll order my horse," said the
doctor.

"Yes; horse--yes--" said the earl, nodding.

"But what are you to do, Eames, if I ride?" said the doctor.

"I'll walk," whispered Eames, in his very lowest voice.

"What--what--what?" said the earl, jumping up on his feet. "Oh, ah,
yes; going away, are you? I suppose you might as well, as sit here
and see me sleeping. But, doctor--I didn't snore, did I?"

"Only occasionally."

"Not loud, did I? Come, Eames, did I snore loud?"

"Well, my lord, you did snore rather loud two or three times."

"Did I?" said the earl, in a voice of great disappointment. "And yet,
do you know, I heard every word you said."

The small phaeton had been already ordered, and the two young men
started back to Guestwick together, a servant from the house riding
the doctor's horse behind them. "Look here, Eames," said the earl, as
they parted on the steps of the hall door. "You're going back to town
the day after to-morrow, you say, so I shan't see you again?"

"No, my lord," said Johnny.

"Look you here, now. I shall be up for the Cattle-show before
Christmas. You must dine with me at my hotel, on the twenty-second
of December, Pawkins's, in Jermyn Street; seven o'clock, sharp. Mind
you do not forget, now. Put it down in your pocket-book when you get
home. Good-by, doctor; good-by. I see I must stick to that mutton
chop in the middle of the day." And then they drove off.

"He'll make him his heir for certain," said Vickers to himself, as he
slowly returned to his own quarters.

"You were returning from Allington, I suppose," said Crofts, "when
you came across Lord De Guest and the bull?"

"Yes: I just walked over to say good-by to them."

"Did you find them all well?"

"I only saw one. The other two were out."

"Mrs. Dale, was it?"

"No; it was Lily."

"Sitting alone, thinking of her fine London lover, of course? I
suppose we ought to look upon her as a very lucky girl. I have no
doubt she thinks herself so."

"I'm sure I don't know," said Johnny.

"I believe he's a very good young man," said the doctor; "but I can't
say I quite liked his manner."

"I should think not," said Johnny.

"But then in all probability he did not like mine a bit better, or
perhaps yours either. And if so it's all fair."

"I don't see that it's a bit fair. He's a snob," said Eames; "and I
don't believe that I am." He had taken a glass or two of the earl's
"severe Falernian," and was disposed to a more generous confidence,
and perhaps also to stronger language, than might otherwise have been
the case.

"No; I don't think he is a snob," said Crofts. "Had he been so, Mrs.
Dale would have perceived it."

"You'll see," said Johnny, touching up the earl's horse with energy
as he spoke. "You'll see. A man who gives himself airs is a snob; and
he gives himself airs. And I don't believe he's a straightforward
fellow. It was a bad day for us all when he came among them at
Allington."

"I can't say that I see that."

"I do. But mind, I haven't spoken a word of this to any one. And
I don't mean. What would be the good? I suppose she must marry him
now?"

"Of course she must."

"And be wretched all her life. Oh-h-h-h!" and he muttered a deep
groan. "I'll tell you what it is, Crofts. He is going to take the
sweetest girl out of this country that ever was in it, and he don't
deserve her."

"I don't think she can be compared to her sister," said Crofts
slowly.

"What; not Lily?" said Eames, as though the proposition made by the
doctor were one that could not hold water for a minute.

"I have always thought that Bell was the more admired of the two,"
said Crofts.

"I'll tell you what," said Eames. "I have never yet set my eyes on
any human creature whom I thought so beautiful as Lily Dale. And now
that beast is going to marry her! I'll tell you what, Crofts; I'll
manage to pick a quarrel with him yet." Whereupon the doctor, seeing
the nature of the complaint from which his companion was suffering,
said nothing more, either about Lily or about Bell.

Soon after this Eames was at his own door, and was received there by
his mother and sister with all the enthusiasm due to a hero. "He has
saved the earl's life!" Mrs. Eames had exclaimed to her daughter on
reading Lord De Guest's note. "Oh, goodness!" and she threw herself
back upon the sofa almost in a fainting condition.

"Saved Lord De Guest's life!" said Mary.

"Yes--under Providence," said Mrs. Eames, as though that latter fact
added much to her son's good deed.

"But how did he do it?"

"By cool courage and good feeling--so his lordship says. But I wonder
how he really did do it?"

"Whatever way it was, he's torn all his clothes and lost his hat,"
said Mary.

"I don't care a bit about that," said Mrs. Eames. "I wonder whether
the earl has any interest at the Income-tax.

"What a thing it would be if he could get Johnny a step. It would be
seventy pounds a year at once. He was quite right to stay and dine
when his lordship asked him. And so Dr. Crofts is there. It couldn't
have been anything in the doctoring way, I suppose."

"No, I should say not; because of what he says of his trowsers." And
so the two ladies were obliged to wait for John's return.

"How did you do it, John?" said his mother, embracing him, as soon as
the door was opened.

"How did you save the earl's life?" said Mary, who was standing
behind her mother.

"Would his lordship really have been killed, if it had not been for
you?" asked Mrs. Eames.

"And was he very much hurt?" asked Mary.

"Oh, bother," said Johnny, on whom the results of the day's work,
together with the earl's Falernian, had made some still remaining
impression. On ordinary occasions, Mrs. Eames would have felt hurt at
being so answered by her son; but at the present moment she regarded
him as standing so high in general favour that she took no offence.
"Oh, Johnny, do tell us. Of course we must be very anxious to know it
all."

"There's nothing to tell, except that a bull ran at the earl, as I
was going by; so I went into the field and helped him, and then he
made me stay and dine with him."

"But his lordship says that you saved his life," said Mary.

"Under Providence," added their mother.

"At any rate, he has given me a gold watch and chain," said Johnny,
drawing the present out of his pocket. "I wanted a watch badly. All
the same, I didn't like taking it."

"It would have been very wrong to refuse," said his mother. "And I
am so glad you have been so fortunate. And look here, Johnny: when
a friend like that comes in your way, don't turn your back on him."
Then, at last, he thawed beneath their kindness, and told them the
whole of the story. I fear that in recounting the earl's efforts with
the spud, he hardly spoke of his patron with all that deference which
would have been appropriate.




CHAPTER XXIII.

MR. PLANTAGENET PALLISER.


A week passed over Mr. Crosbie's head at Courcy Castle without much
inconvenience to him from the well-known fact of his matrimonial
engagement. Both George De Courcy and John De Courcy had in their
different ways charged him with his offence, and endeavoured to annoy
him by recurring to the subject; but he did not care much for the
wit or malice of George or John De Courcy. The countess had hardly
alluded to Lily Dale after those few words which she said on the
first day of his visit, and seemed perfectly willing to regard his
doings at Allington as the occupation natural to a young man in such
a position. He had been seduced down to a dull country house, and
had, as a matter of course, taken to such amusements as the place
afforded. He had shot the partridges and made love to the young lady,
taking those little recreations as compensation for the tedium of the
squire's society. Perhaps he had gone a little too far with the young
lady; but then no one knew better than the countess how difficult it
is for a young man to go far enough without going too far. It was not
her business to make herself a censor on a young man's conduct. The
blame, no doubt, rested quite as much with Miss Dale as with him. She
was quite sorry that any young lady should be disappointed; but if
girls will be imprudent, and set their caps at men above their mark,
they must encounter disappointment. With such language did Lady De
Courcy speak of the affair among her daughters, and her daughters
altogether agreed with her that it was out of the question that
Mr. Crosbie should marry Lily Dale. From Alexandrina he encountered
during the week none of that raillery which he had expected. He
had promised to explain to her before he left the castle all the
circumstances of his acquaintance with Lily, and she at last showed
herself determined to demand the fulfilment of this promise; but,
previous to that, she said nothing to manifest either offence or a
lessened friendship. And I regret to say, that in the intercourse
which had taken place between them, that friendship was by no means
less tender that it had been in London.

"And when will you tell me what you promised?" she asked him one
afternoon, speaking in a low voice, as they were standing together at
the window of the billiard-room, in that idle half-hour which always
occurs before the necessity for dinner preparation has come. She had
been riding and was still in her habit, and he had returned from
shooting. She knew that she looked more than ordinarily well in her
tall straight hat and riding gear, and was wont to hang about the
house, walking skilfully with her upheld drapery, during this period
of the day. It was dusk, but not dark, and there was no artificial
light in the billiard-room. There had been some pretence of knocking
about the balls, but it had been only pretence. "Even Diana," she had
said, "could not have played billiards in a habit." Then she had put
down her mace, and they had stood talking together in the recess of a
large bow-window.

"And what did I promise?" said Crosbie.

"You know well enough. Not that it is a matter of any special
interest to me; only, as you undertook to promise, of course my
curiosity has been raised."

"If it be of no special interest," said Crosbie, "you will not object
to absolve me from my promise."

"That is just like you," she said. "And how false you men always are.
You made up your mind to buy my silence on a distasteful subject by
pretending to offer me your future confidence; and now you tell me
that you do not mean to confide in me."

"You begin by telling me that the matter is one that does not in the
least interest you."

"That is so false again! You know very well what I meant. Do you
remember what you said to me the day you came? and am I not bound to
tell you after that, that your marriage with this or that young lady
is not matter of special interest to me? Still, as your friend--"

"Well, as my friend!"

"I shall be glad to know--. But I am not going to beg for your
confidence; only I tell you this fairly, that no man is so mean in my
eyes as a man who fights under false colours."

"And am I fighting under false colours?"

"Yes, you are." And now, as she spoke, the Lady Alexandrina blushed
beneath her hat; and dull as was the remaining light of the evening,
Crosbie, looking into her face, saw her heightened colour. "Yes, you
are. A gentleman is fighting under false colours who comes into a
house like this, with a public rumour of his being engaged, and then
conducts himself as though nothing of the kind existed. Of course,
it is not anything to me specially; but that is fighting under false
colours. Now, sir, you may redeem the promise you made me when you
first came here,--or you may let it alone."

It must be acknowledged that the lady was fighting her battle with
much courage, and also with some skill. In three or four days Crosbie
would be gone; and this victory, if it were ever to be gained, must
be gained in those three or four days. And if there were to be no
victory, then it would be only fair that Crosbie should be punished
for his duplicity, and that she should be avenged as far as any
revenge might be in her power. Not that she meditated any deep
revenge, or was prepared to feel any strong anger. She liked Crosbie
as well as she had ever liked any man. She believed that he liked her
also. She had no conception of any very strong passion, but conceived
that a married life was more pleasant than one of single bliss. She
had no doubt that he had promised to make Lily Dale his wife, but
so had he previously promised her, or nearly so. It was a fair game,
and she would win it if she could. If she failed, she would show her
anger; but she would show it in a mild, weak manner,--turning up her
nose at Lily before Crosbie's face, and saying little things against
himself behind his back. Her wrath would not carry her much beyond
that.

"Now, sir, you may redeem the promise you made me when you first came
here,--or you may let it alone." So she spoke, and then she turned
her face away from him, gazing out into the darkness.

"Alexandrina!" he said.

"Well, sir? But you have no right to speak to me in that style. You
know that you have no right to call me by my name in that way!"

"You mean that you insist upon your title?"

"All ladies insist on what you call their title, from gentlemen,
except under the privilege of greater intimacy than you have the
right to claim. You did not call Miss Dale by her Christian name till
you had obtained permission, I suppose?"

"You used to let me call you so."

"Never! Once or twice, when you have done so, I have not forbidden
it, as I should have done. Very well, sir, as you have nothing to
tell me, I will leave you. I must confess that I did not think you
were such a coward." And she prepared to go, gathering up the skirts
of her habit, and taking up the whip which she had laid on the
window-sill.

"Stay a moment, Alexandrina," he said; "I am not happy, and you
should not say words intended to make me more miserable."

"And why are you unhappy?"

"Because-- I will tell you instantly, if I may believe that I am
telling you only, and not the whole household."

"Of course I shall not talk of it to others. Do you think that I
cannot keep a secret?"

"It is because I have promised to marry one woman, and because I love
another. I have told you everything now; and if you choose to say
again that I am fighting under false colours I will leave the castle
before you can see me again."

"Mr. Crosbie!"

"Now you know it all, and may imagine whether or no I am very happy.
I think you said it was time to dress;--suppose we go?" And without
further speech the two went off to their separate rooms.

Crosbie, as soon as he was alone in his chamber, sat himself down in
his arm-chair, and went to work striving to make up his mind as to
his future conduct. It must not be supposed that the declaration just
made by him had been produced solely by his difficulty at the moment.
The atmosphere of Courcy Castle had been at work upon him for the
last week past. And every word that he had heard, and every word
that he had spoken, had tended to destroy all that was good and true
within him, and to foster all that was selfish and false. He had said
to himself a dozen times during that week that he never could be
happy with Lily Dale, and that he never could make her happy. And
then he had used the old sophistry in his endeavour to teach himself
that it was right to do that which he wished to do. Would it not be
better for Lily that he should desert her, than marry her against
the dictates of his own heart? And if he really did not love her,
would he not be committing a greater crime in marrying her than in
deserting her? He confessed to himself that he had been very wrong in
allowing the outer world to get such a hold upon him that the love of
a pure girl like Lily could not suffice for his happiness. But there
was the fact, and he found himself unable to contend against it. If
by any absolute self-sacrifice he could secure Lily's well-being, he
would not hesitate for a moment. But would it be well to sacrifice
her as well as himself?

He had discussed the matter in this way within his own breast, till
he had almost taught himself to believe that it was his duty to break
off his engagement with Lily; and he had also almost taught himself
to believe that a marriage with a daughter of the house of Courcy
would satisfy his ambition and assist him in his battle with the
world. That Lady Alexandrina would accept him he felt certain, if he
could only induce her to forgive him for his sin in becoming engaged
to Miss Dale. How very prone she would be to forgiveness in this
matter, he had not divined, having not as yet learned how easily such
a woman can forgive such a sin, if the ultimate triumph be accorded
to herself.

And there was another reason which operated much with Crosbie, urging
him on in his present mood and wishes, though it should have given
an exactly opposite impulse to his heart. He had hesitated as to
marrying Lily Dale at once, because of the smallness of his income.
Now he had a prospect of considerable increase to that income.
One of the commissioners at his office had been promoted to some
greater commissionership, and it was understood by everybody that
the secretary at the General Committee Office would be the new
commissioner. As to that there was no doubt. But then the question
had arisen as to the place of secretary. Crosbie had received two or
three letters on the subject, and it seemed that the likelihood of
his obtaining this step in the world was by no means slight. It would
increase his official income from seven hundred a year to twelve, and
would place him altogether above the world. His friend, the present
secretary, had written to him, assuring him that no other probable
competitor was spoken of as being in the field against him. If such
good fortune awaited him, would it not smooth any present difficulty
which lay in the way of his marriage with Lily Dale? But, alas, he
had not looked at the matter in that light! Might not the countess
help him to this preferment? And if his destiny intended for him
the good things of this world,--secretaryships, commissionerships,
chairmanships, and such like, would it not be well that he should
struggle on in his upward path by such assistance as good connections
might give him?

He sat thinking over it all in his own room on that evening. He had
written twice to Lily since his arrival at Courcy Castle. His first
letter has been given. His second was written much in the same tone;
though Lily, as she had read it, had unconsciously felt somewhat
less satisfied than she had been with the first. Expressions of
love were not wanting, but they were vague and without heartiness.
They savoured of insincerity, though there was nothing in the words
themselves to convict them. Few liars can lie with the full roundness
and self-sufficiency of truth; and Crosbie, bad as he was, had not
yet become bad enough to reach that perfection. He had said nothing
to Lily of the hopes of promotion which had been opened to him; but
he had again spoken of his own worldliness--acknowledging that he
received an unsatisfying satisfaction from the pomps and vanities of
Courcy Castle. In fact he was paving the way for that which he had
almost resolved that he would do, now he had told Lady Alexandrina
that he loved her; and he was obliged to confess to himself that the
die was cast.

As he thought of all this, there was not wanting to him some of the
satisfaction of an escape. Soon after making that declaration of love
at Allington he had begun to feel that in making it he had cut his
throat. He had endeavoured to persuade himself that he could live
comfortably with his throat cut in that way; and as long as Lily was
with him he would believe that he could do so; but as soon as he was
again alone he would again accuse himself of suicide. This was his
frame of mind even while he was yet at Allington, and his ideas on
the subject had become stronger during his sojourn at Courcy. But the
self-immolation had not been completed, and he now began to think
that he could save himself. I need hardly say that this was not all
triumph to him. Even had there been no material difficulty as to his
desertion of Lily,--no uncle, cousin, and mother whose anger he must
face,--no vision of a pale face, more eloquent of wrong in its
silence than even uncle, cousin, and mother, with their indignant
storm of words,--he was not altogether heartless. How should he tell
all this to the girl who had loved him so well; who had so loved him,
that, as he himself felt, her love would fashion all her future life
either for weal or for woe? "I am unworthy of her, and will tell
her so," he said to himself. How many a false hound of a man has
endeavoured to salve his own conscience by such mock humility? But
he acknowledged at this moment, as he rose from his seat to dress
himself, that the die was cast, and that it was open to him now to
say what he pleased to Lady Alexandrina. "Others have gone through
the same fire before," he said to himself, as he walked downstairs,
"and have come out scatheless." And then he recalled to himself the
names of various men of high repute in the world who were supposed to
have committed in their younger days some such little mistake as that
into which he had been betrayed.

In passing through the hall he overtook Lady Julia De Guest, and
was in time to open for her the door of the drawing-room. He then
remembered that she had come into the billiard-room at one side, and
had gone out at the other, while he was standing with Alexandrina at
the window. He had not, however, then thought much of Lady Julia; and
as he now stood for her to pass by him through the door-way, he made
to her some indifferent remark.

But Lady Julia was on some subjects a stern woman, and not without
a certain amount of courage. In the last week she had seen what had
been going on, and had become more and more angry. Though she had
disowned any family connection with Lily Dale, nevertheless she now
felt for her sympathy and almost affection. Nearly every day she had
repeated stiffly to the countess some incident of Crosbie's courtship
and engagement to Miss Dale,--speaking of it as with absolute
knowledge, as a thing settled at all points. This she had done to the
countess alone, in the presence of the countess and Alexandrina, and
also before all the female guests of the castle. But what she had
said was received simply with an incredulous smile. "Dear me! Lady
Julia," the countess had replied at last, "I shall begin to think you
are in love with Mr. Crosbie yourself; you harp so constantly on this
affair of his. One would think that young ladies in your part of the
world must find it very difficult to get husbands, seeing that the
success of one young lady is trumpeted so loudly." For the moment,
Lady Julia was silenced; but it was not easy to silence her
altogether when she had a subject for speech near her heart.

Almost all the Courcy world were assembled in the drawing-room as
she now walked into the room with Crosbie at her heels. When she
found herself near the crowd she turned round, and addressed him in
a voice more audible than that generally required for purposes of
drawing-room conversation. "Mr. Crosbie," she said, "have you heard
lately from our dear friend, Lily Dale?" And she looked him full in
the face, in a manner more significant, probably, than even she had
intended it to be. There was, at once, a general hush in the room,
and all eyes were turned upon her and upon him.

Crosbie instantly made an effort to bear the attack gallantly, but he
felt that he could not quite command his colour, or prevent a sudden
drop of perspiration from showing itself upon his brow. "I had a
letter from Allington yesterday," he said. "I suppose you have heard
of your brother's encounter with the bull?"

"The bull!" said Lady Julia. And it was instantly manifest to all
that her attack had been foiled and her flank turned.

"Good gracious! Lady Julia, how very odd you are!" said the countess.

"But what about the bull?" asked the Honourable George.

"It seems that the earl was knocked down in the middle of one of his
own fields."

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Alexandrina. And sundry other exclamations were
made by all the assembled ladies.

"But he wasn't hurt," said Crosbie. "A young man named Eames seems to
have fallen from the sky and carried off the earl on his back."

"Ha, ha, ha, ha!" growled the other earl, as he heard of the
discomfiture of his brother peer.

Lady Julia, who had received her own letters that day from Guestwick,
knew that nothing of importance had happened to her brother; but she
felt that she was foiled for that time.

"I hope that there has not really been any accident," said Mr.
Gazebee, with a voice of great solicitude.

"My brother was quite well last night, thank you," said she. And then
the little groups again formed themselves, and Lady Julia was left
alone on the corner of a sofa.

"Was that all an invention of yours, sir?" said Alexandrina to
Crosbie.

"Not quite. I did get a letter this morning from my friend Bernard
Dale,--that old harridan's nephew; and Lord De Guest has been worried
by some of his animals. I wish I had told her that his stupid old
neck had been broken."

"Fie, Mr. Crosbie!"

"What business has she to interfere with me?"

"But I mean to ask the same question that she asked, and you won't
put me off with a cock-and-bull story like that." But then, as she
was going to ask the question, dinner was announced.

"And is it true that De Guest has been tossed by a bull?" said the
earl, as soon as the ladies were gone. He had spoken nothing during
dinner except what words he had muttered into the ear of Lady
Dumbello. It was seldom that conversation had many charms for him in
his own house; but there was a savour of pleasantry in the idea of
Lord De Guest having been tossed, by which even he was tickled.

"Only knocked down, I believe," said Crosbie.

"Ha, ha, ha!" growled the earl; then he filled his glass, and allowed
some one else to pass the bottle. Poor man! There was not much left
to him now in the world which did amuse him.

"I don't see anything to laugh at," said Plantagenet Palliser, who
was sitting at the earl's right hand, opposite to Lord Dumbello.

"Don't you?" said the earl. "Ha, ha, ha!"

"I'll be shot if I do. From all I hear De Guest is an uncommon good
farmer. And I don't see the joke of tossing a farmer merely because
he's a nobleman also. Do you?" and he turned round to Mr. Gazebee,
who was sitting on the other side. The earl was an earl, and was also
Mr. Gazebee's father-in-law. Mr. Plantagenet Palliser was the heir to
a dukedom. Therefore, Mr. Gazebee merely simpered, and did not answer
the question put to him. Mr. Palliser said nothing more about it, nor
did the earl; and then the joke died away.

Mr. Plantagenet Palliser was the Duke of Omnium's heir--heir to
that nobleman's title and to his enormous wealth; and, therefore,
was a man of mark in the world. He sat in the House of Commons, of
course. He was about five-and-twenty years of age, and was, as yet,
unmarried. He did not hunt or shoot or keep a yacht, and had been
heard to say that he had never put a foot upon a race-course in his
life. He dressed very quietly, never changing the colour or form of
his garments; and in society was quiet, reserved, and very often
silent. He was tall, slight, and not ill-looking; but more than this
cannot be said for his personal appearance--except, indeed, this,
that no one could mistake him for other than a gentleman. With his
uncle, the duke, he was on good terms--that is to say, they had never
quarrelled. A very liberal allowance had been made to the nephew; but
the two relatives had no tastes in common, and did not often meet.
Once a year Mr. Palliser visited the duke at his great country seat
for two or three days, and usually dined with him two or three times
during the season in London. Mr. Palliser sat for a borough which was
absolutely under the duke's command; but had accepted his seat under
the distinct understanding that he was to take whatever part in
politics might seem good to himself. Under these well-understood
arrangements, the duke and his heir showed to the world quite a
pattern of a happy family. "So different to the earl and Lord
Porlock!" the people of West Barsetshire used to say. For the
estates, both of the duke and of the earl, were situated in the
western division of that county.

Mr. Palliser was chiefly known to the world as a rising politician.
We may say that he had everything at his command, in the way of
pleasure, that the world could offer him. He had wealth, position,
power, and the certainty of attaining the highest rank among,
perhaps, the most brilliant nobility of the world. He was courted by
all who could get near enough to court him. It is hardly too much
to say that he might have selected a bride from all that was most
beautiful and best among English women. If he would have bought
race-horses, and have expended thousands on the turf, he would have
gratified his uncle by doing so. He might have been the master
of hounds, or the slaughterer of hecatombs of birds. But to none
of these things would he devote himself. He had chosen to be
a politician, and in that pursuit he laboured with a zeal and
perseverance which would have made his fortune at any profession
or in any trade. He was constant in committee-rooms up to the very
middle of August. He was rarely absent from any debate of importance,
and never from any important division. Though he seldom spoke, he was
always ready to speak if his purpose required it. No man gave him
credit for any great genius--few even considered that he could become
either an orator or a mighty statesman. But the world said that he
was a rising man, and old Nestor of the Cabinet looked on him as one
who would be able, at some far future day, to come among them as a
younger brother. Hitherto he had declined such inferior offices as
had been offered to him, biding his time carefully; and he was as yet
tied hand and neck to no party, though known to be liberal in all his
political tendencies. He was a great reader--not taking up a book
here, and another there, as chance brought books before him, but
working through an enormous course of books, getting up the great
subject of the world's history--filling himself full of facts--though
perhaps not destined to acquire the power of using those facts
otherwise than as precedents. He strove also diligently to become a
linguist--not without success, as far as a competent understanding of
various languages. He was a thin-minded, plodding, respectable man,
willing to devote all his youth to work, in order that in old age he
might be allowed to sit among the Councillors of the State.

Hitherto his name had not been coupled by the world with that of any
woman whom he had been supposed to admire; but latterly it had been
observed that he had often been seen in the same room with Lady
Dumbello. It had hardly amounted to more than this; but when it was
remembered how undemonstrative were the two persons concerned--how
little disposed was either of them to any strong display of
feeling--even this was thought matter to be mentioned. He certainly
would speak to her from time to time almost with an air of interest;
and Lady Dumbello, when she saw that he was in the room, would be
observed to raise her head with some little show of life, and to
look round as though there were something there on which it might be
worth her while to allow her eyes to rest. When such innuendoes were
abroad, no one would probably make more of them than Lady De Courcy.
Many, when they heard that Mr. Palliser was to be at the castle, had
expressed their surprise at her success in that quarter. Others, when
they learned that Lady Dumbello had consented to become her guest,
had also wondered greatly. But when it was ascertained that the two
were to be there together, her good-natured friends had acknowledged
that she was a very clever woman. To have either Mr. Palliser or Lady
Dumbello would have been a feather in her cap; but to succeed in
getting both, by enabling each to know that the other would be there,
was indeed a triumph. As regards Lady Dumbello, however, the bargain
was not fairly carried out; for, after all, Mr. Palliser came to
Courcy Castle only for two nights and a day, and during the whole of
that day he was closeted with sundry large blue-books. As for Lady
De Courcy, she did not care how he might be employed. Blue-books and
Lady Dumbello were all the same to her. Mr. Palliser had been at
Courcy Castle, and neither enemy nor friend could deny the fact.

This was his second evening; and as he had promised to meet his
constituents at Silverbridge at one P.M. on the following day, with
the view of explaining to them his own conduct and the political
position of the world in general; and as he was not to return from
Silverbridge to Courcy, Lady Dumbello, if she made any way at all,
must take advantage of the short gleam of sunshine which the present
hour afforded her. No one, however, could say that she showed any
active disposition to monopolize Mr. Palliser's attention. When he
sauntered into the drawing-room she was sitting, alone, in a large,
low chair, made without arms, so as to admit the full expansion of
her dress, but hollowed and round at the back, so as to afford her
the support that was necessary to her. She had barely spoken three
words since she had left the dining-room, but the time had not passed
heavily with her. Lady Julia had again attacked the countess about
Lily Dale and Mr. Crosbie, and Alexandrina, driven almost to rage,
had stalked off to the farther end of the room, not concealing her
special concern in the matter.

"How I do wish they were married and done with," said the countess;
"and then we should hear no more about them."

All of which Lady Dumbello heard and understood; and in all of it she
took a certain interest. She remembered such things, learning thereby
who was who, and regulating her own conduct by what she learned. She
was by no means idle at this or at other such times, going through,
we may say, a considerable amount of really hard work in her manner
of working. There she had sat speechless, unless when acknowledging
by a low word of assent some expression of flattery from those around
her. Then the door opened, and when Mr. Palliser entered she raised
her head, and the faintest possible gleam of satisfaction might have
been discerned upon her features. But she made no attempt to speak
to him; and when, as he stood at the table, he took up a book and
remained thus standing for a quarter of an hour, she neither showed
nor felt any impatience. After that Lord Dumbello came in, and he
stood at the table without a book. Even then Lady Dumbello felt no
impatience.

Plantagenet Palliser skimmed through his little book, and probably
learned something. When he put it down he sipped a cup of tea, and
remarked to Lady De Courcy that he believed it was only twelve miles
to Silverbridge.

"I wish it was a hundred and twelve," said the countess.

"In that case I should be forced to start to-night," said Mr.
Palliser.

"Then I wish it was a thousand and twelve," said Lady De Courcy.

"In that case I should not have come at all," said Mr. Palliser. He
did not mean to be uncivil, and had only stated a fact.

"The young men are becoming absolute bears," said the countess to her
daughter Margaretta.

He had been in the room nearly an hour when he did at last find
himself standing close to Lady Dumbello: close to her, and without
any other very near neighbour.

"I should hardly have expected to find you here," he said.

"Nor I you," she answered.

"Though, for the matter of that, we are both near our own homes."

"I am not near mine."

"I meant Plumstead; your father's place."

"Yes; that was my home once."

"I wish I could show you my uncle's place. The castle is very fine,
and he has some good pictures."

"So I have heard."

"Do you stay here long?"

"Oh, no. I go to Cheshire the day after to-morrow. Lord Dumbello is
always there when the hunting begins."

"Ah, yes; of course. What a happy fellow he is; never any work to do!
His constituents never trouble him, I suppose?"

"I don't think they ever do, much."

After that Mr. Palliser sauntered away again, and Lady Dumbello
passed the rest of the evening in silence. It is to be hoped
that they both were rewarded by that ten minutes of sympathetic
intercourse for the inconvenience which they had suffered in coming
to Courcy Castle.

But that which seems so innocent to us had been looked on in a
different light by the stern moralists of that house.

"By Jove!" said the Honourable George to his cousin, Mr. Gresham,
"I wonder how Dumbello likes it."

"It seems to me that Dumbello takes it very easily."

"There are some men who will take anything easily," said George, who,
since his own marriage, had learned to have a holy horror of such
wicked things.

"She's beginning to come out a little," said Lady Clandidlem to Lady
De Courcy, when the two old women found themselves together over a
fire in some back sitting-room. "Still waters always run deep, you
know."

"I shouldn't at all wonder if she were to go off with him," said Lady
De Courcy.

"He'll never be such a fool as that," said Lady Clandidlem.

"I believe men will be fools enough for anything," said Lady De
Courcy. "But, of course, if he did, it would come to nothing
afterwards. I know one who would not be sorry. If ever a man was
tired of a woman, Lord Dumbello is tired of her."

But in this, as in almost everything else, the wicked old woman spoke
scandal. Lord Dumbello was still proud of his wife, and as fond of
her as a man can be of a woman whose fondness depends upon mere
pride.

There had not been much that was dangerous in the conversation
between Mr. Palliser and Lady Dumbello, but I cannot say the same as
to that which was going on at the same moment between Crosbie and
Lady Alexandrina. She, as I have said, walked away in almost open
dudgeon when Lady Julia recommenced her attack about poor Lily, nor
did she return to the general circle during the evening. There were
two large drawing-rooms at Courcy Castle, joined together by a narrow
link of a room, which might have been called a passage, had it not
been lighted by two windows coming down to the floor, carpeted as
were the drawing-rooms, and warmed with a separate fireplace. Hither
she betook herself, and was soon followed by her married sister
Amelia.

"That woman almost drives me mad," said Alexandrina, as they stood
together with their toes upon the fender.

"But, my dear, you of all people should not allow yourself to be
driven mad on such a subject."

"That's all very well, Amelia."

"The question is this, my dear,--what does Mr. Crosbie mean to do?"

"How should I know?"

"If you don't know, it will be safer to suppose that he is going to
marry this girl; and in that case--"

"Well, what in that case? Are you going to be another Lady Julia?
What do I care about the girl?"

"I don't suppose you care much about the girl; and if you care as
little about Mr. Crosbie, there's an end of it; only in that case,
Alexandrina--"

"Well, what in that case?"

"You know I don't want to preach to you. Can't you tell me at
once whether you really like him? You and I have always been good
friends." And the married sister put her arm affectionately round the
waist of her who wished to be married.

"I like him well enough."

"And has he made any declaration to you?"

"In a sort of a way he has. Hark, here he is!" And Crosbie, coming in
from the larger room, joined the sisters at the fireplace.

"We were driven away by the clack of Lady Julia's tongue," said the
elder.

"I never met such a woman," said Crosbie.

"There cannot well be many like her," said Alexandrina. And after
that they all stood silent for a minute or two. Lady Amelia Gazebee
was considering whether or no she would do well to go and leave the
two together. If it were intended that Mr. Crosbie should marry her
sister, it would certainly be well to give him an opportunity of
expressing such a wish on his own part. But if Alexandrina was simply
making a fool of herself, then it would be well for her to stay.
"I suppose she would rather I should go," said the elder sister
to herself; and then, obeying the rule which should guide all our
actions from one to another, she went back and joined the crowd.

"Will you come on into the other room?" said Crosbie.

"I think we are very well here," Alexandrina replied.

"But I wish to speak to you,--particularly," said he.

"And cannot you speak here?"

"No. They will be passing backwards and forwards." Lady Alexandrina
said nothing further, but led the way into the other large room. That
also was lighted, and there were in it four or five persons. Lady
Rosina was reading a work on the Millennium, with a light to herself
in one corner. Her brother John was asleep in an arm-chair, and a
young gentleman and lady were playing chess. There was, however,
ample room for Crosbie and Alexandrina to take up a position apart.

"And now, Mr. Crosbie, what have you got to say to me? But, first,
I mean to repeat Lady Julia's question, as I told you that I should
do.--When did you hear last from Miss Dale?"

"It is cruel in you to ask me such a question, after what I have
already told you. You know that I have given to Miss Dale a promise
of marriage."

"Very well, sir. I don't see why you should bring me in here to tell
me anything that is so publicly known as that. With such a herald as
Lady Julia it was quite unnecessary."

"If you can only answer me in that tone I will make an end of it at
once. When I told you of my engagement, I told you also that another
woman possessed my heart. Am I wrong to suppose that you knew to whom
I alluded?"

"Indeed, I did not, Mr. Crosbie. I am no conjuror, and I have not
scrutinized you so closely as your friend Lady Julia."

"It is you that I love. I am sure I need hardly say so now."

"Hardly, indeed,--considering that you are engaged to Miss Dale."

"As to that I have, of course, to own that I have behaved
foolishly;--worse than foolishly, if you choose to say so. You cannot
condemn me more absolutely than I condemn myself. But I have made
up my mind as to one thing. I will not marry where I do not love."
Oh, if Lily could have heard him as he then spoke! "It would be
impossible for me to speak in terms too high of Miss Dale; but I am
quite sure that I could not make her happy as her husband."

"Why did you not think of that before you asked her?" said
Alexandrina. But there was very little of condemnation in her tone.

"I ought to have done so; but it is hardly for you to blame me with
severity. Had you, when we were last together in London--had you been
less--"

"Less what?"

"Less defiant," said Crosbie, "all this might perhaps have been
avoided."

Lady Alexandrina could not remember that she had been defiant; but,
however, she let that pass. "Oh, yes; of course it was my fault."

"I went down there to Allington with my heart ill at ease, and now I
have fallen into this trouble. I tell you all as it has happened. It
is impossible that I should marry Miss Dale. It would be wicked in me
to do so, seeing that my heart belongs altogether to another. I have
told you who is that other; and now may I hope for an answer?"

"An answer to what?"

"Alexandrina, will you be my wife?"

If it had been her object to bring him to a point-blank declaration
and proposition of marriage, she had certainly achieved her object
now. And she had that trust in her own power of management and in her
mother's, that she did not fear that in accepting him she would incur
the risk of being served as he was serving Lily Dale. She knew her
own position and his too well for that. If she accepted him she would
in due course of time become his wife,--let Miss Dale and all her
friends say what they might to the contrary. As to that head she had
no fear. But nevertheless she did not accept him at once. Though she
wished for the prize, her woman's nature hindered her from taking it
when it was offered to her.

"How long is it, Mr. Crosbie," she said, "since you put the same
question to Miss Dale?"

"I have told you everything, Alexandrina,--as I promised that I would
do. If you intend to punish me for doing so--"

"And I might ask another question. How long will it be before you put
the same question to some other girl?"

He turned round as though to walk away from her in anger; but when he
had gone half the distance to the door he returned.

"By heaven!" he said, and he spoke somewhat roughly, too, "I'll have
an answer. You at any rate have nothing with which to reproach me.
All that I have done wrong, I have done through you, or on your
behalf. You have heard my proposal. Do you intend to accept it?"

"I declare you startle me. If you demanded my money or my life, you
could not be more imperious."

"Certainly not more resolute in my determination."

"And if I decline the honour?"

"I shall think you the most fickle of your sex."

"And if I were to accept it?"

"I would swear that you were the best, the dearest, and the sweetest
of women."

"I would rather have your good opinion than your bad, certainly,"
said Lady Alexandrina. And then it was understood by both of them
that that affair was settled. Whenever she was called on in future to
speak of Lily, she always called her, "that poor Miss Dale;" but she
never again spoke a word of reproach to her future lord about that
little adventure. "I shall tell mamma, to-night," she said to him, as
she bade him good-night in some sequestered nook to which they had
betaken themselves. Lady Julia's eye was again on them as they came
out from the sequestered nook, but Alexandrina no longer cared for
Lady Julia.

"George, I cannot quite understand about that Mr. Palliser. Isn't
he to be a duke, and oughtn't he to be a lord now?" This question
was asked by Mrs. George De Courcy of her husband, when they found
themselves together in the seclusion of the nuptial chamber.

"Yes; he'll be Duke of Omnium when the old fellow dies. I think he's
one of the slowest fellows I ever came across. He'll take deuced good
care of the property, though."

"But, George, do explain it to me. It is so stupid not to understand,
and I am afraid of opening my mouth for fear of blundering."

"Then keep your mouth shut, my dear. You'll learn all those sort of
things in time, and nobody notices it if you don't say anything."

"Yes, but, George;--I don't like to sit silent all the night. I'd
sooner be up here with a novel if I can't speak about anything."

"Look at Lady Dumbello. She doesn't want to be always talking."

"Lady Dumbello is very different from me. But do tell me, who is Mr.
Palliser?"

"He's the duke's nephew. If he were the duke's son, he would be the
Marquis of Silverbridge."

"And will he be plain Mister till his uncle dies?"

"Yes, a very plain Mister."

"What a pity for him. But, George,--if I have a baby, and if he
should be a boy, and if--"

"Oh, nonsense; it will be time enough to talk of that when he comes.
I'm going to sleep."




CHAPTER XXIV.

A MOTHER-IN-LAW AND A FATHER-IN-LAW.


On the following morning Mr. Plantagenet Palliser was off upon his
political mission before breakfast;--either that, or else some
private comfort was afforded to him in guise of solitary rolls and
coffee. The public breakfast at Courcy Castle was going on at eleven
o'clock, and at that hour Mr. Palliser was already closeted with the
Mayor of Silverbridge.

"I must get off by the 3.45 train," said Mr. Palliser. "Who is there
to speak after me?"

"Well, I shall say a few words; and Growdy,--he'll expect them to
listen to him. Growdy has always stood very firm by his grace, Mr.
Palliser."

"Mind we are in the room sharp at one. And you can have a fly, for me
to get away to the station, ready in the yard. I won't go a moment
before I can help. I shall be just an hour and a half myself. No,
thank you, I never take any wine in the morning." And I may here
state that Mr. Palliser did get away by the 3.45 train, leaving
Mr. Growdy still talking on the platform. Constituents must be
treated with respect; but time has become so scarce now-a-days that
that respect has to be meted out by the quarter of an hour with
parsimonious care.

In the meantime there was more leisure at Courcy Castle. Neither
the countess nor Lady Alexandrina came down to breakfast, but their
absence gave rise to no special remark. Breakfast at the castle was
a morning meal at which people showed themselves, or did not show
themselves, as it pleased them. Lady Julia was there looking very
glum, and Crosbie was sitting next to his future sister-in-law
Margaretta, who already had placed herself on terms of close
affection with him. As he finished his tea she whispered into his
ear, "Mr. Crosbie, if you could spare half an hour, mamma would so
like to see you in her own room." Crosbie declared that he would be
delighted to wait upon her, and did in truth feel some gratitude in
being welcomed as a son-in-law into the house. And yet he felt also
that he was being caught, and that in ascending into the private
domains of the countess he would be setting the seal upon his own
captivity.

Nevertheless, he went with a smiling face and a light step, Lady
Margaretta ushering him the way. "Mamma," said she; "I have
brought Mr. Crosbie up to you. I did not know that you were here,
Alexandrina, or I should have warned him."

The countess and her youngest daughter had been breakfasting together
in the elder lady's sitting-room, and were now seated in a very
graceful and well-arranged deshabille. The tea-cups out of which they
had been drinking were made of some elegant porcelain, the teapot and
cream-jug were of chased silver and as delicate in their way. The
remnant of food consisted of morsels of French roll which had not
even been allowed to crumble themselves in a disorderly fashion,
and of infinitesimal pats of butter. If the morning meal of the two
ladies had been as unsubstantial as the appearance of the fragments
indicated, it must be presumed that they intended to lunch early.
The countess herself was arrayed in an elaborate morning wrapper of
figured silk, but the simple Alexandrina wore a plain white muslin
peignoir, fastened with pink ribbon. Her hair, which she usually
carried in long rolls, now hung loose over her shoulders, and
certainly added something to her stock of female charms. The countess
got up as Crosbie entered and greeted him with an open hand; but
Alexandrina kept her seat, and merely nodded at him a little welcome.
"I must run down again," said Margaretta, "or I shall have left
Amelia with all the cares of the house upon her."

"Alexandrina has told me all about it," said the countess, with her
sweetest smile; "and I have given her my approval. I really do think
you will suit each other very well."

"I am very much obliged to you," said Crosbie. "I'm sure at any rate
of this,--that she will suit me very well."

"Yes; I think she will. She is a good sensible girl."

"Psha, mamma; pray don't go on in that Goody Twoshoes sort of way."

"So you are, my dear. If you were not it would not be well for you
to do as you are going to do. If you were giddy and harum-scarum,
and devoted to rank and wealth and that sort of thing, it would not
be well for you to marry a commoner without fortune. I'm sure Mr.
Crosbie will excuse me for saying so much as that."

"Of course I know," said Crosbie, "that I had no right to look so
high."

"Well; we'll say nothing more about it," said the countess.

"Pray don't," said Alexandrina. "It sounds so like a sermon."

"Sit down, Mr. Crosbie," said the countess, "and let us have a
little conversation. She shall sit by you, if you like it. Nonsense,
Alexandrina,--if he asks it!"

"Don't, mamma;--I mean to remain where I am."

"Very well, my dear;--then remain where you are. She is a wilful
girl, Mr. Crosbie; as you will say when you hear that she has told
me all that you told her last night." Upon hearing this, he changed
colour a little, but said nothing. "She has told me," continued the
countess, "about that young lady at Allington. Upon my word, I'm
afraid you have been very naughty."

"I have been foolish, Lady De Courcy."

"Of course; I did not mean anything worse than that. Yes, you have
been foolish;--amusing yourself in a thoughtless way, you know, and,
perhaps, a little piqued because a certain lady was not to be won so
easily as your Royal Highness wished. Well, now, all that must be
settled, you know, as quickly as possible. I don't want to ask any
indiscreet questions; but if the young lady has really been left
with any idea that you meant anything, don't you think you should
undeceive her at once?"

"Of course he will, mamma."

"Of course you will; and it will be a great comfort to Alexandrina to
know that the matter is arranged. You hear what Lady Julia is saying
almost every hour of her life. Now, of course, Alexandrina does not
care what an old maid like Lady Julia may say; but it will be better
for all parties that the rumour should be put a stop to. If the earl
were to hear it, he might, you know--" And the countess shook her
head, thinking that she could thus best indicate what the earl might
do, if he were to take it into his head to do anything.

Crosbie could not bring himself to hold any very confidential
intercourse with the countess about Lily; but he gave a muttered
assurance that he should, as a matter of course, make known the truth
to Miss Dale with as little delay as possible. He could not say
exactly when he would write, nor whether he would write to her or to
her mother; but the thing should be done immediately on his return to
town.

"If it will make the matter easier, I will write to Mrs. Dale," said
the countess. But to this scheme Mr. Crosbie objected very strongly.

And then a few words were said about the earl. "I will tell him this
afternoon," said the countess; "and then you can see him to-morrow
morning. I don't suppose he will say very much, you know; and
perhaps he may think,--you won't mind my saying it, I'm sure,--that
Alexandrina might have done better. But I don't believe that
he'll raise any strong objection. There will be something about
settlements, and that sort of thing, of course." Then the countess
went away, and Alexandrina was left with her lover for half an hour.
When the half-hour was over, he felt that he would have given all
that he had in the world to have back the last four-and-twenty hours
of his existence. But he had no hope. To jilt Lily Dale would, no
doubt, be within his power, but he knew that he could not jilt Lady
Alexandrina De Courcy.

On the next morning at twelve o'clock he had his interview with the
father, and a very unpleasant interview it was. He was ushered into
the earl's room, and found the great peer standing on the rug, with
his back to the fire, and his hands in his breeches pockets.

"So you mean to marry my daughter?" said he. "I'm not very well, as
you see; I seldom am."

These last words were spoken in answer to Crosbie's greeting. Crosbie
had held out his hand to the earl, and had carried his point so far
that the earl had been forced to take one of his own out of his
pocket, and give it to his proposed son-in-law.

"If your lordship has no objection. I have, at any rate, her
permission to ask for yours."

"I believe you have not any fortune, have you? She's got none; of
course you know that?"

"I have a few thousand pounds, and I believe she has as much."

"About as much as will buy bread to keep the two of you from
starving. It's nothing to me. You can marry her if you like; only,
look here, I'll have no nonsense. I've had an old woman in with me
this morning,--one of those that are here in the house,--telling me
some story about some other girl that you have made a fool of. It's
nothing to me how much of that sort of thing you may have done, so
that you do none of it here. But,--if you play any prank of that kind
with me, you'll find that you've made a mistake."

Crosbie hardly made any answer to this, but got himself out of the
room as quickly as he could.

"You'd better talk to Gazebee about the trifle of money you've got,"
said the earl. Then he dismissed the subject from his mind, and no
doubt imagined that he had fully done his duty by his daughter.

On the day after this, Crosbie was to go. On the last afternoon,
shortly before dinner, he was waylaid by Lady Julia, who had passed
the day in preparing traps to catch him.

"Mr. Crosbie," she said, "let me have one word with you. Is this
true?"

"Lady Julia," he said, "I really do not know why you should inquire
into my private affairs."

"Yes, sir, you do know; you know very well. That poor young lady who
has no father and no brother, is my neighbour, and her friends are
my friends. She is a friend of my own, and being an old woman, I
have a right to speak for her. If this is true, Mr. Crosbie, you are
treating her like a villain."

"Lady Julia, I really must decline to discuss the matter with you."

"I'll tell everybody what a villain you are; I will, indeed;--a
villain and a poor weak silly fool. She was too good for you; that's
what she was." Crosbie, as Lady Julia was addressing to him the last
words, hurried upstairs away from her, but her ladyship, standing on
a landing-place, spoke up loudly, so that no word should be lost on
her retreating enemy.

"We positively must get rid of that woman," the countess, who
heard it all, said to Margaretta. "She is disturbing the house and
disgracing herself every day."

"She went to papa this morning, mamma."

"She did not get much by that move," said the countess.

On the following morning Crosbie returned to town, but just before he
left the castle he received a third letter from Lily Dale. "I have
been rather disappointed at not hearing this morning," said Lily,
"for I thought the postman would have brought me a letter. But I
know you'll be a better boy when you get back to London, and I won't
scold you. Scold you, indeed! No; I'll never scold you, not though I
shouldn't hear for a month."

He would have given all that he had in the world, three times told,
if he could have blotted out that visit to Courcy Castle from the
past facts of his existence.




CHAPTER XXV.

ADOLPHUS CROSBIE SPENDS AN EVENING AT HIS CLUB.


[ILLUSTRATION: (untitled)]

Crosbie, as he was being driven from the castle to the nearest
station, in a dog-cart hired from the hotel, could not keep himself
from thinking of that other morning, not yet a fortnight past, on
which he had left Allington; and as he thought of it he knew that
he was a villain. On this morning Alexandrina had not come out from
the house to watch his departure, and catch the last glance of his
receding figure. As he had not started very early she had sat with
him at the breakfast-table; but others also had sat there, and when
he got up to go, she did no more than smile softly and give him her
hand. It had been already settled that he was to spend his Christmas
at Courcy; as it had been also settled that he was to spend it at
Allington.

Lady Amelia was, of all the family, the most affectionate to him, and
perhaps of them all she was the one whose affection was worth the
most. She was not a woman endowed with a very high mind or with very
noble feelings. She had begun life trusting to the nobility of her
blood for everything, and declaring somewhat loudly among her friends
that her father's rank and her mother's birth imposed on her the duty
of standing closely by her own order. Nevertheless, at the age of
thirty-three she had married her father's man of business, under
circumstances which were not altogether creditable to her. But she
had done her duty in her new sphere of life with some constancy and a
fixed purpose; and now that her sister was going to marry, as she had
done, a man much below herself in social standing, she was prepared
to do her duty as a sister and a sister-in-law.

"We shall be up in town in November, and of course you'll come to
us at once. Albert Villa, you know, in Hamilton Terrace, St. John's
Wood. We dine at seven, and on Sundays at two; and you'll always find
a place. Mind you come to us, and make yourself quite at home. I do
so hope you and Mortimer will get on well together."

"I'm sure we shall," said Crosbie. But he had had higher hopes in
marrying into this noble family than that of becoming intimate with
Mortimer Gazebee. What those hopes were he could hardly define to
himself now that he had brought himself so near to the fruition of
them. Lady De Courcy had certainly promised to write to her first
cousin who was Under-Secretary of State for India, with reference to
that secretaryship at the General Committee Office; but Crosbie, when
he came to weigh in his mind what good might result to him from this,
was disposed to think that his chance of obtaining the promotion
would be quite as good without the interest of the Under-Secretary of
State for India as with it. Now that he belonged, as we may say, to
this noble family, he could hardly discern what were the advantages
which he had expected from this alliance. He had said to himself that
it would be much to have a countess for a mother-in-law; but now,
even already, although the possession to which he had looked was not
yet garnered, he was beginning to tell himself that the thing was not
worth possessing.

As he sat in the train, with a newspaper in his hand, he went on
acknowledging to himself that he was a villain. Lady Julia had spoken
the truth to him on the stairs at Courcy, and so he confessed over
and over again. But he was chiefly angry with himself for this,--that
he had been a villain without gaining anything by his villany; that
he had been a villain, and was to lose so much by his villany. He
made comparison between Lily and Alexandrina, and owned to himself,
over and over again, that Lily would make the best wife that a man
could take to his bosom. As to Alexandrina, he knew the thinness of
her character. She would stick by him, no doubt; and in a circuitous,
discontented, unhappy way, would probably be true to her duties as
a wife and mother. She would be nearly such another as Lady Amelia
Gazebee. But was that a prize sufficiently rich to make him contented
with his own prowess and skill in winning it? And was that a prize
sufficiently rich to justify him to himself for his terrible villany?
Lily Dale he had loved; and he now declared to himself that he could
have continued to love her through his whole life. But what was there
for any man to love in Alexandrina De Courcy?

While resolving, during his first four or five days at the castle,
that he would throw Lily Dale overboard, he had contrived to quiet
his conscience by inward allusions to sundry heroes of romance. He
had thought of Lothario, Don Juan, and of Lovelace; and had told
himself that the world had ever been full of such heroes. And the
world, too, had treated such heroes well; not punishing them at all
as villains, but caressing them rather, and calling them curled
darlings. Why should not he be a curled darling as well as another?
Ladies had ever been fond of the Don Juan character, and Don Juan had
generally been popular with men also. And then he named to himself a
dozen modern Lotharios,--men who were holding their heads well above
water, although it was known that they had played this lady false,
and brought that other one to death's door, or perhaps even to death
itself. War and love were alike, and the world was prepared to
forgive any guile to militants in either camp.

But now that he had done the deed he found himself forced to look
at it from quite another point of view. Suddenly that character of
Lothario showed itself to him in a different light, and one in which
it did not please him to look at it as belonging to himself. He began
to feel that it would be almost impossible for him to write that
letter to Lily, which it was absolutely necessary that he should
write. He was in a position in which his mind would almost turn
itself to thoughts of self-destruction as the only means of escape. A
fortnight ago he was a happy man, having everything before him that a
man ought to want; and now--now that he was the accepted son-in-law
of an earl, and the confident expectant of high promotion--he was the
most miserable, degraded wretch in the world!

He changed his clothes at his lodgings in Mount Street and went down
to his club to dinner. He could, at any rate, do nothing that night.
His letter to Allington must, no doubt, be written at once; but, as
he could not send it before the next night's post, he was not forced
to set to work upon it that evening. As he walked along Piccadilly
on his way to St. James's Square, it occurred to him that it might
be well to write a short line to Lily, telling her nothing of the
truth,--a note written as though his engagement with her was still
unbroken, but yet written with care, saying nothing about that
engagement, so as to give him a little time. Then he thought that he
would telegraph to Bernard and tell everything to him. Bernard would,
of course, be prepared to avenge his cousin in some way, but for such
vengeance Crosbie felt that he should care little. Lady Julia had
told him that Lily was without father or brother, thereby accusing
him of the basest cowardice. "I wish she had a dozen brothers," he
said to himself. But he hardly knew why he expressed such a wish.

He returned to London on the last day of October, and he found the
streets at the West End nearly deserted. He thought, therefore, that
he should be quite alone at his club, but as he entered the dinner
room he saw one of his oldest and most intimate friends standing
before the fire. Fowler Pratt was the man who had first brought him
into Sebright's, and had given him almost his earliest start on his
successful career in life. Since that time he and his friend Fowler
Pratt had lived in close communion, though Pratt had always held a
certain ascendancy in their friendship. He was in age a few years
senior to Crosbie, and was in truth a man of better parts. But he
was less ambitious, less desirous of shining in the world, and much
less popular with men in general. He was possessed of a moderate
private fortune on which he lived in a quiet, modest manner, and was
unmarried, not likely to marry, inoffensive, useless, and prudent.
For the first few years of Crosbie's life in London he had lived very
much with his friend Pratt, and had been accustomed to depend much
on his friend's counsel; but latterly, since he had himself become
somewhat noticeable, he had found more pleasure in the society of
such men as Dale, who were not his superiors either in age or wisdom.
But there had been no coolness between him and Pratt, and now they
met with perfect cordiality.

"I thought you were down in Barsetshire," said Pratt.

"And I thought you were in Switzerland."

"I have been in Switzerland," said Pratt.

"And I have been in Barsetshire," said Crosbie. Then they ordered
their dinner together.

"And so you're going to be married?" said Pratt, when the waiter had
carried away the cheese.

"Who told you that?"

"Well, but you are? Never mind who told me, if I was told the truth."

"But if it be not true?"

"I have heard it for the last month," said Pratt, "and it has been
spoken of as a thing certain; and it is true; is it not?"

"I believe it is," said Crosbie, slowly.

"Why, what on earth is the matter with you, that you speak of it in
that way? Am I to congratulate you, or am I not? The lady, I'm told,
is a cousin of Dale's."

Crosbie had turned his chair from the table round to the fire, and
said nothing in answer to this. He sat with his glass of sherry in
his hand, looking at the coals, and thinking whether it would not be
well that he should tell the whole story to Pratt. No one could give
him better advice; and no one, as far as he knew his friend, would
be less shocked at the telling of such a story. Pratt had no romance
about women, and had never pretended to very high sentiments.

"Come up into the smoking-room and I'll tell you all about it," said
Crosbie. So they went off together, and, as the smoking-room was
untenanted, Crosbie was able to tell his story.

He found it very hard to tell;--much harder than he had beforehand
fancied. "I have got into terrible trouble," he began by saying. Then
he told how he had fallen suddenly in love with Lily, how he had been
rash and imprudent, how nice she was--"infinitely too good for such a
man as I am," he said;--how she had accepted him, and then how he had
repented. "I should have told you beforehand," he then said, "that I
was already half engaged to Lady Alexandrina De Courcy." The reader,
however, will understand that this half-engagement was a fiction.

"And now you mean that you are altogether engaged to her?"

"Exactly so."

"And that Miss Dale must be told that, on second thoughts, you have
changed your mind?"

"I know that I have behaved very badly," said Crosbie.

"Indeed you have," said his friend.

"It is one of those troubles in which a man finds himself involved
almost before he knows where he is."

"Well; I can't look at it exactly in that light. A man may amuse
himself with a girl, and I can understand his disappointing her and
not offering to marry her,--though even that sort of thing isn't much
to my taste. But, by George, to make an offer of marriage to such
a girl as that in September, to live for a month in her family as
her affianced husband, and then coolly go away to another house in
October, and make an offer to another girl of higher rank--"

"You know very well that that has had nothing to do with it."

"It looks very like it. And how are you going to communicate these
tidings to Miss Dale?"

"I don't know," said Crosbie, who was beginning to be very sore.

"And you have quite made up your mind that you'll stick to the earl's
daughter?"

The idea of jilting Alexandrina instead of Lily had never as yet
presented itself to Crosbie, and now, as he thought of it, he could
not perceive that it was feasible.

"Yes," he said, "I shall marry Lady Alexandrina;--that is, if I do
not cut the whole concern, and my own throat into the bargain."

"If I were in your shoes I think I should cut the whole concern. I
could not stand it. What do you mean to say to Miss Dale's uncle?"

"I don't care a ---- for Miss Dale's uncle," said Crosbie. "If he
were to walk in at that door this moment, I would tell him the whole
story, without--"

As he was yet speaking, one of the club servants opened the door of
the smoking-room, and seeing Crosbie seated in a lounging-chair near
the fire, went up to him with a gentleman's card. Crosbie took the
card and read the name. "Mr. Dale, Allington."

"The gentleman is in the waiting-room," said the servant.

Crosbie for the moment was struck dumb. He had declared that very
moment that he should feel no personal disinclination to meet Mr.
Dale, and now that gentleman was within the walls of the club,
waiting to see him!

"Who's that?" asked Pratt. And then Crosbie handed him the card.
"Whew-w-w-hew," whistled Pratt.

"Did you tell the gentleman I was here?" asked Crosbie.

"I said I thought you were upstairs, sir."

"That will do," said Pratt. "The gentleman will no doubt wait for a
minute." And then the servant went out of the room. "Now, Crosbie,
you must make up your mind. By one of these women and all her friends
you will ever be regarded as a rascal, and they of course will look
out to punish you with such punishment as may come to their hands.
You must now choose which shall be the sufferer."

The man was a coward at heart. The reflection that he might, even
now, at this moment, meet the old squire on pleasant terms,--or at
any rate not on terms of defiance, pleaded more strongly in Lily's
favour than had any other argument since Crosbie had first made up
his mind to abandon her. He did not fear personal ill-usage;--he was
not afraid lest he should be kicked or beaten; but he did not dare to
face the just anger of the angry man.

"If I were you," said Pratt, "I would not go down to that man at the
present moment for a trifle."

"But what can I do?"

"Shirk away out of the club. Only if you do that it seems to me that
you'll have to go on shirking for the rest of your life."

"Pratt, I must say that I expected something more like friendship
from you."

"What can I do for you? There are positions in which it is impossible
to help a man. I tell you plainly that you have behaved very badly. I
do not see that I can help you."

"Would you see him?"

"Certainly not, if I am to be expected to take your part."

"Take any part you like,--only tell him the truth."

"And what is the truth?"

"I was part engaged to that other girl before; and then, when I came
to think of it, I knew that I was not fit to marry Miss Dale. I know
I have behaved badly; but, Pratt, thousands have done the same thing
before."

"I can only say that I have not been so unfortunate as to reckon any
of those thousands among my friends."

"You mean to tell me, then, that you are going to turn your back on
me?" said Crosbie.

"I haven't said anything of the kind. I certainly won't undertake to
defend you, for I don't see that your conduct admits of defence. I
will see this gentleman if you wish it, and tell him anything that
you may desire me to tell him."

At this moment the servant returned with a note for Crosbie. Mr. Dale
had called for paper and envelope, and sent up to him the following
missive:--"Do you intend to come down to me? I know that you are in
the house." "For heaven's sake go to him," said Crosbie. "He is well
aware that I was deceived about his niece,--that I thought he was
to give her some fortune. He knows all about that, and that when I
learned from him that she was to have nothing--"

"Upon my word, Crosbie, I wish you could find another messenger."

"Ah! you do not understand," said Crosbie in his agony. "You think
that I am inventing this plea about her fortune now. It isn't so. He
will understand. We have talked all this over before, and he knew
how terribly I was disappointed. Shall I wait for you here, or will
you come to my lodgings? Or I will go down to the Beaufort, and will
wait for you there." And it was finally arranged that he should get
himself out of this club and wait at the other for Pratt's report of
the interview.

"Do you go down first," said Crosbie.

"Yes: I had better," said Pratt. "Otherwise you may be seen. Mr. Dale
would have his eye upon you, and there would be a row in the house."
There was a smile of sarcasm on Pratt's face as he spoke which
angered Crosbie even in his misery, and made him long to tell his
friend that he would not trouble him with this mission,--that he
would manage his own affairs himself; but he was weakened and
mentally humiliated by the sense of his own rascality, and had
already lost the power of asserting himself, and of maintaining his
ascendancy. He was beginning to recognize the fact that he had done
that for which he must endure to be kicked, to be kicked morally if
not materially; and that it was no longer possible for him to hold
his head up without shame.

Pratt took Mr. Dale's note in his hand and went down into the
stranger's room. There he found the squire standing, so that he could
see through the open door of the room to the foot of the stairs down
which Crosbie must descend before he could leave the club. As a
measure of first precaution the ambassador closed the door; then he
bowed to Mr. Dale, and asked him if he would take a chair.

"I wanted to see Mr. Crosbie," said the squire.

"I have your note to that gentleman in my hand," said he. "He has
thought it better that you should have this interview with me;--and
under all the circumstances perhaps it is better."

"Is he such a coward that he dare not see me?"

"There are some actions, Mr. Dale, that will make a coward of any
man. My friend Crosbie is, I take it, brave enough in the ordinary
sense of the word, but he has injured you."

"It is all true, then?"

"Yes, Mr. Dale; I fear it is all true."

"And you call that man your friend! Mr.--; I don't know what your
name is."

"Pratt;--Fowler Pratt. I have known Crosbie for fourteen years,--ever
since he was a boy; and it is not my way, Mr. Dale, to throw over an
old friend under any circumstances."

"Not if he committed a murder."

"No; not though he committed a murder."

"If what I hear is true, this man is worse than a murderer."

"Of course, Mr. Dale, I cannot know what you have heard. I believe
that Mr. Crosbie has behaved very badly to your niece, Miss Dale; I
believe that he was engaged to marry her, or, at any rate, that some
such proposition had been made."

"Proposition! Why, sir, it was a thing so completely understood that
everybody knew it in the county. It was so positively fixed that
there was no secret about it. Upon my honour, Mr. Pratt, I can't as
yet understand it. If I remember right, it's not a fortnight since
he left my house at Allington,--not a fortnight. And that poor girl
was with him on the morning of his going as his betrothed bride.
Not a fortnight since! And now I've had a letter from an old family
friend telling me that he is going to marry one of Lord De Courcy's
daughters! I went instantly off to Courcy, and found that he had
started for London. Now, I have followed him here; and you tell me
it's all true."

"I am afraid it is, Mr. Dale; too true."

"I don't understand it; I don't, indeed. I cannot bring myself to
believe that the man who was sitting the other day at my table should
be so great a scoundrel. Did he mean it all the time that he was
there?"

"No; certainly not. Lady Alexandrina De Courcy was, I believe, an old
friend of his;--with whom, perhaps, he had had some lover's quarrel.
On his going to Courcy they made it up; and this is the result."

"And that is to be sufficient for my poor girl?"

"You will, of course, understand that I am not defending Mr. Crosbie.
The whole affair is very sad,--very sad, indeed. I can only say, in
his excuse, that he is not the first man who has behaved badly to a
lady."

"And that is his message to me, is it? And that is what I am to tell
my niece? You have been deceived by a scoundrel. But what then? You
are not the first! Mr. Pratt, I give you my word as a gentleman, I do
not understand it. I have lived a good deal out of the world, and am,
therefore, perhaps, more astonished than I ought to be."

"Mr. Dale, I feel for you--"

"Feel for me! What is to become of my girl? And do you suppose that
I will let this other marriage go on; that I will not tell the
De Courcys, and all the world at large, what sort of a man this
is;--that I will not get at him to punish him? Does he think that I
will put up with this?"

"I do not know what he thinks; I must only beg that you will not mix
me up in the matter--as though I were a participator in his offence."

"Will you tell him from me that I desire to see him?"

"I do not think that that would do any good."

"Never mind, sir; you have brought me his message; will you have the
goodness now to take back mine to him?"

"Do you mean at once--this evening,--now?"

"Yes, at once--this evening,--now;--this minute."

"Ah; he has left the club; he is not here now; he went when I came to
you."

"Then he is a coward as well as a scoundrel." In answer to which
assertion, Mr. Fowler Pratt merely shrugged his shoulders.

"He is a coward as well as a scoundrel. Will you have the kindness to
tell your friend from me that he is a coward and a scoundrel,--and a
liar, sir."

"If it be so, Miss Dale is well quit of her engagement."

"That is your consolation, is it? That may be all very well
now-a-days; but when I was a young man, I would sooner have burnt out
my tongue than have spoken in such a way on such a subject. I would,
indeed. Good-night, Mr. Pratt. Pray make your friend understand that
he has not yet seen the last of the Dales; although, as you hint, the
ladies of that family will no doubt have learned that he is not fit
to associate with them." Then, taking up his hat, the squire made his
way out of the club.

"I would not have done it," said Pratt to himself, "for all the
beauty, and all the wealth, and all the rank that ever were owned by
a woman."




CHAPTER XXVI.

LORD DE COURCY IN THE BOSOM OF HIS FAMILY.


Lady Julia De Guest had not during her life written many letters to
Mr. Dale of Allington, nor had she ever been very fond of him. But
when she felt certain how things were going at Courcy, or rather, as
we may say, how they had already gone, she took pen in hand, and sat
herself to work, doing, as she conceived, her duty by her neighbour.


   MY DEAR MR. DALE [she said],

   I believe I need make no secret of having known that your
   niece Lilian is engaged to Mr. Crosbie, of London. I think
   it proper to warn you that if this be true Mr. Crosbie is
   behaving himself in a very improper manner here. I am not
   a person who concerns myself much in the affairs of other
   people; and under ordinary circumstances, the conduct of
   Mr. Crosbie would be nothing to me,--or, indeed, less
   than nothing; but I do to you as I would wish that others
   should do unto me. I believe it is only too true that
   Mr. Crosbie has proposed to Lady Alexandrina De Courcy,
   and been accepted by her. I think you will believe that
   I would not say this without warrant, and if there be
   anything in it, it may be well, for the poor young lady's
   sake, that you should put yourself in the way of learning
   the truth.

   Believe me to be yours sincerely,

   JULIA DE GUEST.

   Courcy Castle, Thursday.


The squire had never been very fond of any of the De Guest family,
and had, perhaps, liked Lady Julia the least of them all. He was wont
to call her a meddling old woman,--remembering her bitterness and
pride in those now long bygone days in which the gallant major had
run off with Lady Fanny. When he first received this letter, he did
not, on the first reading of it, believe a word of its contents.
"Cross-grained old harridan," he said out loud to his nephew. "Look
what that aunt of yours has written to me." Bernard read the letter
twice, and as he did so his face became hard and angry.

"You don't mean to say you believe it?" said the squire.

"I don't think it will be safe to disregard it."

"What! you think it possible that your friend is doing as she says?"

"It is certainly possible. He was angry when he found that Lily had
no fortune."

"Heavens, Bernard! And you can speak of it in that way?"

"I don't say that it is true; but I think we should look to it. I
will go to Courcy Castle and learn the truth."

The squire at last decided that he would go. He went to Courcy
Castle, and found that Crosbie had started two hours before his
arrival. He asked for Lady Julia, and learned from her that Crosbie
had actually left the house as the betrothed husband of Lady
Alexandrina.

"The countess, I am sure, will not contradict it, if you will see
her," said Lady Julia. But this the squire was unwilling to do. He
would not proclaim the wretched condition of his niece more loudly
than was necessary, and therefore he started on his pursuit of
Crosbie. What was his success on that evening we have already
learned.

Both Lady Alexandrina and her mother heard of Mr. Dale's arrival at
the castle, but nothing was said between them on the subject. Lady
Amelia Gazebee heard of it also, and she ventured to discuss the
matter with her sister.

"You don't know exactly how far it went, do you?"

"No; yes;--not exactly, that is," said Alexandrina.

"I suppose he did say something about marriage to the girl?"

"Yes, I'm afraid he did."

"Dear, dear! It's very unfortunate. What sort of people are those
Dales? I suppose he talked to you about them."

"No, he didn't; not very much. I daresay she is an artful, sly thing!
It's a great pity men should go on in such a way."

"Yes, it is," said Lady Amelia. "And I do suppose that in this case
the blame has been more with him than with her. It's only right I
should tell you that."

"But what can I do?"

"I don't say you can do anything; but it's as well you should know."

"But I don't know, and you don't know; and I can't see that there is
any use talking about it now. I knew him a long while before she did,
and if she has allowed him to make a fool of her, it isn't my fault."

"Nobody says it is, my dear."

"But you seem to preach to me about it. What can I do for the girl?
The fact is, he don't care for her a bit, and never did."

"Then he shouldn't have told her that he did."

"That's all very well, Amelia; but people don't always do exactly all
that they ought to do. I suppose Mr. Crosbie isn't the first man that
has proposed to two ladies. I dare say it was wrong, but I can't help
it. As to Mr. Dale coming here with a tale of his niece's wrongs, I
think it very absurd,--very absurd indeed. It makes it look as though
there had been a scheme to catch Mr. Crosbie, and it's my belief that
there was such a scheme."

"I only hope that there'll be no quarrel."

"Men don't fight duels now-a-days, Amelia."

"But do you remember what Frank Gresham did to Mr. Moffat when he
behaved so badly to poor Augusta?"

"Mr. Crosbie isn't afraid of that kind of thing. And I always thought
that Frank was very wrong,--very wrong indeed. What's the good of two
men beating each other in the street?"

"Well; I'm sure I hope there'll be no quarrel. But I own I don't like
the look of it. You see the uncle must have known all about it, and
have consented to the marriage, or he would not have come here."

"I don't see that it can make any difference to me, Amelia."

"No, my dear, I don't see that it can. We shall be up in town soon,
and I will see as much as possible of Mr. Crosbie. The marriage, I
hope, will take place soon."

"He talks of February."

"Don't put it off, Alley, whatever you do. There are so many slips,
you know, in these things."

"I'm not a bit afraid of that," said Alexandrina, sticking up her
head.

"I daresay not; and you may be sure that we will keep an eye on him.
Mortimer will get him up to dine with us as often as possible, and as
his leave of absence is all over, he can't get out of town. He's to
be here at Christmas, isn't he?"

"Of course he is."

"Mind you keep him to that. And as to these Dales, I would be very
careful, if I were you, not to say anything unkind of them to any
one. It sounds badly in your position." And with this last piece of
advice Lady Amelia Gazebee allowed the subject to drop.

On that day Lady Julia returned to her own home. Her adieux to the
whole family at Courcy Castle were very cold, but about Mr. Crosbie
and his lady-love at Allington she said no further word to any of
them. Alexandrina did not show herself at all on the occasion, and
indeed had not spoken to her enemy since that evening on which she
had felt herself constrained to retreat from the drawing-room.

"Good-by," said the countess. "You have been so good to come, and we
have enjoyed it so much."

"I thank you very much. Good morning," said Lady Julia, with a
stately courtesy.

"Pray remember me to your brother. I wish we could have seen him; I
hope he has not been hurt by the--the bull." And then Lady Julia went
her way.

"What a fool I have been to have that woman in the house," said the
countess, before the door was closed behind her guest's back.

"Indeed you have," said Lady Julia, screaming back through the
passage. Then there was a long silence, then a suppressed titter, and
after that a loud laugh.

"Oh, mamma, what shall we do?" said Lady Amelia.

"Do!" said Margaretta; "why should we do anything? She has heard the
truth for once in her life."

"Dear Lady Dumbello, what will you think of us?" said the countess,
turning round to another guest, who was also just about to depart.
"Did any one ever know such a woman before?"

"I think she's very nice," said Lady Dumbello, smiling.

"I can't quite agree with you there," said Lady Clandidlem. "But I
do believe she means to do her best. She is very charitable, and all
that sort of thing."

"I'm sure I don't know," said Rosina. "I asked her for a subscription
to the mission for putting down the <DW7>s in the west of Ireland,
and she refused me point-blank."

"Now, my dear, if you're quite ready," said Lord Dumbello, coming
into the room. Then there was another departure; but on this occasion
the countess waited till the doors were shut, and the retreating
footsteps were no longer heard. "Have you observed," said she to Lady
Clandidlem, "that she has not held her head up since Mr. Palliser
went away?"

"Indeed I have," said Lady Clandidlem. "As for poor Dumbello, he's
the blindest creature I ever saw in my life."

"We shall hear of something before next May," said Lady De Courcy,
shaking her head; "but for all that she'll never be Duchess of
Omnium."

"I wonder what your mamma will say of me when I go away to-morrow,"
said Lady Clandidlem to Margaretta, as they walked across the hall
together.

"She won't say that you are going to run away with any gentleman,"
said Margaretta.

"At any rate not with the earl," said Lady Clandidlem. "Ha, ha, ha!
Well, we are all very good-natured, are we not? The best is that it
means nothing."

Thus by degrees all the guests went, and the family of the De Courcys
was left to the bliss of their own domestic circle. This, we may
presume, was not without its charms, seeing that there were so many
feelings in common between the mother and her children. There were
drawbacks to it, no doubt, arising perhaps chiefly from the earl's
bodily infirmities. "When your father speaks to me," said Mrs. George
to her husband, "he puts me in such a shiver that I cannot open my
mouth to answer him."

"You should stand up to him," said George. "He can't hurt you, you
know. Your money's your own; and if I'm ever to be the heir, it won't
be by his doing."

"But he gnashes his teeth at me."

"You shouldn't care for that, if he don't bite. He used to gnash them
at me; and when I had to ask him for money I didn't like it; but now
I don't mind him a bit. He threw the peerage at me one day, but it
didn't go within a yard of my head."

"If he throws anything at me, George, I shall drop upon the spot."

But the countess had a worse time with the earl than any of her
children. It was necessary that she should see him daily, and
necessary also that she should say much that he did not like to hear,
and make many petitions that caused him to gnash his teeth. The earl
was one of those men who could not endure to live otherwise than
expensively, and yet was made miserable by every recurring expense.
He ought to have known by this time that butchers, and bakers, and
corn-chandlers, and coal-merchants will not supply their goods for
nothing; and yet it always seemed as though he had expected that at
this special period they would do so. He was an embarrassed man, no
doubt, and had not been fortunate in his speculations at Newmarket
or Homburg; but, nevertheless, he had still the means of living
without daily torment; and it must be supposed that his self-imposed
sufferings, with regard to money, rose rather from his disposition
than his necessities. His wife never knew whether he were really
ruined, or simply pretending it. She had now become so used
to her position in this respect, that she did not allow fiscal
considerations to mar her happiness. Food and clothing had
always come to her,--including velvet gowns, new trinkets, and a
man-cook,--and she presumed that they would continue to come. But
that daily conference with her husband was almost too much for her.
She struggled to avoid it; and, as far as the ways and means were
concerned, would have allowed them to arrange themselves, if he would
only have permitted it. But he insisted on seeing her daily in his
own sitting-room; and she had acknowledged to her favourite daughter,
Margaretta, that those half-hours would soon be the death of her. "I
sometimes feel," she said, "that I am going mad before I can get
out." And she reproached herself, probably without reason, in that
she had brought much of this upon herself. In former days the earl
had been constantly away from home, and the countess had complained.
Like many other women she had not known when she was well off. She
had complained, urging upon her lord that he should devote more
of his time to his own hearth. It is probable that her ladyship's
remonstrances had been less efficacious than the state of his own
health in producing that domestic constancy which he now practised;
but it is certain that she looked back with bitter regret to the
happy days when she was deserted, jealous, and querulous. "Don't
you wish we could get Sir Omicron to order him to the German Spas?"
she had said to Margaretta. Now Sir Omicron was the great London
physician, and might, no doubt, do much in that way.

But no such happy order had as yet been given; and, as far as the
family could foresee, paterfamilias intended to pass the winter with
them at Courcy. The guests, as I have said, were all gone, and none
but the family were in the house when her ladyship waited upon her
lord one morning at twelve o'clock, a few days after Mr. Dale's visit
to the castle. He always breakfasted alone, and after breakfast found
in a French novel and a cigar what solace those innocent recreations
were still able to afford him. When the novel no longer excited him
and when he was saturated with smoke, he would send for his wife.
After that, his valet would dress him. "She gets it worse than I do,"
the man declared in the servants' hall; "and minds it a deal more. I
can give warning, and she can't."

"Better? No, I ain't better," the husband said, in answer to his
wife's inquiries. "I never shall be better while you keep that cook
in the kitchen."

"But where are we to get another if we send him away?"

"It's not my business to find cooks. I don't know where you're to
get one. It's my belief you won't have a cook at all before long. It
seems you have got two extra men into the house without telling me."

"We must have servants, you know, when there is company. It wouldn't
do to have Lady Dumbello here, and no one to wait on her."

"Who asked Lady Dumbello? I didn't."

"I'm sure, my dear, you liked having her here."

"D---- Lady Dumbello!" and then there was a pause. The countess had
no objection whatsoever to the above proposition, and was rejoiced
that that question of the servants was allowed to slip aside, through
the aid of her ladyship.

"Look at that letter from Porlock," said the earl; and he pushed
over to the unhappy mother a letter from her eldest son. Of all her
children he was the one she loved the best; but him she was never
allowed to see under her own roof. "I sometimes think that he is the
greatest rascal with whom I ever had occasion to concern myself,"
said the earl.

She took the letter and read it. The epistle was certainly not one
which a father could receive with pleasure from his son; but the
disagreeable nature of its contents was the fault rather of the
parent than of the child. The writer intimated that certain money due
to him had not been paid with necessary punctuality, and that unless
he received it, he should instruct his lawyer to take some authorized
legal proceedings. Lord De Courcy had raised certain moneys on
the family property, which he could not have raised without the
co-operation of his heir, and had bound himself, in return for that
co-operation, to pay a certain fixed income to his eldest son. This
he regarded as an allowance from himself; but Lord Porlock regarded
it as his own, by lawful claim. The son had not worded his letter
with any affectionate phraseology. "Lord Porlock begs to inform Lord
De Courcy--" Such had been the commencement.

"I suppose he must have his money; else how can he live?" said the
countess, trembling.

"Live!" shouted the earl. "And so you think it proper that he should
write such a letter as that to his father!"

"It is all very unfortunate," she replied.

"I don't know where the money's to come from. As for him, if he were
starving, it would serve him right. He's a disgrace to the name and
the family. From all I hear, he won't live long."

"Oh, De Courcy, don't talk of it in that way!"

"What way am I to talk of it? If I say that he's my greatest comfort,
and living as becomes a nobleman, and is a fine healthy man of his
age, with a good wife and a lot of legitimate children, will that
make you believe it? Women are such fools. Nothing that I say will
make him worse than he is."

"But he may reform."

"Reform! He's over forty, and when I last saw him he looked nearly
sixty. There;--you may answer his letter; I won't."

"And about the money?"

"Why doesn't he write to Gazebee about his dirty money? Why does he
trouble me? I haven't got his money. Ask Gazebee about his money. I
won't trouble myself about it." Then there was another pause, during
which the countess folded the letter, and put it in her pocket.

"How long is George going to remain here with that woman?" he asked.

"I'm sure she is very harmless," pleaded the countess.

"I always think when I see her that I'm sitting down to dinner with
my own housemaid. I never saw such a woman. How he can put up with
it! But I don't suppose he cares for anything."

"It has made him very steady."

"Steady!"

"And as she will be confined before long it may be as well that she
should remain here. If Porlock doesn't marry, you know--"

"And so he means to live here altogether, does he? I'll tell you what
it is,--I won't have it. He's better able to keep a house over his
own head and his wife's than I am to do it for them, and so you may
tell them. I won't have it. D'ye hear?" Then there was another short
pause. "D'ye hear?" he shouted at her.

"Yes; of course I hear. I was only thinking you wouldn't wish me to
turn them out, just as her confinement is coming on."

"I know what that means. Then they'd never go. I won't have it; and
if you don't tell them I will." In answer to this Lady De Courcy
promised that she would tell them, thinking perhaps that the earl's
mode of telling might not be beneficial in that particular epoch
which was now coming in the life of Mrs. George.

"Did you know," said he, breaking out on a new subject, "that a man
had been here named Dale, calling on somebody in this house?" In
answer to which the countess acknowledged that she had known it.

"Then why did you keep it from me?" And that gnashing of the teeth
took place which was so specially objectionable to Mrs. George.

"It was a matter of no moment. He came to see Lady Julia De Guest."

"Yes; but he came about that man Crosbie."

"I suppose he did."

"Why have you let that girl be such a fool? You'll find he'll play
her some knave's trick."

"Oh dear, no."

"And why should she want to marry such a man as that?"

"He's quite a gentleman, you know, and very much thought of in the
world. It won't be at all bad for her, poor thing. It is so very hard
for a girl to get married now-a-days without money."

"And so they're to take up with anybody. As far as I can see, this is
a worse affair than that of Amelia."

"Amelia has done very well, my dear."

"Oh, if you call it doing well for your girls, I don't. I call it
doing uncommon badly; about as bad as they well can do. But it's your
affair. I have never meddled with them, and don't intend to do it
now."

"I really think she'll be happy, and she is devotedly attached to the
young man."

"Devotedly attached to the young man!" The tone and manner in which
the earl repeated these words were such as to warrant an opinion that
his lordship might have done very well on the stage had his attention
been called to that profession. "It makes me sick to hear people
talk in that way. She wants to get married, and she's a fool for her
pains;--I can't help that; only remember that I'll have no nonsense
here about that other girl. If he gives me trouble of that sort, by
----, I'll be the death of him. When is the marriage to be?"


[ILLUSTRATION: "Devotedly attached to the young man!"]


"They talk of February."

"I won't have any tomfoolery and expense. If she chooses to marry a
clerk in an office, she shall marry him as clerks are married."

"He'll be the secretary before that, De Courcy."

"What difference does that make? Secretary, indeed! What sort of
men do you suppose secretaries are? A beggar that came from nobody
knows where! I won't have any tomfoolery;--d'ye hear?" Whereupon
the countess said that she did hear, and soon afterwards managed to
escape. The valet then took his turn; and repeated, after his hour
of service, that "Old Nick" in his tantrums had been more like the
Prince of Darkness than ever.




CHAPTER XXVII.

"ON MY HONOUR, I DO NOT UNDERSTAND IT."


In the meantime Lady Alexandrina endeavoured to realize to herself
all the advantages and disadvantages of her own position. She was not
possessed of strong affections, nor of depth of character, nor of
high purpose; but she was no fool, nor was she devoid of principle.
She had asked herself many times whether her present life was so
happy as to make her think that a permanent continuance in it would
suffice for her desires, and she had always replied to herself that
she would fain change to some other life if it were possible. She
had also questioned herself as to her rank, of which she was quite
sufficiently proud, and had told herself that she could not degrade
herself in the world without a heavy pang. But she had at last taught
herself to believe that she had more to gain by becoming the wife of
such a man as Crosbie than by remaining as an unmarried daughter of
her father's house. There was much in her sister Amelia's position
which she did not envy, but there was less to envy in that of her
sister Rosina. The Gazebee house in St. John's Wood Road was not
so magnificent as Courcy Castle; but then it was less dull, less
embittered by torment, and was moreover her sister's own.

"Very many do marry commoners," she had said to Margaretta.

"Oh, yes, of course. It makes a difference, you know, when a man has
a fortune."

Of course it did make a difference. Crosbie had no fortune, was not
even so rich as Mr. Gazebee, could keep no carriage, and would have
no country house. But then he was a man of fashion, was more thought
of in the world than Mr. Gazebee, might probably rise in his own
profession,--and was at any rate thoroughly presentable. She would
have preferred a gentleman with L5,000 a year; but then as no
gentleman with L5,000 a year came that way, would she not be happier
with Mr. Crosbie than she would be with no husband at all? She was
not very much in love with Mr. Crosbie, but she thought that she
could live with him comfortably, and that on the whole it would be a
good thing to be married.

And she made certain resolves as to the manner in which she would do
her duty by her husband. Her sister Amelia was paramount in her own
house, ruling indeed with a moderate, endurable dominion, and ruling
much to her husband's advantage. Alexandrina feared that she would
not be allowed to rule, but she could at any rate try. She would do
all in her power to make him comfortable, and would be specially
careful not to irritate him by any insistence on her own higher rank.
She would be very meek in this respect; and if children should come
she would be as painstaking about them as though her own father had
been merely a clergyman or a lawyer. She thought also much about
poor Lilian Dale, asking herself sundry questions, with an idea of
being high-principled as to her duty in that respect. Was she wrong
in taking Mr. Crosbie away from Lilian Dale? In answer to these
questions she was able to assure herself comfortably that she was
not wrong. Mr. Crosbie would not, under any circumstances, marry
Lilian Dale. He had told her so more than once, and that in a solemn
way. She could therefore be doing no harm to Lilian Dale. If she
entertained any inner feeling that Crosbie's fault in jilting Lilian
Dale was less than it would have been had she herself not been an
earl's daughter,--that her own rank did in some degree extenuate her
lover's falseness,--she did not express it in words even to herself.

She did not get very much sympathy from her own family. "I'm afraid
he does not think much of his religious duties. I'm told that young
men of that sort seldom do," said Rosina. "I don't say you're wrong,"
said Margaretta. "By no means. Indeed I think less of it now than
I did when Amelia did the same thing. I shouldn't do it myself,
that's all." Her father told her that he supposed she knew her own
mind. Her mother, who endeavoured to comfort and in some sort to
congratulate her, nevertheless, harped constantly on the fact that
she was marrying a man without rank and without a fortune. Her
congratulations were apologetic, and her comfortings took the guise
of consolation. "Of course you won't be rich, my dear; but I really
think you'll do very well. Mr. Crosbie may be received anywhere, and
you never need be ashamed of him." By which the countess implied that
her elder married daughter was occasionally called on to be ashamed
of her husband. "I wish he could keep a carriage for you, but perhaps
that will come some day." Upon the whole Alexandrina did not repent,
and stoutly told her father that she did know her own mind.

During all this time Lily Dale was as yet perfect in her happiness.
That delay of a day or two in the receipt of the expected letter from
her lover had not disquieted her. She had promised him that she would
not distrust him, and she was firmly minded to keep her promises.
Indeed no idea of breaking it came to her at this time. She was
disappointed when the postman would come and bring no letter for
her,--disappointed, as is the husbandman when the longed-for rain
does not come to refresh the parched earth; but she was in no degree
angry. "He will explain it," she said to herself. And she assured
Bell that men never recognized the hunger and thirst after letters
which women feel when away from those whom they love.

Then they heard at the Small House that the squire had gone away from
Allington. During the last few days Bernard had not been much with
them, and now they heard the news, not through their cousin, but
from Hopkins. "I really can't undertake to say, Miss Bell, where the
master's gone to. It's not likely the master'd tell me where he was
going to; not unless it was about seeds, or the likes of that."

"He has gone very suddenly," said Bell.

"Well, miss, I've nothing to say to that. And why shouldn't he go
sudden if he likes? I only know he had his gig, and went to the
station. If you was to bury me alive I couldn't tell you more."

"I should like to try," said Lily as they walked away. "He is such a
cross old thing. I wonder whether Bernard has gone with my uncle."
And then they thought no more about it.

On the day after that Bernard came down to the Small House, but he
said nothing by way of accounting for the squire's absence. "He is in
London, I know," said Bernard.

"I hope he'll call on Mr. Crosbie," said Lily. But on this subject
Bernard said not a word. He did ask Lily whether she had heard from
Adolphus, in answer to which she replied, with as indifferent a voice
as she could assume, that she had not had a letter that morning.

"I shall be angry with him if he's not a good correspondent," said
Mrs. Dale, when she and Lily were alone together.

"No, mamma, you mustn't be angry with him. I won't let you be angry
with him. Please to remember he's my lover and not yours."

"But I can see you when you watch for the postman."

"I won't watch for the postman any more if it makes you have bad
thoughts about him. Yes, they are bad thoughts. I won't have you
think that he doesn't do everything that is right."

On the next morning the postman brought a letter, or rather a note,
and Lily at once saw that it was from Crosbie. She had contrived to
intercept it near the back door, at which the postman called, so that
her mother should not watch her watchings, nor see her disappointment
if none should come. "Thank you, Jane," she said, very calmly, when
the eager, kindly girl ran to her with the little missive; and she
walked off to some solitude, trying to hide her impatience. The note
had seemed so small that it amazed her; but when she opened it the
contents amazed her more. There was neither beginning nor end. There
was no appellation of love, and no signature. It contained but two
lines. "I will write to you at length to-morrow. This is my first
day in London, and I have been so driven about that I cannot write."
That was all, and it was scrawled on half a sheet of note-paper. Why,
at any rate, had he not called her his dearest Lily? Why had he not
assured her that he was ever her own? Such expressions, meaning so
much, may be conveyed in a glance of the pen. "Ah," she said, "if he
knew how I hunger and thirst after his love!"

She had but a moment left to her before she must join her mother and
sister, and she used that moment in remembering her promise. "I know
it is all right," she said to herself. "He does not think of these
things as I do. He had to write at the last moment,--as he was
leaving his office." And then with a quiet, smiling face, she walked
into the breakfast-parlour.

"What does he say, Lily?" asked Bell.

"What would you give to know?" said Lily.

"I wouldn't give twopence for the whole of it," said Bell.

"When you get anybody to write to you letters, I wonder whether
you'll show them to everybody?"

"But if there's any special London news, I suppose we might hear it,"
said Mrs. Dale.

"But suppose there's no special London news, mamma. The poor man had
only been in town one day, you know: and there never is any news at
this time of the year."

"Had he seen uncle Christopher?"

"I don't think he had; but he doesn't say. We shall get all the news
from him when he comes. He cares much more about London news than
Adolphus does." And then there was no more said about the letter.

But Lily had read her two former letters over and over again at the
breakfast-table; and though she had not read them aloud, she had
repeated many words out of them, and had so annotated upon them that
her mother, who had heard her, could have almost re-written them.
Now, she did not even show the paper; and then her absence, during
which she had read the letter, had hardly exceeded a minute or two.
All this Mrs. Dale observed, and she knew that her daughter had been
again disappointed.

In fact that day Lily was very serious, but she did not appear to
be unhappy. Early after breakfast Bell went over to the parsonage,
and Mrs. Dale and her youngest daughter sat together over their work.
"Mamma," she said, "I hope you and I are not to be divided when I go
to live in London."

"We shall never be divided in heart, my love."

"Ah, but that will not be enough for happiness, though perhaps enough
to prevent absolute unhappiness. I shall want to see you, touch you,
and pet you as I do now." And she came and knelt on the cushion at
her mother's feet.

"You will have some one else to caress and pet,--perhaps many
others."

"Do you mean to say that you are going to throw me off, mamma?"

"God forbid, my darling. It is not mothers that throw off their
children. What shall I have left when you and Bell are gone from me?"

"But we will never be gone. That's what I mean. We are to be just the
same to you always, even though we are married. I must have my right
to be here as much as I have it now; and, in return, you shall have
your right to be there. His house must be a home to you,--not a cold
place which you may visit now and again, with your best clothes on.
You know what I mean, when I say that we must not be divided."

"But Lily--"

"Well, mamma?"

"I have no doubt we shall be happy together,--you and I."

"But you were going to say more than that."

"Only this,--that your house will be his house, and will be full
without me. A daughter's marriage is always a painful parting."

"Is it, mamma?"

"Not that I would have it otherwise than it is. Do not think that I
would wish to keep you at home with me. Of course you will both marry
and leave me. I hope that he to whom you are going to devote yourself
may be spared to love you and protect you." Then the widow's heart
became too full, and she put away her child from her that she might
hide her face.

"Mamma, mamma, I wish I was not going from you."

"No, Lily; do not say that. I should not be contented with life if
I did not see both my girls married. I think that it is the only lot
which can give to a woman perfect content and satisfaction. I would
have you both married. I should be the most selfish being alive if I
wished otherwise."

"Bell will settle herself near you, and then you will see more of her
and love her better than you do me."

"I shall not love her better."

"I wish she would marry some London man, and then you would come with
us, and be near to us. Do you know, mamma, I sometimes think you
don't like this place here."

"Your uncle has been very kind to give it to us."

"I know he has; and we have been very happy here. But if Bell should
leave you--"

"Then should I go also. Your uncle has been very kind, but I
sometimes feel that his kindness is a burden which I should not be
strong enough to bear solely on my own shoulders. And what should
keep me here, then?" Mrs. Dale as she said this felt that the "here"
of which she spoke extended beyond the limits of the home which
she held through the charity of her brother-in-law. Might not all
the world, as far as she was concerned in it, be contained in that
"here"? How was she to live if both her children should be taken
away from her? She had already realized the fact that Crosbie's
house could never be a home to her,--never even a temporary home.
Her visits there must be of that full-dressed nature to which Lily
had alluded. It was impossible that she could explain this to Lily.
She would not prophesy that the hero of her girl's heart would be
inhospitable to his wife's mother; but such had been her reading
of Crosbie's character. Alas, alas, as matters were to go, his
hospitality or inhospitality would be matter of small moment to them.

Again in the afternoon the two sisters were together, and Lily was
still more serious than her wont. It might almost have been gathered
from her manner that this marriage of hers was about to take place at
once, and that she was preparing to leave her home. "Bell," she said,
"I wonder why Dr. Crofts never comes to see us now?"

"It isn't a month since he was here, at our party."

"A month! But there was a time when he made some pretext for being
here every other day."

"Yes, when mamma was ill."

"Ay, and since mamma was well, too. But I suppose I must not break
the promise you made me give you. He's not to be talked about even
yet, is he?"

"I didn't say he was not to be talked about. You know what I meant,
Lily; and what I meant then, I mean now."

"And how long will it be before you mean something else? I do hope it
will come some day,--I do indeed."

"It never will, Lily. I once fancied that I cared for Dr. Crofts, but
it was only fancy. I know it, because--" She was going to explain
that her knowledge on that point was assured to her, because since
that day she had felt that she might have learned to love another
man. But that other man had been Mr. Crosbie, and so she stopped
herself.

"I wish he would come and ask you himself."

"He will never do so. He would never ask such a question without
encouragement, and I shall give him none. Nor will he ever think of
marrying till he can do so without,--without what he thinks to be
imprudence as regards money. He has courage enough to be poor himself
without unhappiness, but he has not courage to endure poverty with a
wife. I know well what his feelings are."

"Well, we shall see," said Lily. "I shouldn't wonder if you were
married first now, Bell. For my part I'm quite prepared to wait for
three years."

Late on that evening the squire returned to Allington, Bernard having
driven over to meet him at the station. He had telegraphed to his
nephew that he would be back by a late train, and no more than this
had been heard from him since he went. On that day Bernard had seen
none of the ladies at the Small House. With Bell at the present
moment it was impossible that he should be on easy terms. He could
not meet her alone without recurring to the one special subject of
interest between them, and as to that he did not choose to speak
without much forethought. He had not known himself, when he had gone
about his wooing so lightly, thinking it a slight thing, whether or
no he might be accepted. Now it was no longer a slight thing to him.
I do not know that it was love that made him so eager; not good,
honest, downright love. But he had set his heart upon the object, and
with the wilfulness of a Dale was determined that it should be his.
He had no remotest idea of giving up his cousin, but he had at last
persuaded himself that she was not to be won without some toil, and
perhaps also some delay.

Nor had he been in a humour to talk either to Mrs. Dale or to Lily.
He feared that Lady Julia's news was true,--that at any rate there
might be in it something of truth; and while thus in doubt he could
not go down to the Small House. So he hung about the place by
himself, with a cigar in his mouth, fearing that something evil was
going to happen, and when the message came for him, almost shuddered
as he seated himself in the gig. What would it become him to do
in this emergency if Crosbie had truly been guilty of the villany
with which Lady Julia had charged him? Thirty years ago he would
have called the man out, and shot at him till one of them was hit.
Now-a-days it was hardly possible for a man to do that; and yet what
would the world say of him if he allowed such an injury as this to
pass without vengeance?

His uncle, as he came forth from the station with his travelling-bag
in his hand, was stern, gloomy, and silent. He came out and took his
place in the gig almost without speaking. There were strangers about,
and therefore his nephew at first could ask no question, but as the
gig turned the corner out of the station-house yard he demanded the
news.

"What have you heard?" he said.

But even then the squire did not answer at once. He shook his
head, and turned away his face, as though he did not choose to be
interrogated.

"Have you seen him, sir?" asked Bernard.

"No, he has not dared to see me."

"Then it is true?"

"True?--yes, it is all true. Why did you bring the scoundrel here? It
has been your fault."

"No, sir; I must contradict that. I did not know him for a
scoundrel."

"But it was your duty to have known him before you brought him here
among them. Poor girl! how is she to be told?"

"Then she does not know it?"

"I fear not. Have you seen them?"

"I saw them yesterday, and she did not know it then; she may have
heard it to-day."

"I don't think so. I believe he has been too great a coward to write
to her. A coward indeed! How can any man find the courage to write
such a letter as that?"

By degrees the squire told his tale. How he had gone to Lady Julia,
had made his way to London, had tracked Crosbie to his club, and had
there learned the whole truth from Crosbie's friend, Fowler Pratt, we
already know. "The coward escaped me while I was talking to the man
he sent down," said the squire. "It was a concerted plan, and I think
he was right. I should have brained him in the hall of the club."
On the following morning Pratt had called upon him at his inn with
Crosbie's apology. "His apology!" said the squire. "I have it in my
pocket. Poor reptile; wretched worm of a man! I cannot understand
it. On my honour, Bernard, I do not understand it. I think men are
changed since I knew much of them. It would have been impossible for
me to write such a letter as that." He went on telling how Pratt had
brought him this letter, and had stated that Crosbie declined an
interview. "The gentleman had the goodness to assure me that no good
could come from such a meeting. 'You mean,' I answered, 'that I
cannot touch pitch and not be defiled!' He acknowledged that the man
was pitch. Indeed, he could not say a word for his friend."

"I know Pratt. He is a gentleman. I am sure he would not excuse him."

"Excuse him! How could any one excuse him? Words could not be found
to excuse him." And then he sat silent for some half mile. "On my
honour, Bernard, I can hardly yet bring myself to believe it. It is
so new to me. It makes me feel that the world is changed, and that it
is no longer worth a man's while to live in it."

"And he is engaged to this other girl?"

"Oh, yes; with the full consent of the family. It is all arranged,
and the settlements, no doubt, in the lawyer's hands by this time. He
must have gone away from here determined to throw her over. Indeed,
I don't suppose he ever meant to marry her. He was just passing away
his time here in the country."

"He meant it up to the time of his leaving."

"I don't think it. Had he found me able and willing to give her a
fortune he might, perhaps, have married her. But I don't think he
meant it for a moment after I told him that she would have nothing.
Well, here we are. I may truly say that I never before came back to
my own house with so sore a heart."

They sat silently over their supper, the squire showing more open
sorrow than might have been expected from his character. "What am
I to say to them in the morning?" he repeated over and over again.
"How am I to do it? And if I tell the mother, how is she to tell her
child?"

"Do you think that he has given no intimation of his purpose?"

"As far as I can tell, none. That man Pratt knew that he had not done
so yesterday afternoon. I asked him what were the intentions of his
blackguard friend, and he said that he did not know--that Crosbie
would probably have written to me. Then he brought me this letter.
There it is," and the squire threw the letter over the table; "read
it and let me have it back. He thinks probably that the trouble is
now over as far as he is concerned."

It was a vile letter to have written--not because the language was
bad, or the mode of expression unfeeling, or the facts falsely
stated--but because the thing to be told was in itself so vile.
There are deeds which will not bear a gloss--sins as to which the
perpetrator cannot speak otherwise than as a reptile; circumstances
which change a man and put upon him the worthlessness of vermin.
Crosbie had struggled hard to write it, going home to do it after his
last interview on that night with Pratt. But he had sat moodily in
his chair at his lodgings, unable to take the pen in his hand. Pratt
was to come to him at his office on the following morning, and he
went to bed resolving that he would write it at his desk. On the next
day Pratt was there before a word of it had been written.

"I can't stand this kind of thing," said Pratt. "If you mean me to
take it, you must write it at once." Then, with inward groaning,
Crosbie sat himself at his table, and the words at last were
forthcoming. Such words as they were! "I know that I can have no
excuse to make to you--or to her. But, circumstanced as I now am,
the truth is the best. I feel that I should not make Miss Dale
happy; and, therefore, as an honest man, I think I best do my duty
by relinquishing the honour which she and you had proposed for me."
There was more of it, but we all know of what words such letters are
composed, and how men write when they feel themselves constrained to
write as reptiles.

"As an honest man!" repeated the squire. "On my honour, Bernard, as a
gentleman, I do not understand it. I cannot believe it possible that
the man who wrote that letter was sitting the other day as a guest at
my table."

"What are we to do to him?" said Bernard, after a while.

"Treat him as you would a rat. Throw your stick at him, if he comes
under your feet; but beware, above all things, that he does not get
into your house. That is too late for us now."

"There must be more than that, uncle."

"I don't know what more. There are deeds for committing which a
man is doubly damned, because he has screened himself from overt
punishment by the nature of his own villany. We have to remember
Lily's name, and do what may best tend to her comfort. Poor girl!
poor girl!"

Then they were silent, till the squire rose and took his bed candle.
"Bernard," he said, "let my sister-in-law know early to-morrow that
I will see her here, if she will be good enough to come to me after
breakfast. Do not have anything else said at the Small House. It may
be that he has written to-day."

Then the squire went to bed, and Bernard sat over the dining-room
fire, meditating on it all. How would the world expect that he should
behave to Crosbie? and what should he do when he met Crosbie at the
club?




CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE BOARD.


[ILLUSTRATION: (untitled)]

Crosbie, as we already know, went to his office in Whitehall on the
morning after his escape from Sebright's, at which establishment he
left the Squire of Allington in conference with Fowler Pratt. He had
seen Fowler Pratt again that same night, and the course of the story
will have shown what took place at that interview.

He went early to his office, knowing that he had before him the work
of writing two letters, neither of which would run very glibly from
his pen. One was to be his missive to the squire, to be delivered by
his friend; the other, that fatal epistle to poor Lily, which, as the
day passed away, he found himself utterly unable to accomplish. The
letter to the squire he did write, under certain threats; and, as we
have seen, was considered to have degraded himself to the vermin rank
of humanity by the meanness of his production.

But on reaching his office he found that other cares awaited
him,--cares which he would have taken much delight in bearing, had
the state of his mind enabled him to take delight in anything. On
entering the lobby of his office, at ten o'clock, he became aware
that he was received by the messengers assembled there with almost
more than their usual deference. He was always a great man at
the General Committee Office; but there are shades of greatness
and shades of deference, which, though quite beyond the powers
of definition, nevertheless manifest themselves clearly to the
experienced ear and eye. He walked through to his own apartment, and
there found two official letters addressed to him lying on his table.
The first which came to hand, though official, was small, and marked
private, and it was addressed in the handwriting of his old friend,
Butterwell, the outgoing secretary. "I shall see you in the morning,
nearly as soon as you get this," said the semi-official note; "but
I must be the first to congratulate you on the acquisition of my old
shoes. They will be very easy in the wearing to you, though they
pinched my corns a little at first. I dare say they want new soling,
and perhaps they are a little down at heels; but you will find some
excellent cobbler to make them all right, and will give them a grace
in the wearing which they have sadly lacked since they came into my
possession. I wish you much joy with them," &c., &c. He then opened
the larger official letter, but that had now but little interest for
him. He could have made a copy of the contents without seeing them.
The Board of Commissioners had had great pleasure in promoting him to
the office of secretary, vacated by the promotion of Mr. Butterwell
to a seat at their own Board; and then the letter was signed by Mr.
Butterwell himself.

How delightful to him would have been this welcome on his return
to his office had his heart in other respects been free from care!
And as he thought of this, he remembered all Lily's charms. He told
himself how much she excelled the noble scion of the De Courcy stock,
with whom he was now destined to mate himself; how the bride he
had rejected excelled the one he had chosen in grace, beauty, faith,
freshness, and all feminine virtues. If he could only wipe out the
last fortnight from the facts of his existence! But fortnights such
as those are not to be wiped out,--not even with many sorrowful years
of tedious scrubbing.

And at this moment it seemed to him as though all those impediments
which had frightened him when he had thought of marrying Lily Dale
were withdrawn. That which would have been terrible with seven or
eight hundred a year, would have been made delightful with twelve or
thirteen. Why had his fate been so unkind to him? Why had not this
promotion come to him but one fortnight earlier? Why had it not been
declared before he had made his visit to that terrible castle? He
even said to himself that if he had positively known the fact before
Pratt had seen Mr. Dale, he would have sent a different message to
the squire, and would have braved the anger of all the race of the De
Courcys. But in that he lied to himself, and he knew that he did so.
An earl, in his imagination, was hedged by so strong a divinity, that
his treason towards Alexandrina could do no more than peep at what
it would. It had been considered but little by him, when the project
first offered itself to his mind, to jilt the niece of a small rural
squire; but it was not in him to jilt the daughter of a countess.

That house full of babies in St. John's Wood appeared to him now
under a very different guise from that which it wore as he sat in his
room at Courcy Castle on the evening of his arrival there. Then such
an establishment had to him the flavour of a graveyard. It was as
though he were going to bury himself alive. Now that it was out of
his reach, he thought of it as a paradise upon earth. And then he
considered what sort of a paradise Lady Alexandrina would make for
him. It was astonishing how ugly was the Lady Alexandrina, how old,
how graceless, how destitute of all pleasant charm, seen through the
spectacles which he wore at the present moment.

During his first hour at the office he did nothing. One or two of the
younger clerks came in and congratulated him with much heartiness. He
was popular at his office, and they had got a step by his promotion.
Then he met one or two of the elder clerks, and was congratulated
with much less heartiness. "I suppose it's all right," said one bluff
old gentleman. "My time is gone by, I know. I married too early to be
able to wear a good coat when I was young, and I never was acquainted
with any lords or lords' families." The sting of this was the sharper
because Crosbie had begun to feel how absolutely useless to him had
been all that high interest and noble connection which he had formed.
He had really been promoted because he knew more about his work than
any of the other men, and Lady De Courcy's influential relation at
the India Board had not yet even had time to write a note upon the
subject.

At eleven Mr. Butterwell came into Crosbie's room, and the new
secretary was forced to clothe himself in smiles. Mr. Butterwell was
a pleasant, handsome man of about fifty, who had never yet set the
Thames on fire, and had never attempted to do so. He was perhaps a
little more civil to great men and a little more patronizing to those
below him than he would have been had he been perfect. But there
was something frank and English even in his mode of bowing before
the mighty ones, and to those who were not mighty he was rather too
civil than either stern or supercilious. He knew that he was not very
clever, but he knew also how to use those who were clever. He seldom
made any mistake, and was very scrupulous not to tread on men's
corns. Though he had no enemies, yet he had a friend or two; and we
may therefore say of Mr. Butterwell that he had walked his path in
life discreetly. At the age of thirty-five he had married a lady with
some little fortune, and now he lived a pleasant, easy, smiling life
in a villa at Putney. When Mr. Butterwell heard, as he often did
hear, of the difficulty which an English gentleman has of earning his
bread in his own country, he was wont to look back on his own career
with some complacency. He knew that he had not given the world much;
yet he had received largely, and no one had begrudged it to him.
"Tact," Mr. Butterwell used to say to himself, as he walked along the
paths of his Putney villa. "Tact. Tact. Tact."

"Crosbie," he said, as he entered the room cheerily, "I congratulate
you with all my heart. I do, indeed. You have got the step early in
life, and you deserve it thoroughly;--much better than I did when I
was appointed to the same office."

"Oh, no," said Crosbie, gloomily.

"But I say, Oh, yes. We are deuced lucky to have such a man, and so I
told the commissioners."

"I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you."

"I've known it all along,--before you left even. Sir Raffle Buffle
had told me he was to go to the Income-tax Office. The chair is two
thousand there, you know; and I had been promised the first seat at
the Board."

"Ah;--I wish I'd known," said Crosbie.

"You are much better as you are," said Butterwell. "There's no
pleasure like a surprise! Besides, one knows a thing of that kind,
and yet doesn't know it. I don't mind saying now that I knew
it,--swearing that I knew it,--but I wouldn't have said so to a
living being the day before yesterday. There are such slips between
the cups and the lips. Suppose Sir Raffle had not gone to the
Income-tax!"

"Exactly so," said Crosbie.

"But it's all right now. Indeed I sat at the Board yesterday, though
I signed the letter afterwards. I'm not sure that I don't lose more
than I gain."

"What! with three hundred a year more and less work?"

"Ah, but look at the interest of the thing. The secretary sees
everything and knows everything. But I'm getting old, and, as you
say, the lighter work will suit me. By the by, will you come down to
Putney to-morrow? Mrs. Butterwell will be delighted to see the new
secretary. There's nobody in town now, so you can have no ground for
refusing."

But Mr. Crosbie did find some ground for refusing. It would have been
impossible for him to have sat and smiled at Mrs. Butterwell's table
in his present frame of mind. In a mysterious, half-explanatory
manner, he let Mr. Butterwell know that private affairs of importance
made it absolutely necessary that he should remain that evening in
town. "And indeed," as he said, "he was not his own master just at
present."

"By the by,--of course not. I had quite forgotten to congratulate you
on that head. So you're going to be married? Well; I'm very glad, and
hope you'll be as lucky as I have been."

"Thank you," said Crosbie, again rather gloomily.

"A young lady from near Guestwick, isn't it; or somewhere in those
parts?"

"N--no," stammered Crosbie. "The lady comes from Barsetshire."

"Why, I heard the name. Isn't she a Bell, or Tait, or Ball, or some
such name as that?"

"No," said Crosbie, assuming what boldness he could command. "Her
name is De Courcy."

"One of the earl's daughters?"

"Yes," said Crosbie.

"Oh, I beg your pardon. I'd heard wrong. You're going to be allied
to a very noble family, and I am heartily glad to hear of your
success in life." Then Butterwell shook him very cordially by the
hand,--having offered him no such special testimony of approval when
under the belief that he was going to marry a Bell, a Tait, or a
Ball. All the same, Mr. Butterwell began to think that there was
something wrong. He had heard from an indubitable source that
Crosbie had engaged himself to a niece of a squire with whom he
had been staying near Guestwick,--a girl without any money; and Mr.
Butterwell, in his wisdom, had thought his friend Crosbie to be
rather a fool for his pains. But now he was going to marry one of the
De Courcys! Mr. Butterwell was rather at his wits' ends.

"Well; we shall be sitting at two, you know, and of course you'll
come to us. If you're at leisure before that I'll make over what
papers I have to you. I've not been a Lord Eldon in my office, and
they won't break your back."

Immediately after that Fowler Pratt had been shown into Crosbie's
room, and Crosbie had written the letter to the squire under Pratt's
eye.

He could take no joy in his promotion. When Pratt left him he tried
to lighten his heart. He endeavoured to throw Lily and her wrongs
behind him, and fix his thoughts on his advancing successes in life;
but he could not do it. A self-imposed trouble will not allow itself
to be banished. If a man lose a thousand pounds by a friend's fault,
or by a turn in the wheel of fortune, he can, if he be a man, put
his grief down and trample it under foot; he can exorcise the spirit
of his grievance, and bid the evil one depart from out of his house.
But such exorcism is not to be used when the sorrow has come from a
man's own folly and sin;--especially not if it has come from his own
selfishness. Such are the cases which make men drink; which drive
them on to the avoidance of all thought; which create gamblers and
reckless prodigals; which are the promoters of suicide. How could he
avoid writing this letter to Lily? He might blow his brains out, and
so let there be an end of it all. It was to such reflections that he
came, when he sat himself down endeavouring to reap satisfaction from
his promotion.

But Crosbie was not a man to commit suicide. In giving him his due I
must protest that he was too good for that. He knew too well that a
pistol-bullet could not be the be-all and the end-all here, and there
was too much manliness in him for so cowardly an escape. The burden
must be borne. But how was he to bear it? There he sat till it was
two o'clock, neglecting Mr. Butterwell and his office papers, and
not stirring from his seat till a messenger summoned him before the
Board. The Board, as he entered the room, was not such a Board as
the public may, perhaps, imagine such Boards to be. There was a
round table, with a few pens lying about, and a comfortable leathern
arm-chair at the side of it, farthest from the door. Sir Raffle
Buffle was leaving his late colleagues, and was standing with his
back to the fire-place, talking very loudly. Sir Raffle was a great
bully, and the Board was uncommonly glad to be rid of him; but as
this was to be his last appearance at the Committee Office, they
submitted to his voice meekly. Mr. Butterwell was standing close to
him, essaying to laugh mildly at Sir Raffle's jokes. A little man,
hardly more than five feet high, with small but honest-looking eyes,
and close-cut hair, was standing behind the arm-chair, rubbing his
hands together, and longing for the departure of Sir Raffle, in order
that he might sit down. This was Mr. Optimist, the new chairman,
in praise of whose appointment the Daily Jupiter had been so loud,
declaring that the present Minister was showing himself superior
to all Ministers who had ever gone before him, in giving promotion
solely on the score of merit. The Daily Jupiter, a fortnight since,
had published a very eloquent article, strongly advocating the claims
of Mr. Optimist, and was naturally pleased to find that its advice
had been taken. Has not an obedient Minister a right to the praise of
those powers which he obeys?


[ILLUSTRATION: The Board.]


Mr. Optimist was, in truth, an industrious little gentleman, very
well connected, who had served the public all his life, and who was,
at any rate, honest in his dealings. Nor was he a bully, such as his
predecessor. It might, however, be a question whether he carried
guns enough for the command in which he was now to be employed.
There was but one other member of the Board, Major Fiasco by name,
a discontented, broken-hearted, silent man, who had been sent to
the General Committee Office some few years before because he was
not wanted anywhere else. He was a man who had intended to do great
things when he entered public life, and had possessed the talent
and energy for things moderately great. He had also possessed to a
certain extent the ear of those high in office; but, in some way,
matters had not gone well with him, and in running his course he had
gone on the wrong side of the post. He was still in the prime of
life, and yet all men knew that Major Fiasco had nothing further to
expect from the public or from the Government. Indeed, there were not
wanting those who said that Major Fiasco was already in receipt of a
liberal income, for which he gave no work in return; that he merely
filled a chair for four hours a day four or five days a week, signing
his name to certain forms and documents, reading, or pretending to
read, certain papers, but, in truth, doing no good. Major Fiasco, on
the other hand, considered himself to be a deeply injured individual,
and he spent his life in brooding over his wrongs. He believed now
in nothing and in nobody. He had begun public life striving to be
honest, and he now regarded all around him as dishonest. He had no
satisfaction in any man other than that which he found when some
event would show to him that this or that other compeer of his own
had proved himself to be self-interested, false, or fraudulent.
"Don't tell me, Butterwell," he would say--for with Mr. Butterwell
he maintained some semi-official intimacy, and he would take that
gentleman by the button-hole, holding him close. "Don't tell me. I
know what men are. I've seen the world. I've been looking at things
with my eyes open. I knew what he was doing." And then he would
tell of the sly deed of some official known well to them both, not
denouncing it by any means, but affecting to take it for granted
that the man in question was a rogue. Butterwell would shrug his
shoulders, and laugh gently, and say that, upon his word, he didn't
think the world so bad as Fiasco made it out to be.

Nor did he; for Butterwell believed in many things. He believed
in his Putney villa on this earth, and he believed also that he
might achieve some sort of Putney villa in the world beyond without
undergoing present martyrdom. His Putney villa first, with all its
attendant comforts, and then his duty to the public afterwards. It
was thus that Mr. Butterwell regulated his conduct; and as he was
solicitous that the villa should be as comfortable a home to his wife
as to himself, and that it should be specially comfortable to his
friends, I do not think that we need quarrel with his creed.

Mr. Optimist believed in everything, but especially he believed in
the Prime Minister, in the Daily Jupiter, in the General Committee
Office, and in himself. He had long thought that everything was
nearly right; but now that he himself was chairman at the General
Committee Office, he was quite sure that everything must be right.
In Sir Raffle Buffle, indeed, he had never believed; and now it was,
perhaps, the greatest joy of his life that he should never again be
called upon to hear the tones of that terrible knight's hated voice.

Seeing who were the components of the new Board, it may be presumed
that Crosbie would look forward to enjoying a not uninfluential
position in his office. There were, indeed, some among the clerks who
did not hesitate to say that the new secretary would have it pretty
nearly all his own way. As for "Old Opt," there would be, they said,
no difficulty about him. Only tell him that such and such a decision
was his own, and he would be sure to believe the teller. Butterwell
was not fond of work, and had been accustomed to lean upon Crosbie
for many years. As for Fiasco, he would be cynical in words, but
wholly indifferent in deed. If the whole office were made to go to
the mischief, Fiasco, in his own grim way, would enjoy the confusion.

"Wish you joy, Crosbie," said Sir Raffle, standing up on the rug,
waiting for the new secretary to go up to him and shake hands. But
Sir Raffle was going, and the new secretary did not indulge him.

"Thank ye, Sir Raffle," said Crosbie, without going near the rug.

"Mr. Crosbie, I congratulate you most sincerely," said Mr. Optimist.
"Your promotion has been the result altogether of your own merit. You
have been selected for the high office which you are now called upon
to fill solely because it has been thought that you are the most
fit man to perform the onerous duties attached to it. Hum--h-m--ha.
As regards my share in the recommendation which we found ourselves
bound to submit to the Treasury, I must say that I never felt less
hesitation in my life, and I believe I may declare as much as regards
the other members of the Board." And Mr. Optimist looked around
him for approving words. He had come forward from his standing
ground behind his chair to welcome Crosbie, and had shaken his hand
cordially. Fiasco also had risen from his seat, and had assured
Crosbie in a whisper that he had feathered his nest uncommon well.
Then he had sat down again.

"Indeed you may, as far as I am concerned," said Butterwell.

"I told the Chancellor of the Exchequer," said Sir Raffle, speaking
very loud and with much authority, "that unless he had some
first-rate man to send from elsewhere I could name a fitting
candidate. 'Sir Raffle,' he said, 'I mean to keep it in the office,
and therefore shall be glad of your opinion.' 'In that case, Mr.
Chancellor,' said I, 'Mr. Crosbie must be the man.' 'Mr. Crosbie
shall be the man,' said the Chancellor. And Mr. Crosbie is the man."

"Your friend Sark spoke to Lord Brock about it," said Fiasco. Now the
Earl of Sark was a young nobleman of much influence at the present
moment, and Lord Brock was the Prime Minister. "You should thank Lord
Sark."

"Had as much to do with it as if my footman had spoken," said Sir
Raffle.

"I am very much obliged to the Board for their good opinion," said
Crosbie, gravely. "I am obliged to Lord Sark as well,--and also to
your footman, Sir Raffle, if, as you seem to say, he has interested
himself in my favour."

"I didn't say anything of the kind," said Sir Raffle. "I thought
it right to make you understand that it was my opinion, given, of
course, officially, which prevailed with the Chancellor of the
Exchequer. Well, gentlemen, as I shall be wanted in the city, I will
say good morning to you. Is my carriage ready, Boggs?" Upon which the
attendant messenger opened the door, and the great Sir Raffle Buffle
took his final departure from the scene of his former labours.

"As to the duties of your new office"--and Mr. Optimist continued his
speech, taking no other notice of the departure of his enemy than
what was indicated by an increased brightness of his eye and a more
satisfactory tone of voice--"you will find yourself quite familiar
with them."

"Indeed he will," said Butterwell.

"And I am quite sure that you will perform them with equal credit
to yourself, satisfaction to the department, and advantage to the
public. We shall always be glad to have your opinion on any subject
of importance that may come before us; and as regards the internal
discipline of the office, we feel that we may leave it safely in your
hands. In any matter of importance you will, of course, consult us,
and I feel very confident that we shall go on together with great
comfort and with mutual confidence." Then Mr. Optimist looked at his
brother commissioners, sat down in his arm-chair, and taking in his
hands some papers before him, began the routine business of the day.

It was nearly five o'clock when, on this special occasion, the
secretary returned from the board-room to his own office. Not for
a moment had the weight been off his shoulders while Sir Raffle
had been bragging or Mr. Optimist making his speech. He had been
thinking, not of them, but of Lily Dale; and though they had not
discovered his thoughts, they had perceived that he was hardly like
himself.

"I never saw a man so little elated by good fortune in my life," said
Mr. Optimist.

"Ah, he's got something on his mind," said Butterwell. "He's going to
be married, I believe."

"If that's the case, it's no wonder he shouldn't be elated," said
Major Fiasco, who was himself a bachelor.

When in his own room again, Crosbie at once seized on a sheet of
note-paper, as though by hurrying himself on with it he could get
that letter to Allington written. But though the paper was before
him, and the pen in his hand, the letter did not, would not, get
itself written. With what words was he to begin it? To whom should it
be written? How was he to declare himself the villain which he had
made himself? The letters from his office were taken away every night
shortly after six, and at six o'clock he had not written a word. "I
will do it at home to-night," he said to himself, and then, tearing
off a scrap of paper, he scratched those few lines which Lily
received, and which she had declined to communicate to her mother or
sister. Crosbie, as he wrote them, conceived that they would in some
way prepare the poor girl for the coming blow,--that they would, at
any rate, make her know that all was not right; but in so supposing
he had not counted on the constancy of her nature, nor had he thought
of the promise which she had given him that nothing should make her
doubt him. He wrote the scrap, and then taking his hat walked off
through the gloom of the November evening up Charing Cross and St.
Martin's Lane, towards the Seven Dials and Bloomsbury, into regions
of the town with which he had no business, and which he never
frequented. He hardly knew where he went or wherefore. How was he
to escape from the weight of the burden which was now crushing
him? It seemed to him as though he would change his position with
thankfulness for that of the junior clerk in his office, if only that
junior clerk had upon his mind no such betrayal of trust as that of
which he was guilty.

At half-past seven he found himself at Sebright's, and there he
dined. A man will dine, even though his heart be breaking. Then he
got into a cab, and had himself taken home to Mount Street. During
his walk he had sworn to himself that he would not go to bed that
night till the letter was written and posted. It was twelve before
the first words were marked on the paper, and yet he kept his oath.
Between two and three, in the cold moonlight, he crawled out and
deposited his letter in the nearest post-office.





CHAPTER XXIX.

JOHN EAMES RETURNS TO BURTON CRESCENT.


John Eames and Crosbie returned to town on the same day. It will be
remembered how Eames had assisted Lord De Guest in the matter of the
bull, and how great had been the earl's gratitude on the occasion.
The memory of this, and the strong encouragement which he received
from his mother and sister for having made such a friend by his
gallantry, lent some slight satisfaction to his last hours at home.
But his two misfortunes were too serious to allow of anything like
real happiness. He was leaving Lily behind him, engaged to be married
to a man whom he hated, and he was returning to Burton Crescent,
where he would have to face Amelia Roper,--Amelia either in her rage
or in her love. The prospect of Amelia in her rage was very terrible
to him; but his greatest fear was of Amelia in her love. He had in
his letter declined matrimony; but what if she talked down all his
objections, and carried him off to church in spite of himself!

When he reached London and got into a cab with his portmanteau, he
could hardly fetch up courage to bid the man drive him to Burton
Crescent. "I might as well go to an hotel for the night," he said to
himself, "and then I can learn how things are going on from Cradell
at the office." Nevertheless, he did give the direction to Burton
Crescent, and when it was once given felt ashamed to change it. But,
as he was driven up to the well-known door, his heart was so low
within him that he might almost be said to have lost it. When the
cabman demanded whether he should knock, he could not answer; and
when the maid-servant at the door greeted him, he almost ran away.

"Who's at home?" said he, asking the question in a very low voice.

"There's missus," said the girl, "and Miss Spruce, and Mrs. Lupex.
He's away somewhere, in his tantrums again; and there's Mr.--"

"Is Miss Roper here?" he said, still whispering.

"Oh, yes! Miss Mealyer's here," said the girl, speaking in a cruelly
loud voice. "She was in the dining-room just now, putting out the
table. Miss Mealyer!" And the girl, as she called out the name,
opened the dining-room door. Johnny Eames felt that his knees were
too weak to support him.

But Miss Mealyer was not in the dining-room. She had perceived the
advancing cab of her sworn adorer, and had thought it expedient to
retreat from her domestic duties, and fortify herself among her
brushes and ribbons. Had it been possible that she should know how
very weak and cowardly was the enemy against whom she was called upon
to put herself in action, she might probably have fought her battle
somewhat differently, and have achieved a speedy victory, at the cost
of an energetic shot or two. But she did not know. She thought it
probable that she might obtain power over him and manage him; but it
did not occur to her that his legs were so weak beneath him that she
might almost blow him over with a breath. None but the worst and most
heartless of women know the extent of their own power over men;--as
none but the worst and most heartless of men know the extent of their
power over women. Amelia Roper was not a good specimen of the female
sex, but there were worse women than her.

"She ain't there, Mr. Eames; but you'll see her in the drawen-room,"
said the girl. "And it's she'll be glad to see you back again,
Mr. Eames." But he scrupulously passed the door of the upstairs
sitting-room, not even looking within it, and contrived to get
himself into his own chamber without having encountered anybody.
"Here's yer 'ot water, Mr. Eames," said the girl, coming up to him
after an interval of half-an-hour; "and dinner'll be on the table in
ten minutes. Mr. Cradell is come in, and so is missus's son."

It was still open to him to go out and dine at some eating-house in
the Strand. He could start out, leaving word that he was engaged,
and so postpone the evil hour. He had almost made up his mind to
do so, and certainly would have done it, had not the sitting-room
door opened as he was on the landing-place. The door opened, and he
found himself confronting the assembled company. First came Cradell,
and leaning on his arm, I regret to say, was Mrs. Lupex,--_Egyptia
conjux!_ Then there came Miss Spruce with young Roper; Amelia and her
mother brought up the rear together. There was no longer question of
flight now; and poor Eames, before he knew what he was doing, was
carried down into the dining-room with the rest of the company. They
were all glad to see him, and welcomed him back warmly, but he was
so much beside himself that he could not ascertain whether Amelia's
voice was joined with the others. He was already seated at table, and
had before him a plate of soup, before he recognized the fact that he
was sitting between Mrs. Roper and Mrs. Lupex. The latter lady had
separated herself from Mr. Cradell as she entered the room. "Under
all the circumstances perhaps it will be better for us to be apart,"
she said. "A lady can't make herself too safe; can she, Mrs. Roper?
There's no danger between you and me, is there, Mr. Eames,--specially
when Miss Amelia is opposite?" The last words, however, were intended
to be whispered into his ear.

But Johnny made no answer to her; contenting himself for the moment
with wiping the perspiration from his brow. There was Amelia opposite
to him, looking at him--the very Amelia to whom he had written,
declining the honour of marrying her. Of what her mood towards him
might be, he could form no judgment from her looks. Her face was
simply stern and impassive, and she seemed inclined to eat her dinner
in silence. A slight smile of derision had passed across her face as
she heard Mrs. Lupex whisper, and it might have been discerned that
her nose, at the same time, became somewhat elevated; but she said
not a word.

"I hope you've enjoyed yourself, Mr. Eames, among the vernal beauties
of the country," said Mrs. Lupex.

"Very much, thank you," he replied.

"There's nothing like the country at this autumnal season of the
year. As for myself, I've never been accustomed to remain in London
after the breaking up of the _beau monde_. We've usually been to
Broadstairs, which is a very charming place, with most elegant
society, but now--" and she shook her head, by which all the company
knew that she intended to allude to the sins of Mr. Lupex.

"I'd never wish to sleep out of London for my part," said Mrs. Roper.
"When a woman's got a house over her head, I don't think her mind's
ever easy out of it."

She had not intended any reflection on Mrs. Lupex for not having a
house of her own, but that lady immediately bristled up. "That's
just what the snails say, Mrs. Roper. And as for having a house of
one's own, it's a very good thing, no doubt, sometimes; but that's
according to circumstances. It has suited me lately to live in
lodgings, but there's no knowing whether I mayn't fall lower than
that yet, and have--" but here she stopped herself, and looking over
at Mr. Cradell nodded her head.

"And have to let them," said Mrs. Roper. "I hope you'll be more lucky
with your lodgers than I have been with some of mine. Jemima, hand
the potatoes to Miss Spruce. Miss Spruce, do let me send you a little
more gravy? There's plenty here, really." Mrs. Roper was probably
thinking of Mr. Todgers.

"I hope I shall," said Mrs. Lupex. "But, as I was saying, Broadstairs
is delightful. Were you ever at Broadstairs, Mr. Cradell?"

"Never, Mrs. Lupex. I generally go abroad in my leave. One sees more
of the world, you know. I was at Dieppe last June, and found that
very delightful--though rather lonely. I shall go to Ostend this
year; only December is so late for Ostend. It was a deuced shame my
getting December, wasn't it, Johnny?"

"Yes, it was," said Eames. "I managed better."

"And what have you been doing, Mr. Eames?" said Mrs. Lupex, with one
of her sweetest smiles. "Whatever it may have been, you've not been
false to the cause of beauty, I'm sure." And she looked over to
Amelia with a knowing smile. But Amelia was engaged upon her plate,
and went on with her dinner without turning her eyes either on Mrs.
Lupex or on John Eames.

"I haven't done anything particular," said Eames. "I've just been
staying with my mother."

"We've been very social here, haven't we, Miss Amelia?" continued
Mrs. Lupex. "Only now and then a cloud comes across the heavens,
and the lights at the banquet are darkened." Then she put her
handkerchief up to her eyes, sobbing deeply, and they all knew that
she was again alluding to the sins of her husband.

As soon as dinner was over the ladies with young Mr. Roper retired,
and Eames and Cradell were left to take their wine over the
dining-room fire,--or their glass of gin and water, as it might be.
"Well, Caudle, old fellow," said one. "Well, Johnny, my boy," said
the other. "What's the news at the office?" said Eames.

"Muggeridge has been playing the very mischief." Muggeridge was the
second clerk in Cradell's room. "We're going to put him into Coventry
and not speak to him except officially. But to tell you the truth,
my hands have been so full here at home, that I haven't thought much
about the office. What am I to do about that woman?"

"Do about her? How do about her?"

"Yes; what am I to do about her? How am I to manage with her? There's
Lupex off again in one of his fits of jealousy."

"But it's not your fault, I suppose?"

"Well; I can't just say. I am fond of her, and that's the long and
the short of it; deuced fond of her."

"But, my dear Caudle, you know she's that man's wife."

"Oh, yes, I know all about it. I'm not going to defend myself. It's
wrong, I know,--pleasant, but wrong. But what's a fellow to do? I
suppose in strict morality I ought to leave the lodgings. But, by
George, I don't see why a man's to be turned out in that way. And
then I couldn't make a clean score with old mother Roper. But I say,
old fellow, who gave you the gold chain?"

"Well; it was an old family friend at Guestwick; or rather, I should
say, a man who said he knew my father."

"And he gave you that because he knew your governor! Is there a watch
to it?"

"Yes, there's a watch. It wasn't exactly that. There was some trouble
about a bull. To tell the truth, it was Lord De Guest; the queerest
fellow, Caudle, you ever met in your life; but such a trump. I've got
to go and dine with him at Christmas." And then the old story of the
bull was told.

"I wish I could find a lord in a field with a bull," said Cradell. We
may, however, be permitted to doubt whether Mr. Cradell would have
earned a watch even if he had had his wish.

"You see," continued Cradell, reverting to the subject on which
he most delighted to talk, "I'm not responsible for that man's
ill-conduct."

"Does anybody say you are?"

"No; nobody says so. But people seem to think so. When he is by I
hardly speak to her. She is thoughtless and giddy, as women are, and
takes my arm, and that kind of thing, you know. It makes him mad with
rage, but upon my honour I don't think she means any harm."

"I don't suppose she does," said Eames.

"Well; she may or she mayn't. I hope with all my heart she doesn't."

"And where is he now?"

"This is between ourselves, you know; but she went to find him
this afternoon. Unless he gives her money she can't stay here, nor,
for the matter of that, will she be able to go away. If I mention
something to you, you won't tell any one?"

"Of course I won't."

"I wouldn't have it known to any one for the world. I've lent her
seven pounds ten. It's that which makes me so short with mother
Roper."

"Then I think you're a fool for your pains."

"Ah, that's so like you. I always said you'd no feeling of real
romance. If I cared for a woman I'd give her the coat off my back."

"I'd do better than that," said Johnny. "I'd give her the heart
out of my body. I'd be chopped up alive for a girl I loved; but it
shouldn't be for another man's wife."

"That's a matter of taste. But she's been to Lupex to-day at that
house he goes to in Drury Lane. She had a terrible scene there. He
was going to commit suicide in the middle of the street, and she
declares that it all comes from jealousy. Think what a time I have
of it--standing always, as one may say, on gunpowder. He may turn
up here any moment, you know. But, upon my word, for the life of me
I cannot desert her. If I were to turn my back on her she wouldn't
have a friend in the world. And how's L. D.? I'll tell you what it
is--you'll have some trouble with the divine Amelia."

"Shall I?"

"By Jove, you will. But how's L. D. all this time?"

"L. D. is engaged to be married to a man named Adolphus Crosbie,"
said poor Johnny, slowly. "If you please, we will not say any more
about her."

"Whew--w--w! That's what makes you so down in the mouth! L. D. going
to marry Crosbie! Why, that's the man who is to be the new secretary
at the General Committee Office. Old Huffle Scuffle, who was their
chair, has come to us, you know. There's been a general move at the
G. C., and this Crosbie has got to be secretary. He's a lucky chap,
isn't he?"

"I don't know anything about his luck. He's one of those fellows that
make me hate them the first time I look at them. I've a sort of a
feeling that I shall live to kick him some day."

"That's the time, is it? Then I suppose Amelia will have it all her
own way now."

"I'll tell you what, Caudle. I'd sooner get up through the trap-door,
and throw myself off the roof into the area, than marry Amelia
Roper."

"Have you and she had any conversation since you came back?"

"Not a word."

"Then I tell you fairly you've got trouble before you. Amelia and
Maria--Mrs. Lupex, I mean--are as thick as thieves just at present,
and they have been talking you over. Maria--that is, Mrs. Lupex--lets
it all out to me. You'll have to mind where you are, old fellow."

Eames was not inclined to discuss the matter any further, so he
finished his toddy in silence. Cradell, however, who felt that there
was something in his affairs of which he had reason to be proud, soon
returned to the story of his own very extraordinary position. "By
Jove, I don't know that a man was ever so circumstanced," he said.
"She looks to me to protect her, and yet what can I do?"

At last Cradell got up, and declared that he must go to the ladies.
"She's so nervous, that unless she has some one to countenance her
she becomes unwell."

Eames declared his purpose of going to the divan, or to the theatre,
or to take a walk in the streets. The smiles of beauty had no longer
charms for him in Burton Crescent.

"They'll expect you to take a cup of tea the first night," said
Cradell; but Eames declared that they might expect it.

"I'm in no humour for it," said he. "I'll tell you what, Cradell,
I shall leave this place, and take rooms for myself somewhere. I'll
never go into a lodging-house again."

As he so spoke, he was standing at the dining-room door; but he was
not allowed to escape in this easy way. Jemima, as he went out into
the passage, was there with a three-cornered note in her hand. "From
Miss Mealyer," she said. "Miss Mealyer is in the back parlour all by
herself."

Poor Johnny took the note, and read it by the lamp over the front
door.

"Are you not going to speak to me on the day of your return? It
cannot be that you will leave the house without seeing me for a
moment. I am in the back parlour."

When he had read these words, he paused in the passage, with his
hat on. Jemima, who could not understand why any young man should
hesitate as to seeing his lady-love in the back parlour alone,
whispered to him again, in her audible way, "Miss Mealyer is there,
sir; and all the rest on 'em's upstairs!" So compelled, Eames put
down his hat, and walked with slow steps into the back parlour.

How was it to be with the enemy? Was he to encounter Amelia in anger,
or Amelia in love? She had seemed to be stern and defiant when he
had ventured to steal a look at her across the dining-table, and now
he expected that she would turn upon him with loud threatenings and
protestations as to her wrongs. But it was not so. When he entered
the room she was standing with her back to him, leaning on the
mantel-piece, and at the first moment she did not essay to speak. He
walked into the middle of the room and stood there, waiting for her
to begin.

"Shut the door!" she said, looking over her shoulder. "I suppose you
don't want the girl to hear all you've got to say to me!"

Then he shut the door; but still Amelia stood with her back to him,
leaning upon the mantel-piece.

It did not seem that he had much to say, for he remained perfectly
silent.

"Well!" said Amelia, after a long pause, and she then again looked
over her shoulder. "Well, Mr. Eames!"

"Jemima gave me your note, and so I've come," said he.

"And is this the way we meet!" she exclaimed, turning suddenly upon
him, and throwing her long black hair back over her shoulders. There
certainly was some beauty about her. Her eyes were large and bright,
and her shoulders were well turned. She might have done as an
artist's model for a Judith, but I doubt whether any man, looking
well into her face, could think that she would do well as a wife.
"Oh, John, is it to be thus, after love such as ours?" And she
clasped her hands together, and stood before him.

"I don't know what you mean," said Eames.

"If you are engaged to marry L. D., tell me so at once. Be a man, and
speak out, sir."

"No," said Eames; "I am not engaged to marry the lady to whom you
allude."

"On your honour?"

"I won't have her spoken about. I'm not going to marry her, and
that's enough."

"Do you think that I wish to speak of her? What can L. D. be to me as
long as she is nothing to you? Oh, Johnny, why did you write me that
heartless letter?" Then she leaned upon his shoulder--or attempted to
do so.

I cannot say that Eames shook her off, seeing that he lacked the
courage to do so; but he shuffled his shoulder about so that the
support was uneasy to her, and she was driven to stand erect again.
"Why did you write that cruel letter?" she said again.

"Because I thought it best, Amelia. What's a man to do with ninety
pounds a year, you know?"

"But your mother allows you twenty."

"And what's a man to do with a hundred and ten?"

"Rising five pounds every year," said the well-informed Amelia. "Of
course we should live here, with mamma, and you would just go on
paying her as you do now. If your heart was right, Johnny, you
wouldn't think so much about money. If you loved me--as you said you
did--" Then a little sob came, and the words were stopped. The words
were stopped, but she was again upon his shoulder. What was he to
do? In truth, his only wish was to escape, and yet his arm, quite in
opposition to his own desires, found its way round her waist. In such
a combat a woman has so many points in her favour! "Oh, Johnny," she
said again, as soon as she felt the pressure of his arm. "Gracious,
what a beautiful watch you've got," and she took the trinket out of
his pocket. "Did you buy that?"

"No; it was given to me."

"John Eames, did L. D. give it you?"

"No, no, no," he shouted, stamping on the floor as he spoke.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Amelia, quelled for the moment by his
energy. "Perhaps it was your mother."

"No; it was a man. Never mind about the watch now."

"I wouldn't mind anything, Johnny, if you would tell me that you
loved me again. Perhaps I oughtn't to ask you, and it isn't becoming
in a lady; but how can I help it, when you know you've got my heart.
Come upstairs and have tea with us now, won't you?"

What was he to do? He said that he would go up and have tea; and
as he led her to the door he put down his face and kissed her. Oh,
Johnny Eames! But then a woman in such a contest has so many points
in her favour.




CHAPTER XXX.

IS IT FROM HIM?


I have already declared that Crosbie wrote and posted the fatal
letter to Allington, and we must now follow it down to that place.
On the morning following the squire's return to his own house, Mrs.
Crump, the post-mistress at Allington, received a parcel by post
directed to herself. She opened it, and found an enclosure addressed
to Mrs. Dale, with a written request that she would herself deliver
it into that lady's own hand at once. This was Crosbie's letter.

"It's from Miss Lily's gentleman," said Mrs. Crump, looking at the
handwriting. "There's something up, or he wouldn't be writing to her
mamma in this way." But Mrs. Crump lost no time in putting on her
bonnet, and trudging up with the letter to the Small House. "I must
see the missus herself," said Mrs. Crump. Whereupon Mrs. Dale was
called downstairs into the hall, and there received the packet.
Lily was in the breakfast-parlour, and had seen the post-mistress
arrive;--had seen also that she carried a letter in her hand. For a
moment she had thought that it was for her, and imagined that the
old woman had brought it herself from simple good-nature. But Lily,
when she heard her mother mentioned, instantly withdrew and shut the
parlour door. Her heart misgave her that something was wrong, but
she hardly tried to think what it might be. After all, the regular
postman might bring the letter she herself expected. Bell was
not yet downstairs, and she stood alone over the tea-cups on the
breakfast-table, feeling that there was something for her to fear.
Her mother did not come at once into the room, but, after a pause
of a moment or two, went again upstairs. So she remained, either
standing against the table, or at the window, or seated in one of the
two arm-chairs, for a space of ten minutes, when Bell entered the
room.

"Isn't mamma down yet?" said Bell.

"Bell," said Lily, "something has happened. Mamma has got a letter."

"Happened! What has happened? Is anybody ill? Who is the letter
from?" And Bell was going to return through the door in search of her
mother.

"Stop, Bell," said Lily. "Do not go to her yet. I think it's
from--Adolphus."

"Oh, Lily, what do you mean?"

"I don't know, dear. We'll wait a little longer. Don't look like
that, Bell." And Lily strove to appear calm, and strove almost
successfully.

"You have frightened me so," said Bell.

"I am frightened myself. He only sent me one line yesterday, and now
he has sent nothing. If some misfortune should have happened to him!
Mrs. Crump brought down the letter herself to mamma, and that is so
odd, you know."

"Are you sure it was from him?"

"No; I have not spoken to her. I will go up to her now. Don't you
come, Bell. Oh! Bell, do not look so unhappy." She then went over and
kissed her sister, and after that, with very gentle steps, made her
way up to her mother's room. "Mamma, may I come in?" she said.

"Oh! my child!"

"I know it is from him, mamma. Tell me all at once."

Mrs. Dale had read the letter. With quick, glancing eyes, she had
made herself mistress of its whole contents, and was already aware
of the nature and extent of the sorrow which had come upon them. It
was a sorrow that admitted of no hope. The man who had written that
letter could never return again; nor if he should return could he be
welcomed back to them. The blow had fallen, and it was to be borne.
Inside the letter to herself had been a very small note addressed to
Lily. "Give her the enclosed," Crosbie had said in his letter, "if
you do not now think it wrong to do so. I have left it open, that you
may read it." Mrs. Dale, however, had not yet read it, and she now
concealed it beneath her handkerchief.

I will not repeat at length Crosbie's letter to Mrs. Dale. It covered
four sides of letter-paper, and was such a letter that any man who
wrote it must have felt himself to be a rascal. We saw that he had
difficulty in writing it, but the miracle was, that any man could
have found it possible to write it. "I know you will curse me," said
he; "and I deserve to be cursed. I know that I shall be punished
for this, and I must bear my punishment. My worst punishment will
be this,--that I never more shall hold up my head again." And then,
again, he said:--"My only excuse is my conviction that I should
never make her happy. She has been brought up as an angel, with pure
thoughts, with holy hopes, with a belief in all that is good, and
high, and noble. I have been surrounded through my whole life by
things low, and mean, and ignoble. How could I live with her, or she
with me? I know now that this is so; but my fault has been that I
did not know it when I was there with her. I choose to tell you all,"
he continued, towards the end of the letter, "and therefore I let you
know that I have engaged myself to marry another woman. Ah! I can
foresee how bitter will be your feelings when you read this: but they
will not be so bitter as mine while I write it. Yes; I am already
engaged to one who will suit me, and whom I may suit. You will not
expect me to speak ill of her who is to be near and dear to me. But
she is one with whom I may mate myself without an inward conviction
that I shall destroy all her happiness by doing so. Lilian," he said,
"shall always have my prayers; and I trust that she may soon forget,
in the love of an honest man, that she ever knew one so dishonest
as--Adolphus Crosbie."

Of what like must have been his countenance as he sat writing such
words of himself under the ghastly light of his own small, solitary
lamp? Had he written his letter at his office, in the day-time, with
men coming in and out of his room, he could hardly have written of
himself so plainly. He would have bethought himself that the written
words might remain, and be read hereafter by other eyes than those
for which they were intended. But, as he sat alone, during the small
hours of the night, almost repenting of his sin with true repentance,
he declared to himself that he did not care who might read them. They
should, at any rate, be true. Now they had been read by her to whom
they had been addressed, and the daughter was standing before the
mother to hear her doom.

"Tell me all at once," Lily had said; but in what words was her
mother to tell her?

"Lily," she said, rising from her seat, and leaving the two letters
on the couch; that addressed to the daughter was hidden beneath a
handkerchief, but that which she had read she left open and in sight.
She took both the girl's hands in hers as she looked into her face,
and spoke to her. "Lily, my child!" Then she burst into sobs, and was
unable to tell her tale.

"Is it from him, mamma? May I read it? He cannot be--"

"It is from Mr. Crosbie."

"Is he ill, mamma? Tell me at once. If he is ill I will go to him."

"No, my darling, he is not ill. Not yet;--do not read it yet. Oh,
Lily! It brings bad news; very bad news."

"Mamma, if he is not in danger, I can read it. Is it bad to him, or
only bad to me?"

At this moment the servant knocked, and not waiting for an answer
half opened the door.

"If you please, ma'am, Mr. Bernard is below, and wants to speak to
you."

"Mr. Bernard! ask Miss Bell to see him."

"Miss Bell is with him, ma'am, but he says that he specially wants to
speak to you."

Mrs. Dale felt that she could not leave Lily alone. She could not
take the letter away, nor could she leave her child with the letter
open.

"I cannot see him," said Mrs. Dale. "Ask him what it is. Tell him
I cannot come down just at present." And then the servant went, and
Bernard left his message with Bell.

"Bernard," she had said, "do you know of anything? Is there anything
wrong about Mr. Crosbie?" Then, in a few words, he told her all, and
understanding why his aunt had not come down to him, he went back
to the Great House. Bell, almost stupefied by the tidings, seated
herself at the table unconsciously, leaning upon her elbows.

"It will kill her," she said to herself. "My Lily, my darling Lily!
It will surely kill her!"

But the mother was still with the daughter, and the story was still
untold.

"Mamma," said Lily, "whatever it is, I must, of course, be made to
know it. I begin to guess the truth. It will pain you to say it.
Shall I read the letter?"

Mrs. Dale was astonished at her calmness. It could not be that
she had guessed the truth, or she would not stand like that, with
tearless eyes and unquelled courage before her.

"You shall read it, but I ought to tell you first. Oh, my child, my
own one!" Lily was now leaning against the bed, and her mother was
standing over her, caressing her.

"Then tell me," said she. "But I know what it is. He has thought it
all over while away from me, and he finds that it must not be as we
have supposed. Before he went I offered to release him, and now he
knows that he had better accept my offer. Is it so, mamma?" In answer
to this Mrs. Dale did not speak, but Lily understood from her signs
that it was so.

"He might have written it to me, myself," said Lily, very proudly.
"Mamma, we will go down to breakfast. He has sent nothing to me,
then?"

"There is a note. He bids me read it, but I have not opened it. It is
here."

"Give it me," said Lily, almost sternly. "Let me have his last words
to me;" and she took the note from her mother's hands.

"Lily," said the note, "your mother will have told you all. Before
you read these few words you will know that you have trusted one who
was quite untrustworthy. I know that you will hate me.--I cannot
even ask you to forgive me. You will let me pray that you may yet be
happy.--A. C."

She read these few words, still leaning against the bed. Then she
got up, and walking to a chair, seated herself with her back to her
mother. Mrs. Dale moving silently after her stood over the back of
the chair, not daring to speak to her. So she sat for some five
minutes, with her eyes fixed upon the open window, and with Crosbie's
note in her hand.

"I will not hate him, and I do forgive him," she said at last,
struggling to command her voice, and hardly showing that she could
not altogether succeed in her attempt. "I may not write to him
again, but you shall write and tell him so. Now we will go down to
breakfast." And so saying, she got up from her chair.

Mrs. Dale almost feared to speak to her, her composure was so
complete, and her manner so stern and fixed. She hardly knew how to
offer pity and sympathy, seeing that pity seemed to be so little
necessary, and that even sympathy was not demanded. And she could not
understand all that Lily had said. What had she meant by the offer to
release him? Had there, then, been some quarrel between them before
he went? Crosbie had made no such allusion in his letter. But Mrs.
Dale did not dare to ask any questions.

"You frighten me, Lily," she said. "Your very calmness frightens me."

"Dear mamma!" and the poor girl absolutely smiled as she embraced her
mother. "You need not be frightened by my calmness. I know the truth
well. I have been very unfortunate;--very. The brightest hopes of
my life are all gone;--and I shall never again see him whom I love
beyond all the world!" Then at last she broke down, and wept in her
mother's arms.

There was not a word of anger spoken then against him who had done
all this. Mrs. Dale felt that she did not dare to speak in anger
against him, and words of anger were not likely to come from poor
Lily. She, indeed, hitherto did not know the whole of his offence,
for she had not read his letter.

"Give it me, mamma," she said at last. "It has to be done sooner or
later."

"Not now, Lily. I have told you all,--all that you need know at
present."

"Yes; now, mamma," and again that sweet silvery voice became stern.
"I will read it now, and there shall be an end." Whereupon Mrs. Dale
gave her the letter and she read it in silence. Her mother, though
standing somewhat behind her, watched her narrowly as she did so. She
was now lying over upon the bed, and the letter was on the pillow, as
she propped herself upon her arm. Her tears were running, and ever
and again she would stop to dry her eyes. Her sobs, too, were very
audible, but she went on steadily with her reading till she came to
the line on which Crosbie told that he had already engaged himself
to another woman. Then her mother could see that she paused suddenly,
and that a shudder slightly convulsed all her limbs.

"He has been very quick," she said, almost in a whisper; and then she
finished the letter. "Tell him, mamma," she said, "that I do forgive
him, and I will not hate him. You will tell him that,--from me; will
you not?" And then she raised herself from the bed.

Mrs. Dale would give her no such assurance. In her present mood her
feelings against Crosbie were of a nature which she herself hardly
could understand or analyze. She felt that if he were present she
could almost fly at him as would a tigress. She had never hated
before as she now hated this man. He was to her a murderer, and worse
than a murderer. He had made his way like a wolf into her little
fold, and torn her ewe-lamb and left her maimed and mutilated for
life. How could a mother forgive such an offence as that, or consent
to be the medium through which forgiveness should be expressed?

"You must, mamma; or, if you do not, I shall do so. Remember that I
love him. You know what it is to have loved one single man. He has
made me very unhappy; I hardly know yet how unhappy. But I have loved
him, and do love him. I believe, in my heart, that he still loves me.
Where this has been there must not be hatred and unforgiveness."

"I will pray that I may become able to forgive him," said Mrs. Dale.

"But you must write to him those words. Indeed you must, mamma! 'She
bids me tell you that she has forgiven you, and will not hate you.'
Promise me that!"

"I can make no promise now, Lily. I will think about it, and
endeavour to do my duty."

Lily was now seated, and was holding the skirt of her mother's dress.

"Mamma," she said, looking up into her mother's face, "you must be
very good to me now; and I must be very good to you. We shall be
always together now. I must be your friend and counsellor; and be
everything to you, more than ever. I must fall in love with you now;"
and she smiled again, and the tears were almost dry upon her cheeks.

At last they went down to the breakfast-room, from which Bell had not
moved. Mrs. Dale entered the room first, and Lily followed, hiding
herself for a moment behind her mother. Then she came forward boldly,
and taking Bell in her arms, clasped her close to her bosom.

"Bell," she said, "he has gone."

"Lily! Lily! Lily!" said Bell, weeping.

"He has gone! We shall talk it over in a few days, and shall know how
to do so without losing ourselves in misery. To-day we will say no
more about it. I am so thirsty, Bell; do give me my tea;" and she sat
herself down at the breakfast-table.

Lily's tea was given to her, and she drank it. Beyond that I cannot
say that any of them partook with much heartiness of the meal. They
sat there, as they would have sat if no terrible thunderbolt had
fallen among them, and no word further was spoken about Crosbie and
his conduct. Immediately after breakfast they went into the other
room, and Lily, as was her wont, sat herself immediately down to her
drawing. Her mother looked at her with wistful eyes, longing to bid
her spare herself, but she shrank from interfering with her. For a
quarter of an hour Lily sat over her board, with her brush or pencil
in her hand, and then she rose up and put it away.

"It is no good pretending," she said. "I am only spoiling the things;
but I will be better to-morrow. I'll go away and lie down by myself,
mamma." And so she went.

Soon after this Mrs. Dale took her bonnet and went up to the Great
House, having received her brother-in-law's message from Bell.

"I know what he has to tell me," she said; "but I might as well go.
It will be necessary that we should speak to each other about it." So
she walked across the lawn, and up into the hall of the Great House.
"Is my brother in the book-room?" she said to one of the maids; and
then knocking at the door, went in unannounced.

The squire rose from his arm-chair, and came forward to meet her.

"Mary," he said, "I believe you know it all."

"Yes," she said. "You can read that," and she handed him Crosbie's
letter. "How was one to know that any man could be so wicked as
that?"

"And she has heard it?" asked the squire. "Is she able to bear it?"

"Wonderfully! She has amazed me by her strength. It frightens me;
for I know that a relapse must come. She has never sunk for a moment
beneath it. For myself, I feel as though it were her strength that
enables me to bear my share of it." And then she described to the
squire all that had taken place that morning.

"Poor child!" said the squire. "Poor child! What can we do for her?
Would it be good for her to go away for a time? She is a sweet,
good, lovely girl, and has deserved better than that. Sorrow and
disappointment come to us all; but they are doubly heavy when they
come so early."

Mrs. Dale was almost surprised at the amount of sympathy which he
showed.

"And what is to be his punishment?" she asked.

"The scorn which men and women will feel for him; those, at least,
whose esteem or scorn are matters of concern to any one. I know no
other punishment. You would not have Lily's name brought before a
tribunal of law?"

"Certainly not that."

"And I will not have Bernard calling him out. Indeed, it would be for
nothing; for in these days a man is not expected to fight duels."

"You cannot think that I would wish that."

"What punishment is there, then? I know of none. There are evils
which a man may do, and no one can punish him. I know of nothing. I
went up to London after him, but he contrived to crawl out of my way.
What can you do to a rat but keep clear of him?"

Mrs. Dale had felt in her heart that it would be well if Crosbie
could be beaten till all his bones were sore. I hardly know whether
such should have been a woman's thought, but it was hers. She had
no wish that he should be made to fight a duel. In that there would
have been much that was wicked, and in her estimation nothing that
was just. But she felt that if Bernard would thrash the coward for
his cowardice she would love her nephew better than ever she had
loved him. Bernard also had considered it probable that he might
be expected to horsewhip the man who had jilted his cousin, and,
as regarded the absolute bodily risk, he would not have felt any
insuperable objection to undertake the task. But such a piece of work
was disagreeable to him in many ways. He hated the idea of a row at
his club. He was most desirous that his cousin's name should not be
made public. He wished to avoid anything that might be impolitic. A
wicked thing had been done, and he was quite ready to hate Crosbie
as Crosbie ought to be hated; but as regarded himself, it made him
unhappy to think that the world might probably expect him to punish
the man who had so lately been his friend. And then he did not know
where to catch him, or how to thrash him when caught. He was very
sorry for his cousin, and felt strongly that Crosbie should not be
allowed to escape. But what was he to do?

"Would she like to go anywhere?" said the squire again, anxious, if
he could, to afford solace by some act of generosity. At this moment
he would have settled a hundred a year for life upon his niece if by
so doing he could have done her any good.

"She will be better at home," said Mrs. Dale. "Poor thing. For a
while she will wish to avoid going out."

"I suppose so;" and then there was a pause. "I'll tell you what,
Mary; I don't understand it. On my honour I don't understand it.
It is to me as wonderful as though I had caught the man picking my
pence out of my pocket. I don't think any man in the position of a
gentleman would have done such a thing when I was young. I don't
think any man would have dared to do it. But now it seems that a
man may act in that way and no harm come to him. He had a friend
in London who came to me and talked about it as though it were
some ordinary, everyday transaction of life. Yes; you may come in,
Bernard. The poor child knows it all now."

Bernard offered to his aunt what of solace and sympathy he had to
offer, and made some sort of half-expressed apology for having
introduced this wolf into their flock. "We always thought very much
of him at his club," said Bernard.

"I don't know much about your London clubs now-a-days," said his
uncle, "nor do I wish to do so if the society of that man can be
endured after what he has now done."

"I don't suppose half-a-dozen men will ever know anything about it,"
said Bernard.

"Umph!" ejaculated the squire. He could not say that he wished
Crosbie's villany to be widely discussed, seeing that Lily's name was
so closely connected with it. But yet he could not support the idea
that Crosbie should not be punished by the frown of the world at
large. It seemed to him that from this time forward any man speaking
to Crosbie should be held to have disgraced himself by so doing.

"Give her my best love," he said, as Mrs. Dale got up to take her
leave; "my very best love. If her old uncle can do anything for her
she has only to let me know. She met the man in my house, and I feel
that I owe her much. Bid her come and see me. It will be better for
her than moping at home. And Mary"--this he said to her, whispering
into her ear--"think of what I said to you about Bell."

Mrs. Dale, as she walked back to her own house, acknowledged to
herself that her brother-in-law's manner was different to her from
anything that she had hitherto known of him.

During the whole of that day Crosbie's name was not mentioned at
the Small House. Neither of the girls stirred out, and Bell spent
the greater part of the afternoon sitting, with her arm round her
sister's waist, upon the sofa. Each of them had a book; but though
there was little spoken, there was as little read. Who can describe
the thoughts that were passing through Lily's mind as she remembered
the hours which she had passed with Crosbie, of his warm assurances
of love, of his accepted caresses, of her uncontrolled and
acknowledged joy in his affection? It had all been holy to her then;
and now those things which were then sacred had been made almost
disgraceful by his fault. And yet as she thought of this she declared
to herself over and over again that she would forgive him;--nay, that
she had forgiven him. "And he shall know it, too," she said, speaking
almost out loud.

"Lily, dear Lily," said Bell, "turn your thoughts away from it for a
while, if you can."

"They won't go away," said Lily. And that was all that was said
between them on the subject.

Everybody would know it! I doubt whether that must not be one of the
bitterest drops in the cup which a girl in such circumstances is made
to drain. Lily perceived early in the day that the parlour-maid well
knew that she had been jilted. The girl's manner was intended to
convey sympathy; but it did convey pity; and Lily for a moment felt
angry. But she remembered that it must be so, and smiled upon the
girl, and spoke kindly to her. What mattered it? All the world would
know it in a day or two.

On the following day she went up, by her mother's advice, to see her
uncle.

"My child," said he, "I am sorry for you. My heart bleeds for you."

"Uncle," she said, "do not mind it. Only do this for me,--do not talk
about it,--I mean to me."

"No, no; I will not. That there should ever have been in my house so
great a rascal--"

"Uncle! uncle! I will not have that! I will not listen to a word
against him from any human being,--not a word! Remember that!" And
her eyes flashed as she spoke.

He did not answer her, but took her hand and pressed it, and then she
left him. "The Dales were ever constant!" he said to himself, as he
walked up and down the terrace before his house. "Ever constant!"




CHAPTER XXXI.

THE WOUNDED FAWN.


[ILLUSTRATION: (untitled)]

Nearly two months passed away, and it was now Christmas time at
Allington. It may be presumed that there was no intention at either
house that the mirth should be very loud. Such a wound as that
received by Lily Dale was one from which recovery could not be quick,
and it was felt by all the family that a weight was upon them which
made gaiety impracticable. As for Lily herself it may be said that
she bore her misfortune with all a woman's courage. For the first
week she stood up as a tree that stands against the wind, which
is soon to be shivered to pieces because it will not bend. During
that week her mother and sister were frightened by her calmness and
endurance. She would perform her daily task. She would go out through
the village, and appear at her place in church on the first Sunday.
She would sit over her book of an evening, keeping back her tears;
and would chide her mother and sister when she found that they were
regarding her with earnest anxiety.

"Mamma, let it all be as though it had never been," she said.

"Ah, dear! if that were but possible!"

"God forbid that it should be possible inwardly," Lily replied, "but
it is possible outwardly. I feel that you are more tender to me
than you used to be, and that upsets me. If you would only scold me
because I am idle, I should soon be better." But her mother could not
speak to her as she perhaps might have spoken had no grief fallen
upon her pet. She could not cease from those anxious tender glances
which made Lily know that she was looked on as a fawn wounded almost
to death.

At the end of the first week she gave way. "I won't get up, Bell,"
she said one morning, almost petulantly. "I am ill;--I had better
lie here out of the way. Don't make a fuss about it. I'm stupid and
foolish, and that makes me ill."

Thereupon Mrs. Dale and Bell were frightened, and looked into each
other's blank faces, remembering stories of poor broken-hearted girls
who had died because their loves had been unfortunate,--as small wax
tapers whose lights are quenched if a breath of wind blows upon them
too strongly. But then Lily was in truth no such slight taper as
that. Nor was she the stem that must be broken because it will not
bend. She bent herself to the blast during that week of illness, and
then arose with her form still straight and graceful, and with her
bright light unquenched.

After that she would talk more openly to her mother about her
loss,--openly and with a true appreciation of the misfortune which
had befallen her; but with an assurance of strength which seemed to
ridicule the idea of a broken heart. "I know that I can bear it," she
said, "and that I can bear it without lasting unhappiness. Of course
I shall always love him, and must feel almost as you felt when you
lost my father."

In answer to this Mrs. Dale could say nothing. She could not speak
out her thoughts about Crosbie, and explain to Lily that he was
unworthy of her love. Love does not follow worth, and is not given
to excellence;--nor is it destroyed by ill-usage, nor killed by blows
and mutilation. When Lily declared that she still loved the man
who had so ill-used her, Mrs. Dale would be silent. Each perfectly
understood the other, but on that matter even they could not
interchange their thoughts with freedom.

"You must promise never to be tired of me, mamma," said Lily.

"Mothers do not often get tired of their children, whatever the
children may do of their mothers."

"I'm not so sure of that when the children turn out old maids. And I
mean to have a will of my own, too, mamma; and a way also, if it be
possible. When Bell is married I shall consider it a partnership, and
I shan't do what I'm told any longer."

"Forewarned will be forearmed."

"Exactly;--and I don't want to take you by surprise. For a year or
two longer, till Bell is gone, I mean to be dutiful; but it would be
very stupid for a girl to be dutiful all her life."

All of which Mrs. Dale understood thoroughly. It amounted to an
assertion on Lily's part that she had loved once and could never love
again; that she had played her game, hoping, as other girls hope,
that she might win the prize of a husband; but that, having lost, she
could never play the game again. It was that inward conviction on
Lily's part which made her say such words to her mother. But Mrs.
Dale would by no means allow herself to share this conviction. She
declared to herself that time would cure Lily's wound, and that her
child might yet be crowned by the bliss of a happy marriage. She
would not in her heart consent to that plan in accordance with which
Lily's destiny in life was to be regarded as already fixed. She
had never really liked Crosbie as a suitor, and would herself have
preferred John Eames, with all the faults of his hobbledehoyhood on
his head. It might yet come to pass that John Eames' love might be
made happy.

But in the meantime Lily, as I have said, had become strong in her
courage, and recommenced the work of living with no lackadaisical
self-assurance that because she had been made more unhappy than
others, therefore she should allow herself to be more idle. Morning
and night she prayed for him, and daily, almost hour by hour, she
assured herself that it was still her duty to love him. It was hard,
this duty of loving, without any power of expressing such love. But
still she would do her duty.

"Tell me at once, mamma," she said one morning, "when you hear that
the day is fixed for his marriage. Pray don't keep me in the dark."

"It is to be in February," said Mrs. Dale.

"But let me know the day. It must not be to me like ordinary days.
But do not look unhappy, mamma; I am not going to make a fool of
myself. I shan't steal off and appear in the church like a ghost."
And then, having uttered her little joke, a sob came, and she hid her
face on her mother's bosom. In a moment she raised it again. "Believe
me, mamma, that I am not unhappy," she said.

After the expiration of that second week Mrs. Dale did write a letter
to Crosbie:


   I suppose [she said] it is right that I should acknowledge
   the receipt of your letter. I do not know that I have
   aught else to say to you. It would not become me as a
   woman to say what I think of your conduct, but I believe
   that your conscience will tell you the same things. If it
   do not, you must, indeed, be hardened. I have promised
   my child that I will send to you a message from her. She
   bids me tell you that she has forgiven you, and that she
   does not hate you. May God also forgive you, and may you
   recover his love.

   MARY DALE.

   I beg that no rejoinder may be made to this letter, either
   to myself or to any of my family.


The squire wrote no answer to the letter which he had received, nor
did he take any steps towards the immediate punishment of Crosbie.
Indeed he had declared that no such steps could be taken, explaining
to his nephew that such a man could be served only as one serves a
rat.

"I shall never see him," he said once again; "if I did, I should not
scruple to hit him on the head with my stick; but I should think ill
of myself to go after him with such an object."

And yet it was a terrible sorrow to the old man that the scoundrel
who had so injured him and his should escape scot-free. He had not
forgiven Crosbie. No idea of forgiveness had ever crossed his mind.
He would have hated himself had he thought it possible that he
could be induced to forgive such an injury. "There is an amount of
rascality in it,--of low meanness, which I do not understand," he
would say over and over again to his nephew. And then as he would
walk alone on the terrace he would speculate within his own mind
whether Bernard would take any steps towards avenging his cousin's
injury. "He is right," he would say to himself; "Bernard is quite
right. But when I was young I could not have stood it. In those
days a gentleman might have a fellow out who had treated him as he
has treated us. A man was satisfied in feeling that he had done
something. I suppose the world is different now-a-days." The world is
different; but the squire by no means acknowledged in his heart that
there had been any improvement.

Bernard also was greatly troubled in his mind. He would have had no
objection to fight a duel with Crosbie, had duels in these days been
possible. But he believed them to be no longer possible,--at any rate
without ridicule. And if he could not fight the man, in what other
way was he to punish him? Was it not the fact that for such a fault
the world afforded no punishment? Was it not in the power of a man
like Crosbie to amuse himself for a week or two at the expense of
a girl's happiness for life, and then to escape absolutely without
any ill effects to himself? "I shall be barred out of my club lest
I should meet him," Bernard said to himself, "but he will not be
barred out." Moreover, there was a feeling within him that the matter
would be one of triumph to Crosbie rather than otherwise. In having
secured for himself the pleasure of his courtship with such a girl
as Lily Dale, without encountering the penalty usually consequent
upon such amusement, he would be held by many as having merited
much admiration. He had sinned against all the Dales, and yet
the suffering arising from his sin was to fall upon the Dales
exclusively. Such was Bernard's reasoning, as he speculated on the
whole affair, sadly enough,--wishing to be avenged, but not knowing
where to look for vengeance. For myself I believe him to have been
altogether wrong as to the light in which he supposed that Crosbie's
falsehood would be regarded by Crosbie's friends. Men will still talk
of such things lightly, professing that all is fair in love as it
is in war, and speaking almost with envy of the good fortunes of a
practised deceiver. But I have never come across the man who thought
in this way with reference to an individual case. Crosbie's own
judgment as to the consequences to himself of what he had done was
more correct than that formed by Bernard Dale. He had regarded the
act as venial as long as it was still to do,--while it was still
within his power to leave it undone; but from the moment of its
accomplishment it had forced itself upon his own view in its proper
light. He knew that he had been a scoundrel, and he knew that other
men would so think of him. His friend Fowler Pratt, who had the
reputation of looking at women simply as toys, had so regarded him.
Instead of boasting of what he had done, he was as afraid of alluding
to any matter connected with his marriage as a man is of talking of
the articles which he has stolen. He had already felt that men at his
club looked askance at him; and, though he was no coward as regarded
his own skin and bones, he had an undefined fear lest some day he
might encounter Bernard Dale purposely armed with a stick. The squire
and his nephew were wrong in supposing that Crosbie was unpunished.

And as the winter came on he felt that he was closely watched by the
noble family of De Courcy. Some of that noble family he had already
learned to hate cordially. The Honourable John came up to town in
November, and persecuted him vilely;--insisted on having dinners
given to him at Sebright's, of smoking throughout the whole afternoon
in his future brother-in-law's rooms, and on borrowing his future
brother-in-law's possessions; till at last Crosbie determined that it
would be wise to quarrel with the Honourable John,--and he quarrelled
with him accordingly, turning him out of his rooms, and telling him
in so many words that he would have no more to do with him.

"You'll have to do it, as I did," Mortimer Gazebee had said to him;
"I didn't like it because of the family, but Lady Amelia told me
that it must be so." Whereupon Crosbie took the advice of Mortimer
Gazebee.

But the hospitality of the Gazebees was perhaps more distressing to
him than even the importunities of the Honourable John. It seemed
as though his future sister-in-law was determined not to leave him
alone. Mortimer was sent to fetch him up for the Sunday afternoons,
and he found that he was constrained to go to the villa in St. John's
Wood, even in opposition to his own most strenuous will. He could
not quite analyze the circumstances of his own position, but he felt
as though he were a cock with his spurs cut off,--as a dog with his
teeth drawn. He found himself becoming humble and meek. He had to
acknowledge to himself that he was afraid of Lady Amelia, and almost
even afraid of Mortimer Gazebee. He was aware that they watched him,
and knew all his goings out and comings in. They called him Adolphus,
and made him tame. That coming evil day in February was dinned into
his ears. Lady Amelia would go and look at furniture for him, and
talked by the hour about bedding and sheets. "You had better get your
kitchen things at Tomkins'. They're all good, and he'll give you ten
per cent. off if you pay him ready money,--which of course you will,
you know!" Was it for this that he had sacrificed Lily Dale?--for
this that he had allied himself with the noble house of De Courcy?

Mortimer had been at him about the settlements from the very first
moment of his return to London, and had already bound him up hand and
foot. His life was insured, and the policy was in Mortimer's hands.
His own little bit of money had been already handed over to be tied
up with Lady Alexandrina's little bit. It seemed to him that in
all the arrangements made the intention was that he should die off
speedily, and that Lady Alexandrina should be provided with a decent
little income, sufficient for St. John's Wood. Things were to be so
settled that he could not even spend the proceeds of his own money,
or of hers. They were to go, under the fostering hand of Mortimer
Gazebee, in paying insurances. If he would only die the day after
his marriage, there would really be a very nice sum of money for
Alexandrina, almost worthy of the acceptance of an earl's daughter.
Six months ago he would have considered himself able to turn Mortimer
Gazebee round his finger on any subject that could be introduced
between them. When they chanced to meet Gazebee had been quite humble
to him, treating him almost as a superior being. He had looked down
on Gazebee from a very great height. But now it seemed as though he
were powerless in this man's hands.

But perhaps the countess had become his greatest aversion. She
was perpetually writing to him little notes in which she gave him
multitudes of commissions, sending him about as though he had been
her servant. And she pestered him with advice which was even worse
than her commissions, telling him of the style of life in which
Alexandrina would expect to live, and warning him very frequently
that such an one as he could not expect to be admitted within the
bosom of so noble a family without paying very dearly for that
inestimable privilege. Her letters had become odious to him, and
he would chuck them on one side, leaving them for the whole day
unopened. He had already made up his mind that he would quarrel with
the countess also, very shortly after his marriage; indeed, that he
would separate himself from the whole family if it were possible.
And yet he had entered into this engagement mainly with the view
of reaping those advantages which would accrue to him from being
allied to the De Courcys! The squire and his nephew were wretched
in thinking that this man was escaping without punishment, but they
might have spared themselves that misery.

It had been understood from the first that he was to spend his
Christmas at Courcy Castle. From this undertaking it was quite out
of his power to enfranchise himself: but he resolved that his visit
should be as short as possible. Christmas Day unfortunately came on
a Monday, and it was known to the De Courcy world that Saturday was
almost a _dies non_ at the General Committee Office. As to those
three days there was no escape for him; but he made Alexandrina
understand that the three Commissioners were men of iron as to any
extension of those three days. "I must be absent again in February,
of course," he said, almost making his wail audible in the words he
used, "and therefore it is quite impossible that I should stay now
beyond the Monday." Had there been attractions for him at Courcy
Castle I think he might have arranged with Mr. Optimist for a week or
ten days. "We shall be all alone," the countess wrote to him, "and I
hope you will have an opportunity of learning more of our ways than
you have ever really been able to do as yet." This was bitter as gall
to him. But in this world all valuable commodities have their price;
and when men such as Crosbie aspire to obtain for themselves an
alliance with noble families, they must pay the market price for the
article which they purchase.

"You'll all come up and dine with us on Monday," the squire said to
Mrs. Dale, about the middle of the previous week.

"Well, I think not," said Mrs. Dale; "we are better, perhaps, as we
are."

At this moment the squire and his sister-in-law were on much more
friendly terms than had been usual with them, and he took her reply
in good part, understanding her feeling. Therefore, he pressed his
request, and succeeded.

"I think you're wrong," he said; "I don't suppose that we shall have
a very merry Christmas. You and the girls will hardly have that
whether you eat your pudding here or at the Great House. But it will
be better for us all to make the attempt. It's the right thing to do.
That's the way I look at it."

"I'll ask Lily," said Mrs. Dale.

"Do, do. Give her my love, and tell her from me that, in spite of all
that has come and gone, Christmas Day should still be to her a day of
rejoicing. We'll dine about three, so that the servants can have the
afternoon."

"Of course we'll go," said Lily; "why not? We always do. And we'll
have blind-man's-buff with all the Boyces, as we had last year, if
uncle will ask them up." But the Boyces were not asked up for that
occasion.

But Lily, though she put on it all so brave a face, had much to
suffer, and did in truth suffer greatly. If you, my reader, ever
chanced to slip into the gutter on a wet day, did you not find that
the sympathy of the bystanders was by far the severest part of your
misfortune? Did you not declare to yourself that all might yet be
well, if the people would only walk on and not look at you? And yet
you cannot blame those who stood and pitied you; or, perhaps, essayed
to rub you down, and assist you in the recovery of your bedaubed
hat. You, yourself, if you see a man fall, cannot walk by as though
nothing uncommon had happened to him. It was so with Lily. The people
of Allington could not regard her with their ordinary eyes. They
would look at her tenderly, knowing that she was a wounded fawn,
and thus they aggravated the soreness of her wound. Old Mrs. Hearn
condoled with her, telling her that very likely she would be better
off as she was. Lily would not lie about it in any way. "Mrs. Hearn,"
she said, "the subject is painful to me." Mrs. Hearn said no more
about it, but on every meeting between them she looked the things she
did not say. "Miss Lily!" said Hopkins, one day, "Miss Lily!"--and
as he looked up into her face a tear had almost formed itself in his
old eye--"I knew what he was from the first. Oh, dear! oh, dear! if
I could have had him killed!" "Hopkins, how dare you?" said Lily.
"If you speak to me again in such a way, I will tell my uncle." She
turned away from him; but immediately turned back again, and put out
her little hand to him. "I beg your pardon," she said. "I know how
kind you are, and I love you for it." And then she went away. "I'll
go after him yet, and break the dirty neck of him," said Hopkins to
himself, as he walked down the path.

Shortly before Christmas Day she called with her sister at the
vicarage. Bell, in the course of the visit, left the room with one of
the Boyce girls, to look at the last chrysanthemums of the year. Then
Mrs. Boyce took advantage of the occasion to make her little speech.
"My dear Lily," she said, "you will think me cold if I do not say one
word to you." "No, I shall not," said Lily, almost sharply, shrinking
from the finger that threatened to touch her sore. "There are things
which should never be talked about." "Well, well; perhaps so," said
Mrs. Boyce. But for a minute or two she was unable to fall back upon
any other topic, and sat looking at Lily with painful tenderness. I
need hardly say what were Lily's sufferings under such a gaze; but
she bore it, acknowledging to herself in her misery that the fault
did not lie with Mrs. Boyce. How could Mrs. Boyce have looked at her
otherwise than tenderly?

It was settled, then, that Lily was to dine up at the Great House on
Christmas Day, and thus show to the Allington world that she was not
to be regarded as a person shut out from the world by the depth of
her misfortune. That she was right there can, I think, be no doubt;
but as she walked across the little bridge, with her mother and
sister, after returning from church, she would have given much to be
able to have turned round, and have gone to bed instead of to her
uncle's dinner.




CHAPTER XXXII.

PAWKINS'S IN JERMYN STREET.


The show of fat beasts in London took place this year on the
twentieth day of December, and I have always understood that a
certain bullock exhibited by Lord De Guest was declared by the
metropolitan butchers to have realized all the possible excellences
of breeding, feeding, and condition. No doubt the butchers of the
next half-century will have learned much better, and the Guestwick
beast, could it be embalmed and then produced, would excite only
ridicule at the agricultural ignorance of the present age; but Lord
De Guest took the praise that was offered to him, and found himself
in a seventh heaven of delight. He was never so happy as when
surrounded by butchers, graziers, and salesmen who were able to
appreciate the work of his life, and who regarded him as a model
nobleman. "Look at that fellow," he said to Eames, pointing to the
prize bullock. Eames had joined his patron at the show after his
office hours, looking on upon the living beef by gaslight. "Isn't he
like his sire? He was got by Lambkin, you know."

"Lambkin," said Johnny, who had not as yet been able to learn much
about the Guestwick stock.

"Yes, Lambkin. The bull that we had the trouble with. He has just got
his sire's back and fore-quarters. Don't you see?"

"I daresay," said Johnny, who looked very hard, but could not see.

"It's very odd," exclaimed the earl, "but do you know, that bull has
been as quiet since that day,--as quiet as--as anything. I think it
must have been my pocket-handkerchief."

"I daresay it was," said Johnny;--"or perhaps the flies."

"Flies!" said the earl, angrily. "Do you suppose he isn't used to
flies? Come away. I ordered dinner at seven, and it's past six now.
My brother-in-law, Colonel Dale, is up in town, and he dines with
us." So he took Johnny's arm, and led him off through the show,
calling his attention as he went to several beasts which were
inferior to his own.

And then they walked down through Portman Square and Grosvenor
Square, and across Piccadilly to Jermyn Street. John Eames
acknowledged to himself that it was odd that he should have an earl
leaning on his arm as he passed along through the streets. At home,
in his own life, his daily companions were Cradell and Amelia Roper,
Mrs. Lupex and Mrs. Roper. The difference was very great, and yet he
found it quite as easy to talk to the earl as to Mrs. Lupex.

"You know the Dales down at Allington, of course," said the earl.

"Oh, yes, I know them."

"But, perhaps, you never met the colonel."

"I don't think I ever did."

"He's a queer sort of fellow;--very well in his way, but he never
does anything. He and my sister live at Torquay, and as far as I
can find out, they neither of them have any occupation of any sort.
He's come up to town now because we both had to meet our family
lawyers and sign some papers, but he looks on the journey as a great
hardship. As for me, I'm a year older than he is, but I wouldn't mind
going up and down from Guestwick every day."

"It's looking after the bull that does it," said Eames.

"By George! you're right, Master Johnny. My sister and Crofts may
tell me what they like, but when a man's out in the open air for
eight or nine hours every day, it doesn't much matter where he goes
to sleep after that. This is Pawkins's,--capital good house, but not
so good as it used to be while old Pawkins was alive. Show Mr. Eames
up into a bedroom to wash his hands."

Colonel Dale was much like his brother in face, but was taller, even
thinner, and apparently older. When Eames went into the sitting-room,
the colonel was there alone, and had to take upon himself the trouble
of introducing himself. He did not get up from his arm-chair, but
nodded gently at the young man. "Mr. Eames, I believe? I knew your
father at Guestwick, a great many years ago;" then he turned his face
back towards the fire and sighed.

"It's got very cold this afternoon," said Johnny, trying to make
conversation.

"It's always cold in London," said the colonel.

"If you had to be here in August you wouldn't say so."

"God forbid," said the colonel, and he sighed again, with his eyes
fixed upon the fire. Eames had heard of the very gallant way in which
Orlando Dale had persisted in running away with Lord De Guest's
sister, in opposition to very terrible obstacles, and as he now
looked at the intrepid lover, he thought that there must have been a
great change since those days. After that nothing more was said till
the earl came down.

Pawkins's house was thoroughly old-fashioned in all things, and the
Pawkins of that day himself stood behind the earl's elbow when the
dinner began, and himself removed the cover from the soup tureen.
Lord De Guest did not require much personal attention, but he would
have felt annoyed if this hadn't been done. As it was he had a civil
word to say to Pawkins about the fat cattle, thereby showing that he
did not mistake Pawkins for one of the waiters. Pawkins then took his
lordship's orders about the wine and retired.

"He keeps up the old house pretty well," said the earl to his
brother-in-law. "It isn't like what it was thirty years ago, but then
everything of that sort has got worse and worse."

"I suppose it has," said the colonel.

"I remember when old Pawkins had as good a glass of port as I've got
at home,--or nearly. They can't get it now, you know."

"I never drink port," said the colonel. "I seldom take anything after
dinner, except a little negus."

His brother-in-law said nothing, but made a most eloquent grimace as
he turned his face towards his soup-plate. Eames saw it, and could
hardly refrain from laughing. When, at half-past nine o'clock, the
colonel retired from the room, the earl, as the door was closed,
threw up his hands, and uttered the one word "negus!" Then Eames took
heart of grace and had his laughter out.

The dinner was very dull, and before the colonel went to bed Johnny
regretted that he had been induced to dine at Pawkins's. It might be
a very fine thing to be asked to dinner with an earl, and John Eames
had perhaps received at his office some little accession of dignity
from the circumstance, of which he had been not unpleasantly aware;
but, as he sat at the table, on which there were four or five apples
and a plate of dried nuts, looking at the earl, as he endeavoured to
keep his eyes open, and at the colonel, to whom it seemed absolutely
a matter of indifference whether his companions were asleep or awake,
he confessed to himself that the price he was paying was almost
too dear. Mrs. Roper's tea-table was not pleasant to him, but even
that would have been preferable to the black dinginess of Pawkins's
mahogany, with the company of two tired old men, with whom he seemed
to have no mutual subject of conversation. Once or twice he tried a
word with the colonel, for the colonel sat with his eyes open looking
at the fire. But he was answered with monosyllables, and it was
evident to him that the colonel did not wish to talk. To sit still,
with his hands closed over each other on his lap, was work enough for
Colonel Dale during his after-dinner hours.

But the earl knew what was going on. During that terrible conflict
between him and his slumber, in which the drowsy god fairly
vanquished him for some twenty minutes, his conscience was always
accusing him of treating his guests badly. He was very angry with
himself, and tried to arouse himself and talk. But his brother-in-law
would not help him in his efforts; and even Eames was not bright in
rendering him assistance. Then for twenty minutes he slept soundly,
and at the end of that he woke himself with one of his own snorts.
"By George!" he said, jumping up and standing on the rug, "we'll have
some coffee;" and after that he did not sleep any more.

"Dale," said he, "won't you take some more wine?"


[ILLUSTRATION: "Won't you take some more wine?"]


"Nothing more," said the colonel, still looking at the fire, and
shaking his head very slowly.

"Come, Johnny, fill your glass." He had already got into the way
of calling his young friend Johnny, having found that Mrs. Eames
generally spoke of her son by that name.

"I have been filling my glass all the time," said Eames, taking the
decanter again in his hand as he spoke.

"I'm glad you've found something to amuse you, for it has seemed to
me that you and Dale haven't had much to say to each other. I've been
listening all the time."

"You've been asleep," said the colonel.

"Then there's been some excuse for my holding my tongue," said the
earl. "By-the-by, Dale, what do you think of that fellow Crosbie?"

Eames' ears were instantly on the alert, and the spirit of dullness
vanished from him.

"Think of him?" said the colonel.

"He ought to have every bone in his skin broken," said the earl.

"So he ought," said Eames, getting up from his chair in his
eagerness, and speaking in a tone somewhat louder than was perhaps
becoming in the presence of his seniors. "So he ought, my lord. He is
the most abominable rascal that ever I met in my life. I wish I was
Lily Dale's brother." Then he sat down again, remembering that he
was speaking in the presence of Lily's uncle, and of the father of
Bernard Dale, who might be supposed to occupy the place of Lily's
brother.

The colonel turned his head round, and looked at the young man with
surprise. "I beg your pardon, sir," said Eames, "but I have known
Mrs. Dale and your nieces all my life."

"Oh, have you?" said the colonel. "Nevertheless it is, perhaps, as
well not to make too free with a young lady's name. Not that I blame
you in the least, Mr. Eames."

"I should think not," said the earl. "I honour him for his feeling.
Johnny, my boy, if ever I am unfortunate enough to meet that man,
I shall tell him my mind, and I believe you will do the same." On
hearing this John Eames winked at the earl, and made a motion with
his head towards the colonel, whose back was turned to him. And then
the earl winked back at Eames.

"De Guest," said the colonel, "I think I'll go upstairs; I always
have a little arrowroot in my own room."

"I'll ring the bell for a candle," said the host. Then the colonel
went, and as the door was closed behind him, the earl raised his two
hands and uttered that single word, "negus!" Whereupon Johnny burst
out laughing, and coming round to the fire, sat himself down in the
arm-chair which the colonel had left.

"I've no doubt it's all right," said the earl; "but I shouldn't like
to drink negus myself, nor yet to have arrowroot up in my bedroom."

"I don't suppose there's any harm in it."

"Oh dear, no; I wonder what Pawkins says about him. But I suppose
they have them of all sorts in an hotel."

"The waiter didn't seem to think much of it when he brought it."

"No, no. If he'd asked for senna and salts, the waiter wouldn't have
showed any surprise. By-the-by, you touched him up about that poor
girl."

"Did I, my lord? I didn't mean it."

"You see he's Bernard Dale's father, and the question is, whether
Bernard shouldn't punish the fellow for what he has done. Somebody
ought to do it. It isn't right that he should escape. Somebody ought
to let Mr. Crosbie know what a scoundrel he has made himself."

"I'd do it to-morrow, only I'm afraid--"

"No, no, no," said the earl; "you are not the right person at all.
What have you got to do with it? You've merely known them as family
friends, but that's not enough."

"No, I suppose not," said Eames, sadly.

"Perhaps it's best as it is," said the earl. "I don't know that any
good would be got by knocking him over the head. And if we are to be
Christians, I suppose we ought to be Christians."

"What sort of a Christian has he been?"

"That's true enough; and if I was Bernard, I should be very apt to
forget my Bible lessons about meekness."

"Do you know, my lord, I should think it the most Christian thing in
the world to pitch into him; I should, indeed. There are some things
for which a man ought to be beaten black and blue."

"So that he shouldn't do them again?"

"Exactly. You might say it isn't Christian to hang a man."

"I'd always hang a murderer. It wasn't right to hang men for stealing
sheep."

"Much better hang such a fellow as Crosbie," said Eames.

"Well, I believe so. If any fellow wanted now to curry favour with
the young lady, what an opportunity he'd have."

Johnny remained silent for a moment or two before he answered. "I'm
not so sure of that," he said, mournfully, as though grieving at the
thought that there was no chance of currying favour with Lily by
thrashing her late lover.

"I don't pretend to know much about girls," said Lord De Guest; "but
I should think it would be so. I should fancy that nothing would
please her so much as hearing that he had caught it, and that all the
world knew that he'd caught it." The earl had declared that he didn't
know much about girls, and in so saying, he was no doubt right.

"If I thought so," said Eames, "I'd find him out to-morrow."

"Why so? what difference does it make to you?" Then there was another
pause, during which Johnny looked very sheepish. "You don't mean to
say that you're in love with Miss Lily Dale?"

"I don't know much about being in love with her," said Johnny,
turning very red as he spoke. And then he made up his mind, in a wild
sort of way, to tell all the truth to his friend. Pawkins's port wine
may, perhaps, have had something to do with the resolution. "But I'd
go through fire and water for her, my lord. I knew her years before
he had ever seen her, and have loved her a great deal better than he
will ever love any one. When I heard that she had accepted him, I had
half a mind to cut my own throat,--or else his."

"Highty tighty," said the earl.

"It's very ridiculous, I know," said Johnny, "and of course she would
never have accepted me."

"I don't see that at all."

"I haven't a shilling in the world."

"Girls don't care much for that."

"And then a clerk in the Income-tax Office! It's such a poor thing."

"The other fellow was only a clerk in another office."

The earl living down at Guestwick did not understand that the
Income-tax Office in the city, and the General Committee Office at
Whitehall, were as far apart as Dives and Lazarus, and separated by
as impassable a gulf.

"Oh, yes," said Johnny; "but his office is another kind of thing, and
then he was a swell himself."

"By George, I don't see it," said the earl.

"I don't wonder a bit at her accepting a fellow like that. I hated
him the first moment I saw him; but that's no reason she should hate
him. He had that sort of manner, you know. He was a swell, and girls
like that kind of thing. I never felt angry with her, but I could
have eaten him." As he spoke he looked as though he would have made
some such attempt had Crosbie been present.

"Did you ever ask her to have you?" said the earl.

"No; how could I ask her, when I hadn't bread to give her?"

"And you never told her--that you were in love with her, I mean, and
all that kind of thing."

"She knows it now," said Johnny; "I went to say good-by to her the
other day,--when I thought she was going to be married. I could not
help telling her then."

"But it seems to me, my dear fellow, that you ought to be very much
obliged to Crosbie;--that is to say, if you've a mind to--"

"I know what you mean, my lord. I am not a bit obliged to him. It's
my belief that all this will about kill her. As to myself, if I
thought she'd ever have me--"

Then he was again silent, and the earl could see that the tears were
in his eyes.

"I think I begin to understand it," said the earl, "and I'll give you
a bit of advice. You come down and spend your Christmas with me at
Guestwick."

"Oh, my lord!"

"Never mind my-lording me, but do as I tell you. Lady Julia sent you
a message, though I forgot all about it till now. She wants to thank
you herself for what you did in the field."

"That's all nonsense, my lord."

"Very well; you can tell her so. You may take my word for this,
too,--my sister hates Crosbie quite as much as you do. I think she'd
'pitch into him,' as you call it, herself, if she knew how. You come
down to Guestwick for the Christmas, and then go over to Allington
and tell them all plainly what you mean."

"I couldn't say a word to her now."

"Say it to the squire, then. Go to him, and tell him what you
mean,--holding your head up like a man. Don't talk to me about
swells. The man who means honestly is the best swell I know. He's
the only swell I recognize. Go to old Dale, and say you come from
me,--from Guestwick Manor. Tell him that if he'll put a little
stick under the pot to make it boil, I'll put a bigger one. He'll
understand what that means."

"Oh, no, my lord."

"But I say, oh, yes;" and the earl, who was now standing on the rug
before the fire, dug his hands deep down into his trousers' pockets.
"I'm very fond of that girl, and would do much for her. You ask Lady
Julia if I didn't say so to her before I ever knew of your casting
a sheep's-eye that way. And I've a sneaking kindness for you too,
Master Johnny. Lord bless you, I knew your father as well as I ever
knew any man; and to tell the truth, I believe I helped to ruin him.
He held land of me, you know, and there can't be any doubt that
he did ruin himself. He knew no more about a beast when he'd done,
than--than--than that waiter. If he'd gone on to this day he wouldn't
have been any wiser."

Johnny sat silent, with his eyes full of tears. What was he to say to
his friend?

"You come down with me," continued the earl, "and you'll find we'll
make it all straight. I daresay you're right about not speaking to
the girl just at present. But tell everything to the uncle, and then
to the mother. And, above all things, never think that you're not
good enough yourself. A man should never think that. My belief is
that in life people will take you very much at your own reckoning. If
you are made of dirt, like that fellow Crosbie, you'll be found out
at last, no doubt. But then I don't think you are made of dirt."

"I hope not."

"And so do I. You can come down, I suppose, with me the day after
to-morrow?"

"I'm afraid not. I have had all my leave."

"Shall I write to old Buffle, and ask it as a favour?"

"No," said Johnny; "I shouldn't like that. But I'll see to-morrow,
and then I'll let you know. I can go down by the mail train on
Saturday, at any rate."

"That won't be comfortable. See and come with me if you can. Now,
good-night, my dear fellow, and remember this,--when I say a thing
I mean it. I think I may boast that I never yet went back from my
word."

The earl as he spoke gave his left hand to his guest, and looking
somewhat grandly up over the young man's head, he tapped his own
breast thrice with his right hand. As he went through the little
scene, John Eames felt that he was every inch an earl.

"I don't know what to say to you, my lord."

"Say nothing,--not a word more to me. But say to yourself that faint
heart never won fair lady. Good-night, my dear boy, good-night. I
dine out to-morrow, but you can call and let me know at about six."

Eames then left the room without another word, and walked out into
the cold air of Jermyn Street. The moon was clear and bright, and
the pavement in the shining light seemed to be as clean as a lady's
hand. All the world was altered to him since he had entered Pawkins's
Hotel. Was it then possible that Lily Dale might even yet become his
wife? Could it be true that he, even now, was in a position to go
boldly to the Squire of Allington, and tell him what were his views
with reference to Lily? And how far would he be justified in taking
the earl at his word? Some incredible amount of wealth would be
required before he could marry Lily Dale. Two or three hundred pounds
a year at the very least! The earl could not mean him to understand
that any such sum as that would be made up with such an object!
Nevertheless he resolved as he walked home to Burton Crescent that he
would go down to Guestwick, and that he would obey the earl's behest.
As regarded Lily herself he felt that nothing could be said to her
for many a long day as yet.

"Oh, John, how late you are!" said Amelia, slipping out from the back
parlour as he let himself in with his latch-key.

"Yes, I am;--very late," said John, taking his candle, and passing
her by on the stairs without another word.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

"THE TIME WILL COME."


"Did you hear that young Eames is staying at Guestwick Manor?"

As these were the first words which the squire spoke to Mrs. Dale
as they walked together up to the Great House, after church, on
Christmas Day, it was clear enough that the tidings of Johnny's
visit, when told to him, had made some impression.

"At Guestwick Manor!" said Mrs. Dale. "Dear me! Do you hear that,
Bell? There's promotion for Master Johnny!"

"Don't you remember, mamma," said Bell, "that he helped his lordship
in his trouble with the bull?"

Lily, who remembered accurately all the passages of her last
interview with John Eames, said nothing, but felt, in some sort, sore
at the idea that he should be so near her at such a time. In some
unconscious way she had liked him for coming to her and saying all
that he did say. She valued him more highly after that scene than
she did before. But now, she would feel herself injured and hurt if
he ever made his way into her presence under circumstances as they
existed.

"I should not have thought that Lord De Guest was the man to show so
much gratitude for so slight a favour," said the squire. "However,
I'm going to dine there to-morrow."

"To meet young Eames?" said Mrs. Dale.

"Yes,--especially to meet young Eames. At least, I've been very
specially asked to come, and I've been told that he is to be there."

"And is Bernard going?"

"Indeed I'm not," said Bernard. "I shall come over and dine with
you."

A half-formed idea flitted across Lily's mind, teaching her to
imagine for a moment that she might possibly be concerned in this
arrangement. But the thought vanished as quickly as it came, merely
leaving some soreness behind it. There are certain maladies which
make the whole body sore. The patient, let him be touched on any
point,--let him even be nearly touched,--will roar with agony as
though his whole body had been bruised. So it is also with maladies
of the mind. Sorrows such as that of poor Lily's leave the heart sore
at every point, and compel the sufferer to be ever in fear of new
wounds. Lily bore her cross bravely and well; but not the less did
it weigh heavily upon her at every turn because she had the strength
to walk as though she did not bear it. Nothing happened to her,
or in her presence, that did not in some way connect itself with
her misery. Her uncle was going over to meet John Eames at Lord De
Guest's. Of course the men there would talk about her, and all such
talking was an injury to her.

The afternoon of that day did not pass away brightly. As long as the
servants were in the room the dinner went on much as other dinners.
At such times a certain amount of hypocrisy must always be practised
in closely domestic circles. At mixed dinner-parties people can talk
before Richard and William the same words that they would use if
Richard and William were not there. People so mixed do not talk
together their inward home thoughts. But when close friends are
together, a little conscious reticence is practised till the door
is tiled. At such a meeting as this that conscious reticence was of
service, and created an effect which was salutary. When the door
was tiled, and when the servants were gone, how could they be merry
together? By what mirth should the beards be made to wag on that
Christmas Day?

"My father has been up in town," said Bernard. "He was with Lord De
Guest at Pawkins's."

"Why didn't you go and see him?" asked Mrs. Dale.

"Well, I don't know. He did not seem to wish it. I shall go down
to Torquay in February. I must be up in London, you know, in a
fortnight, for good." Then they were all silent again for a few
minutes. If Bernard could have owned the truth, he would have
acknowledged that he had not gone up to London, because he did not
yet know how to treat Crosbie when he should meet him. His thoughts
on this matter threw some sort of shadow across poor Lily's mind,
making her feel that her wound was again opened.

"I want him to give up his profession altogether," said the squire,
speaking firmly and slowly. "It would be better, I think, for both of
us that he should do so."

"Would it be wise at his time of life," said Mrs. Dale, "and when he
has been doing so well?"

"I think it would be wise. If he were my son it would be thought
better that he should live here upon the property, among the people
who are to become his tenants, than remain up in London, or perhaps
be sent to India. He has one profession as the heir of this place,
and that, I think, should be enough."

"I should have but an idle life of it down here," said Bernard.

"That would be your own fault. But if you did as I would have you,
your life would not be idle." In this he was alluding to Bernard's
proposed marriage, but as to that nothing further could be said in
Bell's presence. Bell understood it all, and sat quite silent, with
demure countenance;--perhaps even with something of sternness in her
face.

"But the fact is," said Mrs. Dale, speaking in a low tone, and having
well considered what she was about to say, "that Bernard is not
exactly the same as your son."

"Why not?" said the squire. "I have even offered to settle the
property on him if he will leave the service."

"You do not owe him so much as you would owe your son; and,
therefore, he does not owe you as much as he would owe his father."

"If you mean that I cannot constrain him, I know that well enough.
As regards money, I have offered to do for him quite as much as any
father would feel called upon to do for an only son."

"I hope you don't think me ungrateful," said Bernard.

"No, I do not; but I think you unmindful. I have nothing more to say
about it, however;--not about that. If you should marry--" And then
he stopped himself, feeling that he could not go on in Bell's
presence.

"If he should marry," said Mrs. Dale, "it may well be that his wife
would like a house of her own."

"Wouldn't she have this house?" said the squire, angrily. "Isn't it
big enough? I only want one room for myself, and I'd give up that if
it were necessary."

"That's nonsense," said Mrs. Dale.

"It isn't nonsense," said the squire.

"You'll be squire of Allington for the next twenty years," said Mrs.
Dale. "And as long as you are the squire, you'll be master of this
house; at least, I hope so. I don't approve of monarchs abdicating in
favour of young people."

"I don't think uncle Christopher would look at all well like Charles
the Fifth," said Lily.

"I would always keep a cell for you, my darling, if I did," said the
squire, regarding her with that painful, special tenderness. Lily,
who was sitting next to Mrs. Dale, put her hand out secretly and got
hold of her mother's, thereby indicating that she did not intend to
occupy the cell offered to her by her uncle; or to look to him as the
companion of her monastic seclusion. After that there was nothing
more then said as to Bernard's prospects.

"Mrs. Hearn is dining at the vicarage, I suppose?" asked the squire.

"Yes; she went in after church," said Bell. "I saw her go with Mrs.
Boyce."

"She told me she never would dine with them again after dark in
winter," said Mrs. Dale. "The last time she was there, the boy let
the lamp blow out as she was going home, and she lost her way. The
truth was, she was angry because Mr. Boyce didn't go with her."

"She's always angry," said the squire. "She hardly speaks to me now.
When she paid her rent the other day to Jolliffe, she said she hoped
it would do me much good; as though she thought me a brute for taking
it."

"So she does," said Bernard.

"She's very old, you know," said Bell.

"I'd give her the house for nothing, if I were you, uncle," said
Lily.

"No, my dear; if you were me you would not. I should be very wrong
to do so. Why should Mrs. Hearn have her house for nothing, any more
than her meat or her clothes? It would be much more reasonable were I
to give her so much money into her hand yearly; but it would be wrong
in me to do so, seeing that she is not an object of charity;--and it
would be wrong in her to take it."

"And she wouldn't take it," said Mrs. Dale.

"I don't think she would. But if she did, I'm sure she would grumble
because it wasn't double the amount. And if Mr. Boyce had gone home
with her, she would have grumbled because he walked too fast."

"She is very old," said Bell, again.

"But, nevertheless, she ought to know better than to speak
disparagingly of me to my servants. She should have more respect for
herself." And the squire showed by the tone of his voice that he
thought very much about it.

It was very long and very dull that Christmas evening, making
Bernard feel strongly that he would be very foolish to give up his
profession, and tie himself down to a life at Allington. Women
are more accustomed than men to long, dull, unemployed hours; and,
therefore, Mrs. Dale and her daughters bore the tedium courageously.
While he yawned, stretched himself, and went in and out of the room,
they sat demurely, listening as the squire laid down the law on
small matters, and contradicting him occasionally when the spirit
of either of them prompted her specially to do so. "Of course you
know much better than I do," he would say. "Not at all," Mrs. Dale
would answer. "I don't pretend to know anything about it. But--" So
the evening wore itself away; and when the squire was left alone at
half-past nine, he did not feel that the day had passed badly with
him. That was his style of life, and he expected no more from it than
he got. He did not look to find things very pleasant, and, if not
happy, he was, at any rate, contented.

"Only think of Johnny Eames being at Guestwick Manor!" said Bell, as
they were going home.

"I don't see why he shouldn't be there," said Lily. "I would rather
it should be he than I, because Lady Julia is so grumpy."

"But asking your uncle Christopher especially to meet him!" said Mrs.
Dale. "There must be some reason for it." Then Lily felt the soreness
come upon her again, and spoke no further upon the subject.

We all know that there was a special reason, and that Lily's soreness
was not false in its mysterious forebodings. Eames, on the evening
after his dinner at Pawkins's, had seen the earl, and explained to
him that he could not leave town till the Saturday evening; but that
he could remain over the Tuesday. He must be at his office by twelve
on Wednesday, and could manage to do that by an early train from
Guestwick.

"Very well, Johnny," said the earl, talking to his young friend with
the bedroom candle in his hand, as he was going up to dress. "Then
I'll tell you what; I've been thinking of it. I'll ask Dale to come
over to dinner on Tuesday; and if he'll come, I'll explain the whole
matter to him myself. He's a man of business, and he'll understand.
If he won't come, why then you must go over to Allington, and find
him, if you can, on the Tuesday morning; or I'll go to him myself,
which will be better. You mustn't keep me now, as I am ever so much
too late."

Eames did not attempt to keep him, but went away feeling that the
whole matter was being arranged for him in a very wonderful way. And
when he got to Allington he found that the squire had accepted the
earl's invitation. Then he declared to himself that there was no
longer any possibility of retractation for him. Of course he did not
wish to retract. The one great longing of his life was to call Lily
Dale his own. But he felt afraid of the squire,--that the squire
would despise him and snub him, and that the earl would perceive that
he had made a mistake when he saw how his client was scorned and
snubbed. It was arranged that the earl was to take the squire into
his own room for a few minutes before dinner, and Johnny felt that he
would be hardly able to stand his ground in the drawing-room when the
two old men should make their appearance together.

He got on very well with Lady Julia, who gave herself no airs, and
made herself very civil. Her brother had told her the whole story,
and she felt as anxious as he did to provide Lily with another
husband in place of that horrible man Crosbie. "She has been very
fortunate in her escape," she said to her brother; "very fortunate."
The earl agreed with this, saying that in his opinion his own
favourite Johnny would make much the nicer lover of the two. But Lady
Julia had her doubts as to Lily's acquiescence. "But, Theodore, he
must not speak to Miss Lilian Dale herself about it yet a while."

"No," said the earl; "not for a month or so."

"He will have a better chance if he can remain silent for six
months," said Lady Julia.

"Bless my soul! somebody else will have picked her up before that,"
said the earl.

In answer to this Lady Julia merely shook her head.

Johnny went over to his mother on Christmas Day after church, and was
received by her and by his sister with great honour. And she gave
him many injunctions as to his behaviour at the earl's table, even
descending to small details about his boots and linen. But Johnny had
already begun to feel at the Manor that, after all, people are not so
very different in their ways of life as they are supposed to be. Lady
Julia's manners were certainly not quite those of Mrs. Roper; but
she made the tea very much in the way in which it was made at Burton
Crescent, and Eames found that he could eat his egg, at any rate on
the second morning, without any tremor in his hand, in spite of the
coronet on the silver egg-cup. He did feel himself to be rather out
of his place in the Manor pew on the Sunday, conceiving that all the
congregation was looking at him; but he got over this on Christmas
Day, and sat quite comfortably in his soft corner during the sermon,
almost going to sleep. And when he walked with the earl after church
to the gate over which the noble peer had climbed in his agony, and
inspected the hedge through which he had thrown himself, he was quite
at home with his little jokes, bantering his august companion as to
the mode of his somersault. But be it always remembered that there
are two modes in which a young man may be free and easy with his
elder and superior,--the mode pleasant and the mode offensive. Had it
been in Johnny's nature to try the latter, the earl's back would soon
have been up at once, and the play would have been over. But it was
not in Johnny's nature to do so, and therefore it was that the earl
liked him.

At last came the hour of dinner on Tuesday, or at least the hour at
which the squire had been asked to show himself at the Manor House.
Eames, as by agreement with his patron, did not come down so as to
show himself till after the interview. Lady Julia, who had been
present at their discussions, had agreed to receive the squire; and
then a servant was to ask him to step into the earl's own room. It
was pretty to see the way in which the three conspired together,
planning and plotting with an eagerness that was beautifully green
and fresh.

"He can be as cross as an old stick when he likes it," said the earl,
speaking of the squire; "and we must take care not to rub him the
wrong way."

"I shan't know what to say to him when I come down," said Johnny.

"Just shake hands with him and don't say anything," said Lady Julia.

"I'll give him some port wine that ought to soften his heart," said
the earl, "and then we'll see how he is in the evening."

Eames heard the wheels of the squire's little open carriage and
trembled. The squire, unconscious of all schemes, soon found himself
with Lady Julia, and within two minutes of his entrance was walked
off to the earl's private room. "Certainly," he said, "certainly;"
and followed the man-servant. The earl, as he entered, was standing
in the middle of the room, and his round rosy face was a picture of
good-humour.

"I'm very glad you've come, Dale," said he. "I've something I want to
say to you."

Mr. Dale, who neither in heart nor in manner was so light a man as
the earl, took the proffered hand of his host, and bowed his head
slightly, signifying that he was willing to listen to anything.

"I think I told you," continued the earl, "that young John Eames is
down here; but he goes back to-morrow, as they can't spare him at his
office. He's a very good fellow,--as far as I am able to judge, an
uncommonly good young man. I've taken a great fancy to him myself."

In answer to this Mr. Dale did not say much. He sat down, and in some
general terms expressed his good-will towards all the Eames family.

"As you know, Dale, I'm a very bad hand at talking, and therefore
I won't beat about the bush in what I've got to say at present. Of
course we've all heard of that scoundrel Crosbie, and the way he has
treated your niece Lilian."

"He is a scoundrel,--an unmixed scoundrel. But the less we say about
that the better. It is ill mentioning a girl's name in such a matter
as that."

"But, my dear Dale, I must mention it at the present moment. Dear
young child, I would do anything to comfort her! And I hope that
something may be done to comfort her. Do you know that that young man
was in love with her long before Crosbie ever saw her?"

"What;--John Eames!"

"Yes, John Eames. And I wish heartily for his sake that he had won
her regard before she had met that rascal whom you had to stay down
at your house."

"A man cannot help these things, De Guest," said the squire.

"No, no, no! There are such men about the world, and it is impossible
to know them at a glance. He was my nephew's friend, and I am not
going to say that my nephew was in fault. But I wish,--I only say
that I wish,--she had first known what are this young man's feelings
towards her."

"But she might not have thought of him as you do."

"He is an uncommonly good-looking young fellow; straight made, broad
in the chest, with a good, honest eye, and a young man's proper
courage. He has never been taught to give himself airs like a dancing
monkey; but I think he's all the better for that."

"But it's too late now, De Guest."

"No, no; that's just where it is. It mustn't be too late! That child
is not to lose her whole life because a villain has played her false.
Of course she'll suffer. Just at present it wouldn't do, I suppose,
to talk to her about a new sweetheart. But, Dale, the time will come;
the time will come;--the time always does come."

"It has never come to you and me," said the squire, with the
slightest possible smile on his dry cheeks. The story of their
lives had been so far the same; each had loved, and each had been
disappointed, and then each had remained single through life.

"Yes, it has," said the earl, with no slight touch of feeling and
even of romance in what he said. "We have retricked our beams in our
own ways, and our lives have not been desolate. But for her,--you and
her mother will look forward to see her married some day."

"I have not thought about it."

"But I want you to think about it. I want to interest you in this
fellow's favour; and in doing so, I mean to be very open with you.
I suppose you'll give her something?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," said the squire, almost offended at an
inquiry of such a nature.

"Well, then, whether you do or not, I'll give him something," said
the earl. "I shouldn't have ventured to meddle in the matter had I
not intended to put myself in such a position with reference to him
as would justify me in asking the question." And the peer as he spoke
drew himself up to his full height. "If such a match can be made, it
shall not be a bad marriage for your niece in a pecuniary point of
view. I shall have pleasure in giving to him; but I shall have more
pleasure if she can share what I give."

"She ought to be very much obliged to you," said the squire.

"I think she would be if she knew young Eames. I hope the day may
come when she will be so. I hope that you and I may see them happy
together, and that you too may thank me for having assisted in making
them so. Shall we go in to Lady Julia now?" The earl had felt that he
had not quite succeeded; that his offer had been accepted somewhat
coldly, and had not much hope that further good could be done on that
day, even with the help of his best port wine.

"Half a moment," said the squire. "There are matters as to which I
never find myself able to speak quickly, and this certainly seems to
be one of them. If you will allow me I will think over what you have
said, and then see you again."

"Certainly, certainly."

"But for your own part in the matter, for your great generosity and
kind heart, I beg to offer you my warmest thanks." Then the squire
bowed low, and preceded the earl out of the room.

Lord De Guest still felt that he had not succeeded. We may probably
say, looking at the squire's character and peculiarities, that no
marked success was probable at the first opening-out of such a
subject. He had said of himself that he was never able to speak
quickly in matters of moment; but he would more correctly have
described his own character had he declared that he could not think
of them quickly. As it was, the earl was disappointed; but had he
been able to read the squire's mind, his disappointment would have
been less strong. Mr. Dale knew well enough that he was being treated
well, and that the effort being made was intended with kindness
to those belonging to him; but it was not in his nature to be
demonstrative and quick at expressions of gratitude. So he entered
the drawing-room with a cold, placid face, leading Eames, and Lady
Julia also, to suppose that no good had been done.

"How do you do, sir?" said Johnny, walking up to him in a wild sort
of manner,--going through a premeditated lesson, but doing it without
any presence of mind.

"How do you do, Eames?" said the squire, speaking with a very cold
voice. And then there was nothing further said till the dinner was
announced.

"Dale, I know you drink port," said the earl when Lady Julia left
them. "If you say you don't like that, I shall say you know nothing
about it."

"Ah! that's the '20," said the squire, tasting it.

"I should rather think it is," said the earl. "I was lucky enough to
get it early, and it hasn't been moved for thirty years. I like to
give it to a man who knows it, as you do, at the first glance. Now
there's my friend Johnny there; it's thrown away upon him."

"No, my lord, it is not. I think it's uncommonly nice."

"Uncommonly nice! So is champagne, or ginger-beer, or lollipops,--for
those who like them. Do you mean to tell me you can taste wine with
half a pickled orange in your mouth?"

"It'll come to him soon enough," said the squire.

"Twenty port won't come to him when he is as old as we are," said the
earl, forgetting that by that time sixty port will be as wonderful to
the then living seniors of the age as was his own pet vintage to him.

The good wine did in some sort soften the squire; but, as a matter
of course, nothing further was said as to the new matrimonial scheme.
The earl did observe, however, that Mr. Dale was civil, and even
kind, to his own young friend, asking a question here and there as
to his life in London, and saying something about the work at the
Income-tax Office.

"It is hard work," said Eames. "If you're under the line, they make
a great row about it, send for you, and look at you as though you'd
been robbing the bank; but they think nothing of keeping you till
five."

"But how long do you have for lunch and reading the papers?" said the
earl.

"Not ten minutes. We take a paper among twenty of us for half the
day. That's exactly nine minutes to each; and as for lunch, we only
have a biscuit dipped in ink."

"Dipped in ink!" said the squire.

"It comes to that, for you have to be writing while you munch it."

"I hear all about you," said the earl; "Sir Raffle Buffle is an old
crony of mine."

"I don't suppose he ever heard my name as yet," said Johnny. "But do
you really know him well, Lord De Guest?"

"Haven't seen him these thirty years; but I did know him."

"We call him old Huffle Scuffle."

"Huffle Scuffle! Ha, ha, ha! He always was Huffle Scuffle; a noisy,
pretentious, empty-headed fellow. But I oughtn't to say so before
you, young man. Come, we'll go into the drawing-room."

"And what did he say?" asked Lady Julia, as soon as the squire was
gone.

There was no attempt at concealment, and the question was asked in
Johnny's presence.

"Well, he did not say much. And coming from him, that ought to be
taken as a good sign. He is to think of it, and let me see him again.
You hold your head up, Johnny, and remember that you shan't want a
friend on your side. Faint heart never won fair lady."

At seven o'clock on the following morning Eames started on his return
journey, and was at his desk at twelve o'clock,--as per agreement
with his taskmaster at the Income-tax Office.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE COMBAT.


[ILLUSTRATION: (untitled)]

I have said that John Eames was at his office punctually at twelve;
but an incident had happened before his arrival there very important
in the annals which are now being told,--so important that it
is essentially necessary that it should be described with some
minuteness of detail.

Lord De Guest, in the various conversations which he had had with
Eames as to Lily Dale and her present position, had always spoken
of Crosbie with the most vehement abhorrence. "He is a damned
blackguard," said the earl, and the fire had come out of his round
eyes as he spoke. Now the earl was by no means given to cursing and
swearing, in the sense which is ordinarily applied to these words.
When he made use of such a phrase as that quoted above, it was to be
presumed that he in some sort meant what he said; and so he did, and
had intended to signify that Crosbie by his conduct had merited all
such condemnation as was the fitting punishment for blackguardism of
the worst description.

"He ought to have his neck broken," said Johnny.

"I don't know about that," said the earl. "The present times have
become so pretty behaved that corporal punishment seems to have gone
out of fashion. I shouldn't care so much about that, if any other
punishment had taken its place. But it seems to me that a blackguard
such as Crosbie can escape now altogether unscathed."

"He hasn't escaped yet," said Johnny.

"Don't you go and put your finger in the pie and make a fool of
yourself," said the earl. If it had behoved any one to resent in any
violent fashion the evil done by Crosbie, Bernard Dale, the earl's
nephew, should have been the avenger. This the earl felt, but under
these circumstances he was disposed to think that there should be no
such violent vengeance. "Things were different when I was young," he
said to himself. But Eames gathered from the earl's tone that the
earl's words were not strictly in accordance with his thoughts, and
he declared to himself over and over again that Crosbie had not yet
escaped.

He got into the train at Guestwick, taking a first-class ticket,
because the earl's groom in livery was in attendance upon him. Had
he been alone he would have gone in a cheaper carriage. Very weak in
him, was it not? little also, and mean? My friend, can you say that
you would not have done the same at his age? Are you quite sure that
you would not do the same now that you are double his age? Be that as
it may, Johnny Eames did that foolish thing, and gave the groom in
livery half-a-crown into the bargain.

"We shall have you down again soon, Mr. John," said the groom, who
seemed to understand that Mr. Eames was to be made quite at home at
the manor.

He went fast to sleep in the carriage, and did not awake till the
train was stopped at the Barchester Junction.

"Waiting for the up-train from Barchester, sir," said the guard.
"They're always late." Then he went to sleep again, and was aroused
in a few minutes by some one entering the carriage in a great hurry.
The branch train had come in, just as the guardians of the line then
present had made up their minds that the passengers on the main line
should not be kept waiting any longer. The transfer of men, women,
and luggage was therefore made in great haste, and they who were
now taking their new seats had hardly time to look about them. An
old gentleman, very red about the gills, first came into Johnny's
carriage, which up to that moment he had shared with an old lady.
The old gentleman was abusing everybody, because he was hurried, and
would not take himself well into the compartment, but stuck in the
doorway, standing on the step.

"Now, sir, when you're quite at leisure," said a voice behind the old
man, which instantly made Eames start up in his seat.

"I'm not at all at leisure," said the old man; "and I'm not going to
break my legs if I know it."

"Take your time, sir," said the guard.

"So I mean," said the old man, seating himself in the corner nearest
to the open door, opposite to the old lady. Then Eames saw plainly
that it was Crosbie who had first spoken, and that he was getting
into the carriage.

Crosbie at the first glance saw no one but the old gentleman and the
old lady, and he immediately made for the unoccupied corner seat.
He was busy with his umbrella and his dressing-bag, and a little
flustered by the pushing and hurrying. The carriage was actually
in motion before he perceived that John Eames was opposite to him:
Eames had, instinctively, drawn up his legs so as not to touch him.
He felt that he had become very red in the face, and to tell the
truth, the perspiration had broken out upon his brow. It was a
great occasion,--great in its imminent trouble, and great in its
opportunity for action. How was he to carry himself at the first
moment of his recognition by his enemy, and what was he to do
afterwards?

It need hardly be explained that Crosbie had also been spending his
Christmas with a certain earl of his acquaintance, and that he too
was returning to his office. In one respect he had been much more
fortunate than poor Eames, for he had been made happy with the smiles
of his lady love. Alexandrina and the countess had fluttered about
him softly, treating him as a tame chattel, now belonging to the
noble house of De Courcy, and in this way he had been initiated into
the inner domesticities of that illustrious family. The two extra
men-servants, hired to wait upon Lady Dumbello, had vanished. The
champagne had ceased to flow in a perennial stream. Lady Rosina had
come out from her solitude, and had preached at him constantly. Lady
Margaretta had given him some lessons in economy. The Honourable
John, in spite of a late quarrel, had borrowed five pounds from him.
The Honourable George had engaged to come and stay with his sister
during the next May. The earl had used a father-in-law's privilege,
and had called him a fool. Lady Alexandrina had told him more than
once, in rather a tart voice, that this must be done, and that that
must be done; and the countess had given him her orders as though
it was his duty, in the course of nature, to obey every word that
fell from her. Such had been his Christmas delights; and now, as he
returned back from the enjoyment of them, he found himself confronted
in the railway carriage with Johnny Eames!

The eyes of the two met, and Crosbie made a slight inclination of
his head. To this Eames gave no acknowledgment whatever, but looked
straight into the other's face. Crosbie immediately saw that they
were not to know each other, and was well contented that it should be
so. Among all his many troubles, the enmity of John Eames did not go
for much. He showed no appearance of being disconcerted, though our
friend had shown much. He opened his bag, and taking out a book was
soon deeply engaged in it, pursuing his studies as though the man
opposite was quite unknown to him. I will not say that his mind did
not run away from his book, for indeed there were many things of
which he found it impossible not to think; but it did not revert to
John Eames. Indeed, when the carriages reached Paddington, he had in
truth all but forgotten him; and as he stepped out of the carriage,
with his bag in his hand, was quite free from any remotest trouble on
his account.

But it had not been so with Eames himself. Every moment of the
journey had for him been crowded with thought as to what he would do
now that chance had brought his enemy within his reach. He had been
made quite wretched by the intensity of his thinking; and yet, when
the carriages stopped, he had not made up his mind. His face had been
covered with perspiration ever since Crosbie had come across him, and
his limbs had hardly been under his own command. Here had come to him
a great opportunity, and he felt so little confidence in himself that
he almost knew that he would not use it properly. Twice and thrice
he had almost flown at Crosbie's throat in the carriage, but he was
restrained by an idea that the world and the police would be against
him if he did such a thing in the presence of that old lady.

But when Crosbie turned his back upon him, and walked out, it was
absolutely necessary that he should do something. He was not going to
let the man escape, after all that he had said as to the expediency
of thrashing him. Any other disgrace would be preferable to that.
Fearing, therefore, lest his enemy should be too quick for him,
he hurried out after him, and only just gave Crosbie time to turn
round and face the carriages before he was upon him. "You confounded
scoundrel!" he screamed out. "You confounded scoundrel!" and seized
him by the throat, throwing himself upon him, and almost devouring
him by the fury of his eyes.

The crowd upon the platform was not very dense, but there were quite
enough of people to make a very respectable audience for this little
play. Crosbie, in his dismay, retreated a step or two, and his
retreat was much accelerated by the weight of Eames's attack. He
endeavoured to free his throat from his foe's grasp; but in that he
failed entirely. For the minute, however, he did manage to escape any
positive blow, owing his safety in that respect rather to Eames's
awkwardness than to his own efforts. Something about the police he
was just able to utter, and there was, as a matter of course, an
immediate call for a supply of those functionaries. In about three
minutes three policemen, assisted by six porters, had captured our
poor friend Johnny; but this had not been done quick enough for
Crosbie's purposes. The bystanders, taken by surprise, had allowed
the combatants to fall back upon Mr. Smith's book-stall, and there
Eames laid his foe prostrate among the newspapers, falling himself
into the yellow shilling-novel depot by the over fury of his own
energy; but as he fell, he contrived to lodge one blow with his fist
in Crosbie's right eye,--one telling blow; and Crosbie had, to all
intents and purposes, been thrashed.

"Con--founded scoundrel, rascal, blackguard!" shouted Johnny, with
what remnants of voice were left to him, as the police dragged him
off. "If you only knew--what he's--done." But in the meantime the
policemen held him fast.

As a matter of course the first burst of public sympathy went with
Crosbie. He had been assaulted, and the assault had come from Eames.
In the British bosom there is so firm a love of well-constituted
order, that these facts alone were sufficient to bring twenty knights
to the assistance of the three policemen and the six porters; so that
for Eames, even had he desired it, there was no possible chance of
escape. But he did not desire it. One only sorrow consumed him at
present. He had, as he felt, attacked Crosbie, but had attacked
him in vain. He had had his opportunity, and had misused it. He
was perfectly unconscious of that happy blow, and was in absolute
ignorance of the great fact that his enemy's eye was already swollen
and closed, and that in another hour it would be as black as his hat.

"He is a con--founded rascal!" ejaculated Eames, as the policemen and
porters hauled him about. "You don't know what he's done."

"No, we don't," said the senior constable; "but we know what you have
done. I say, Bushers, where's that gentleman? He'd better come along
with us."

Crosbie had been picked up from among the newspapers by another
policeman and two or three other porters, and was attended also by
the guard of the train, who knew him, and knew that he had come up
from Courcy Castle. Three or four hangers-on were standing also
around him, together with a benevolent medical man who was proposing
to him an immediate application of leeches. If he could have done
as he wished, he would have gone his way quietly, allowing Eames to
do the same. A great evil had befallen him, but he could in no way
mitigate that evil by taking the law of the man who had attacked him.
To have the thing as little talked about as possible should be his
endeavour. What though he should have Eames locked up and fined, and
scolded by a police magistrate? That would not in any degree lessen
his calamity. If he could have parried the attack, and got the better
of his foe; if he could have administered the black eye instead of
receiving it, then indeed he could have laughed the matter off at his
club, and his original crime would have been somewhat glozed over by
his success in arms. But such good fortune had not been his. He was
forced, however, on the moment to decide as to what he would do.

"We've got him here in custody, sir," said Bushers, touching his hat.
It had become known from the guard that Crosbie was somewhat of a big
man, a frequent guest at Courcy Castle, and of repute and station in
the higher regions of the Metropolitan world. "The magistrates will
be sitting at Paddington, now, sir--or will be by the time we get
there."

By this time some mighty railway authority had come upon the scene
and made himself cognizant of the facts of the row,--a stern official
who seemed to carry the weight of many engines on his brow; one at
the very sight of whom smokers would drop their cigars, and porters
close their fists against sixpences; a great man with an erect chin,
a quick step, and a well-brushed hat powerful with an elaborately
upturned brim. This was the platform-superintendent, dominant even
over the policemen.

"Step into my room, Mr. Crosbie," he said. "Stubbs, bring that man
in with you." And then, before Crosbie had been able to make up
his mind as to any other line of conduct, he found himself in the
superintendent's room, accompanied by the guard, and by the two
policemen who conducted Johnny Eames between them.

"What's all this?" said the superintendent, still keeping on his hat,
for he was aware how much of the excellence of his personal dignity
was owing to the arrangement of that article; and as he spoke he
frowned upon the culprit with his utmost severity. "Mr. Crosbie, I am
very sorry that you should have been exposed to such brutality on our
platform."

"You don't know what he has done," said Johnny. "He is the most
confounded scoundrel living. He has broken--" But then he stopped
himself. He was going to tell the superintendent that the confounded
scoundrel had broken a beautiful young lady's heart; but he bethought
himself that he would not allude more specially to Lily Dale in that
hearing.

"Do you know who he is, Mr. Crosbie?" said the superintendent.

"Oh, yes," said Crosbie, whose eye was already becoming blue. "He is
a clerk in the Income-tax Office, and his name is Eames. I believe
you had better leave him to me."

But the superintendent at once wrote down the words "Income-tax
Office--Eames," on his tablet. "We can't allow a row like that to
take place on our platform and not notice it. I shall bring it before
the directors. It's a most disgraceful affair, Mr. Eames--most
disgraceful."

But Johnny by this time had perceived that Crosbie's eye was in a
state which proved satisfactorily that his morning's work had not
been thrown away, and his spirits were rising accordingly. He did not
care two straws for the superintendent or even for the policemen, if
only the story could be made to tell well for himself hereafter. It
was his object to have thrashed Crosbie, and now, as he looked at his
enemy's face, he acknowledged that Providence had been good to him.

"That's your opinion," said Johnny.

"Yes, sir, it is," said the superintendent; "and I shall know how to
represent the matter to your superiors, young man."

"You don't know all about it," said Eames; "and I don't suppose you
ever will. I had made up my mind what I'd do the first time I saw
that scoundrel there; and now I've done it. He'd have got much worse
in the railway carriage, only there was a lady there."

"Mr. Crosbie, I really think we had better take him before the
magistrates."

To this, however, Crosbie objected. He assured the superintendent
that he would himself know how to deal with the matter--which,
however, was exactly what he did not know. Would the superintendent
allow one of the railway servants to get a cab for him, and to find
his luggage? He was very anxious to get home without being subjected
to any more of Mr. Eames's insolence.

"You haven't done with Mr. Eames's insolence yet, I can tell you. All
London shall hear of it, and shall know why. If you have any shame in
you, you shall be ashamed to show your face."

Unfortunate man! Who can say that punishment--adequate
punishment--had not overtaken him? For the present, he had to sneak
home with a black eye, with the knowledge inside him that he had been
whipped by a clerk in the Income-tax Office; and for the future--he
was bound over to marry Lady Alexandrina De Courcy!

He got himself smuggled off in a cab, without being forced to go
again upon the platform--his luggage being brought to him by two
assiduous porters. But in all this there was very little balm for his
hurt pride. As he ordered the cabman to drive to Mount Street, he
felt that he had ruined himself by that step in life which he had
taken at Courcy Castle. Whichever way he looked he had no comfort.
"D---- the fellow!" he said, almost out loud in the cab; but though
he did with his outward voice allude to Eames, the curse in his inner
thoughts was uttered against himself.

Johnny was allowed to make his way down to the platform, and there
find his own carpet-bag. One young porter, however, came up and
fraternized with him.

"You guve it him tidy just at that last moment, sir. But, laws, sir,
you should have let out at him at fust. What's the use of clawing a
man's neck-collar?"

It was then a quarter past eleven, but, nevertheless, Eames appeared
at his office precisely at twelve.




CHAPTER XXXV.

VAE VICTIS.


Crosbie had two engagements for that day; one being his natural
engagement to do his work at his office, and the other an engagement,
which was now very often becoming as natural, to dine at St. John's
Wood with Lady Amelia Gazebee. It was manifest to him when he
looked at himself in the glass that he could keep neither of these
engagements. "Oh, laws, Mr. Crosbie," the woman of the house
exclaimed when she saw him.

"Yes, I know," said he. "I've had an accident and got a black eye.
What's a good thing for it?"

"Oh! an accident!" said the woman, who knew well that that mark had
been made by another man's fist. "They do say that a bit of raw beef
is about the best thing. But then it must be held on constant all the
morning."

Anything would be better than leeches, which tell long-enduring
tales, and therefore Crosbie sat through the greater part of the
morning holding the raw beef to his eye. But it was necessary that he
should write two notes as he held it, one to Mr. Butterwell at his
office, and the other to his future sister-in-law. He felt that it
would hardly be wise to attempt any entire concealment of the nature
of his catastrophe, as some of the circumstances would assuredly
become known. If he said that he had fallen over the coal-scuttle,
or on to the fender, thereby cutting his face, people would learn
that he had fibbed, and would learn also that he had had some reason
for fibbing. Therefore he constructed his notes with a phraseology
that bound him to no details. To Butterwell he said that he had had
an accident--or rather a row--and that he had come out of it with
considerable damage to his frontispiece. He intended to be at the
office on the next day, whether able to appear decently there or not.
But for the sake of decency he thought it well to give himself that
one half-day's chance. Then to the Lady Amelia he also said that he
had had an accident, and had been a little hurt. "It is nothing at
all serious, and affects only my appearance, so that I had better
remain in for a day. I shall certainly be with you on Sunday. Don't
let Gazebee trouble himself to come to me, as I shan't be at home
after to-day." Gazebee did trouble himself to come to Mount Street so
often, and South Audley Street, in which was Mr. Gazebee's office,
was so disagreeably near to Mount Street, that Crosbie inserted this
in order to protect himself if possible. Then he gave special orders
that he was to be at home to no one, fearing that Gazebee would call
for him after the hours of business--to make him safe and carry him
off bodily to St. John's Wood.

The beefsteak and the dose of physic and the cold-water application
which was kept upon it all night was not efficacious in dispelling
that horrid, black-blue colour by ten o'clock on the following
morning.

"It certainly have gone down, Mr. Crosbie; it certainly have," said
the mistress of the lodgings, touching the part affected with her
finger. "But the black won't go out of them all in a minute; it won't
indeed. Couldn't you just stay in one more day?"

"But will one day do it, Mrs. Phillips?"

Mrs. Phillips couldn't take upon herself to say that it would. "They
mostly come with little red streaks across the black before they goes
away," said Mrs. Phillips, who would seem to have been the wife of a
prize-fighter, so well was she acquainted with black eyes.

"And that won't be till to-morrow," said Crosbie, affecting to be
mirthful in his agony.

"Not till the third day;--and then they wears themselves out,
gradual. I never knew leeches do any good."

He stayed at home the second day, and then resolved that he would
go to his office, black eye and all. In that morning's newspaper he
saw an account of the whole transaction, saying how Mr. C---- of
the office of General Committees, who was soon about to lead to the
hymeneal altar the beautiful daughter of the Earl De C----, had been
made the subject of a brutal personal attack on the platform of the
Great Western Railway Station, and how he was confined to his room
from the injuries which he had received. The paragraph went on to
state that the delinquent had, as it was believed, dared to raise
his eyes to the same lady, and that his audacity had been treated
with scorn by every member of the noble family in question. "It was,
however, satisfactory to know," so said the newspaper, "that Mr.
C---- had amply avenged himself, and had so flogged the young man
in question, that he had been unable to stir from his bed since the
occurrence."

On reading this Crosbie felt that it would be better that he should
show himself at once, and tell as much of the truth as the world
would be likely to ascertain at last without his telling. So on that
third morning he put on his hat and gloves, and had himself taken
to his office, though the red-streaky period of his misfortune had
hardly even yet come upon him. The task of walking along the office
passage, through the messengers' lobby, and into his room, was very
disagreeable. Of course everybody looked at him, and of course
he failed in his attempt to appear as though he did not mind it.
"Boggs," he said to one of the men as he passed by, "just see if Mr.
Butterwell is in his room," and then, as he expected, Mr. Butterwell
came to him after the expiration of a few minutes.

"Upon my word, that is serious," said Mr. Butterwell, looking into
the secretary's damaged face. "I don't think I would have come out if
I had been you."

"Of course it's disagreeable," said Crosbie; "but it's better to put
up with it. Fellows do tell such horrid lies if a man isn't seen for
a day or two. I believe it's best to put a good face upon it."

"That's more than you can do just at present, eh, Crosbie?" And then
Mr. Butterwell tittered. "But how on earth did it happen? The paper
says that you pretty well killed the fellow who did it."

"The paper lies, as papers always do. I didn't touch him at all."

"Didn't you, though? I should like to have had a poke at him after
getting such a tap in the face as that."

"The policemen came, and all that sort of thing. One isn't allowed
to fight it out in a row of that kind as one would have to do on
Salisbury heath. Not that I mean to say that I could lick the fellow.
How's a man to know whether he can or not?"

"How, indeed, unless he gets a licking,--or gives it? But who was he,
and what's this about his having been scorned by the noble family?"

"Trash and lies, of course. He had never seen any of the De Courcy
people."

"I suppose the truth is, it was about that other--eh, Crosbie? I knew
you'd find yourself in some trouble before you'd done."

"I don't know what it was about, or why he should have made such a
brute of himself. You have heard about those people at Allington?"

"Oh, yes; I have heard about them."

"God knows, I didn't mean to say anything against them. They knew
nothing about it."

"But the young fellow knew them? Ah, yes, I see all about it. He
wants to step into your shoes. I can't say that he sets about it in a
bad way. But what do you mean to do?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing! Won't that look queer? I think I should have him before the
magistrates."

"You see, Butterwell, I am bound to spare that girl's name. I know I
have behaved badly."

"Well, yes; I fear you have."

Mr. Butterwell said this with some considerable amount of decision in
his voice, as though he did not intend to mince matters, or in any
way to hide his opinion. Crosbie had got into a way of condemning
himself in this matter of his marriage, but was very anxious that
others, on hearing such condemnation from him, should say something
in the way of palliating his fault. It would be so easy for a friend
to remark that such little peccadilloes were not altogether uncommon,
and that it would sometimes happen in life that people did not know
their own minds. He had hoped for some such benevolence from Fowler
Pratt, but had hoped in vain. Butterwell was a good-natured, easy
man, anxious to stand well with all about him, never pretending to
any very high tone of feeling or of morals; and yet Butterwell would
say no word of comfort to him. He could get no one to slur over his
sin for him, as though it were no sin,--only an unfortunate mistake;
no one but the De Courcys, who had, as it were, taken possession of
him and swallowed him alive.

"It can't be helped now," said Crosbie. "But as for that fellow who
made such a brutal attack on me the other morning, he knows that he
is safe behind her petticoats. I can do nothing which would not make
some mention of her name necessary."

"Ah, yes; I see," said Butterwell. "It's very unfortunate; very. I
don't know that I can do anything for you. Will you come before the
Board to-day?"

"Yes; of course I shall," said Crosbie, who was becoming very sore.
His sharp ear had told him that all Butterwell's respect and
cordiality were gone,--at any rate for the time. Butterwell, though
holding the higher official rank, had always been accustomed to treat
him as though he, the inferior, were to be courted. He had possessed,
and had known himself to possess, in his office as well as in the
outside world, a sort of rank much higher than that which from his
position he could claim legitimately. Now he was being deposed. There
could be no better touchstone in such a matter than Butterwell. He
would go as the world went, but he would perceive almost intuitively
how the world intended to go. "Tact, tact, tact," as he was in the
habit of saying to himself when walking along the paths of his Putney
villa. Crosbie was now secretary, whereas a few months before he had
been simply a clerk; but, nevertheless, Mr. Butterwell's instinct
told him that Crosbie had fallen. Therefore he declined to offer any
sympathy to the man in his misfortune, and felt aware, as he left
the secretary's room, that it might probably be some time before he
visited it again.

Crosbie resolved in his soreness that henceforth he would brazen it
out. He would go to the Board, with as much indifference as to his
black eye as he was able to assume, and if any one said aught to him
he would be ready with his answer. He would go to his club, and let
him who intended to show him any slight beware of him in his wrath.
He could not turn upon John Eames, but he could turn upon others if
it were necessary. He had not gained for himself a position before
the world, and held it now for some years, to allow himself to be
crushed at once because he had made a mistake. If the world, his
world, chose to go to war with him, he would be ready for the fight.
As for Butterwell,--Butterwell the incompetent, Butterwell the
vapid,--for Butterwell, who in every little official difficulty had
for years past come to him, he would let Butterwell know what it was
to be thus disloyal to one who had condescended to be his friend. He
would show them all at the Board that he scorned them, and could be
their master. Then, too, as he was making some other resolves as to
his future conduct, he made one or two resolutions respecting the De
Courcy people. He would make it known to them that he was not going
to be their very humble servant. He would speak out his mind with
considerable plainness; and if upon that they should choose to break
off this "alliance," they might do so; he would not break his heart.
And as he leaned back in his arm-chair, thinking of all this, an idea
made its way into his brain,--a floating castle in the air, rather
than the image of a thing that might by possibility be realized; and
in this castle in the air he saw himself kneeling again at Lily's
feet, asking her pardon, and begging that he might once more be taken
to her heart.

"Mr. Crosbie is here to-day," said Mr. Butterwell to Mr. Optimist.

"Oh, indeed," said Mr. Optimist, very gravely; for he had heard all
about the row at the railway station.

"They've made a monstrous show of him."

"I am very sorry to hear it. It's so--so--so-- If it were one
of the younger clerks, you know, we should tell him that it was
discreditable to the department."

"If a man gets a blow in the eye, he can't help it, you know. He
didn't do it himself, I suppose," said Major Fiasco.

"I am well aware that he didn't do it himself," continued Mr.
Optimist; "but I really think that, in his position, he should have
kept himself out of any such encounter."

"He would have done so if he could, with all his heart," said the
major. "I don't suppose he liked being thrashed any better than I
should."

"Nobody gives me a black eye," said Mr. Optimist.

"Nobody has as yet," said the major.

"I hope they never will," said Mr. Butterwell. Then, the hour
for their meeting having come round, Mr. Crosbie came into the
Board-room.

"We have been very sorry to hear of this misfortune," said Mr.
Optimist, very gravely.

"Not half so sorry as I have been," said Crosbie, with a laugh. "It's
an uncommon nuisance to have a black eye, and to go about looking
like a prize-fighter."

"And like a prize-fighter that didn't win his battle, too," said
Fiasco.

"I don't know that there's much difference as to that," said Crosbie.
"But the whole thing is a nuisance, and, if you please, we won't say
anything more about it."

Mr. Optimist almost entertained an opinion that it was his duty to
say something more about it. Was not he the chief Commissioner, and
was not Mr. Crosbie secretary to the Board? Ought he, looking at
their respective positions, to pass over without a word of notice
such a manifest impropriety as this? Would not Sir Raffle Buffle have
said something had Mr. Butterwell, when secretary, come to the office
with a black eye? He wished to exercise all the full rights of a
chairman; but, nevertheless, as he looked at the secretary he felt
embarrassed, and was unable to find the proper words. "H--m, ha,
well; we'll go to business now, if you please," he said, as though
reserving to himself the right of returning to the secretary's black
eye when the more usual business of the Board should be completed.
But when the more usual business of the Board had been completed, the
secretary left the room without any further reference to his eye.

Crosbie, when he got back to his own apartment, found Mortimer
Gazebee waiting there for him.

"My dear fellow," said Gazebee, "this is a very nasty affair."

"Uncommonly nasty," said Crosbie; "so nasty that I don't mean to talk
about it to anybody."

"Lady Amelia is quite unhappy." He always called her Lady Amelia,
even when speaking of her to his own brothers and sisters. He was too
well behaved to take the liberty of calling an earl's daughter by her
plain Christian name, even though that earl's daughter was his own
wife. "She fears that you have been a good deal hurt."

"Not at all hurt; but disfigured, as you see."

"And so you beat the fellow well that did it?"

"No, I didn't," said Crosbie, very angrily. "I didn't beat him at
all. You don't believe everything you read in the newspapers, do
you?"

"No, I don't believe everything. Of course I didn't believe about
his having aspired to an alliance with Lady Alexandrina. That was
untrue, of course." Mr. Gazebee showed by the tone of his voice that
imprudence so unparalleled as that was quite incredible.

"You shouldn't believe anything; except this,--that I have got a
black eye."

"You certainly have got that. Lady Amelia thinks you would be more
comfortable if you would come up to us this evening. You can't go
out, of course; but Lady Amelia said, very good-naturedly, that you
need not mind with her."

"Thank you, no; I'll come on Sunday."

"Of course Lady Alexandrina will be very anxious to hear from her
sister; and Lady Amelia begged me very particularly to press you to
come."

"Thank you, no; not to-day."

"Why not?"

"Oh, simply because I shall be better at home."

"How can you be better at home? You can have anything that you want.
Lady Amelia won't mind, you know."

Another beefsteak to his eye, as he sat in the drawing-room,
a cold-water bandage, or any little medical appliance of that
sort;--these were the things which Lady Amelia would, in her domestic
good nature, condescend not to mind!

"I won't trouble her this evening," said Crosbie.

"Well, upon my word, I think you're wrong. All manner of stories will
get down to Courcy Castle, and to the countess's ears; and you don't
know what harm may come of it. Lady Amelia thinks she had better
write and explain it; but she can't do so till she has heard
something about it from you."

"Look here, Gazebee. I don't care one straw what story finds its way
down to Courcy Castle."

"But if the earl were to hear anything, and be offended?"

"He may recover from his offence as he best likes."

"My dear fellow; that's talking wildly, you know."

"What on earth do you suppose the earl can do to me? Do you think
I'm going to live in fear of Lord De Courcy all my life, because I'm
going to marry his daughter? I shall write to Alexandrina myself
to-day, and you can tell her sister so. I'll be up to dinner on
Sunday, unless my face makes it altogether out of the question."

"And you won't come in time for church?"

"Would you have me go to church with such a face as this?"

Then Mr. Mortimer Gazebee went, and when he got home he told his wife
that Crosbie was taking things with a high hand. "The fact is, my
dear, that he's ashamed of himself, and therefore tries to put a bold
face upon it."

"It was very foolish of him throwing himself in the way of that young
man,--very; and so I shall tell him on Sunday. If he chooses to give
himself airs to me, I shall make him understand that he is very
wrong. He should remember now that the way in which he conducts
himself is a matter of moment to all our family."

"Of course he should," said Mr. Gazebee.

When the Sunday came the red-streaky period had arrived, but had by
no means as yet passed away. The men at the office had almost become
used to it; but Crosbie, in spite of his determination to go down to
the club, had not yet shown himself elsewhere. Of course he did not
go to church, but at five he made his appearance at the house in St.
John's Wood. They always dined at five on Sundays, having some idea
that by doing so they kept the Sabbath better than they would have
done had they dined at seven. If keeping the Sabbath consists in
going to bed early, or is in any way assisted by such a practice,
they were right. To the cook that semi-early dinner might perhaps be
convenient, as it gave her an excuse for not going to church in the
afternoon, as the servants' and children's dinner gave her a similar
excuse in the morning. Such little attempts at goodness,--proceeding
half the way, or perhaps, as in this instance, one quarter of the
way, on the disagreeable path towards goodness,--are very common with
respectable people, such as Lady Amelia. If she would have dined at
one o'clock, and have eaten cold meat, one perhaps might have felt
that she was entitled to some praise.

"Dear, dear, dear; this is very sad, isn't it, Adolphus?" she said on
first seeing him.

"Well, it is sad, Amelia," he said. He always called her Amelia,
because she called him Adolphus; but Gazebee himself was never
quite pleased when he heard it. Lady Amelia was older than Crosbie,
and entitled to call him anything she liked; but he should have
remembered the great difference in their rank. "It is sad, Amelia,"
he said. "But will you oblige me in one thing?"

"What thing, Adolphus?"

"Not to say a word more about it. The black eye is a bad thing, no
doubt, and has troubled me much; but the sympathy of my friends has
troubled me a great deal more. I had all the family commiseration
from Gazebee on Friday, and if it is repeated again, I shall lie down
and die."

"Shall 'oo die, uncle Dolphus, 'cause 'oo've got a bad eye?" asked De
Courcy Gazebee, the eldest hope of the family, looking up into his
face.

"No, my hero," said Crosbie, taking the boy up into his arms, "not
because I've got a black eye. There isn't very much harm in that, and
you'll have a great many before you leave school. But because the
people will go on talking about it."

"But aunt Dina on't like 'oo, if oo've got an ugly bad eye."

"But, Adolphus," said Lady Amelia, settling herself for an argument,
"that's all very well, you know--and I'm sure I'm very sorry to cause
you any annoyance,--but really one doesn't know how to pass over such
a thing without speaking of it. I have had a letter from mamma."

"I hope Lady De Courcy is quite well."

"Quite well, thank you. But as a matter of course she is very anxious
about this affair. She had read what has been said in the newspapers,
and it may be necessary that Mortimer should take it up, as the
family solicitor."

"Quite out of the question," said Adolphus.

"I don't think I should advise any such step as that," said Gazebee.

"Perhaps not; very likely not. But you cannot be surprised, Mortimer,
that my mother under such circumstances should wish to know what are
the facts of the case."

"Not at all surprised," said Gazebee.

"Then once for all, I'll tell you the facts. As I got out of the
train a man I'd seen once before in my life made an attack upon me,
and before the police came up, I got a blow in the face. Now you know
all about it."

At that moment dinner was announced. "Will you give Lady Amelia your
arm?" said the husband.

"It's a very sad occurrence," said Lady Amelia with a slight toss of
her head, "and, I'm afraid, will cost my sister a great deal of
vexation."

"You agree with De Courcy, do you, that aunt Dina won't like me with
an ugly black eye?"

"I really don't think it's a joking matter," said the Lady Amelia.
And then there was nothing more said about it during the dinner.

There was nothing more said about it during the dinner, but it was
plain enough from Lady Amelia's countenance that she was not very
well pleased with her future brother-in-law's conduct. She was very
hospitable to him, pressing him to eat; but even in doing that she
made repeated little references to his present unfortunate state. She
told him that she did not think fried plum-pudding would be bad for
him, but that she would recommend him not to drink port-wine after
dinner. "By-the-by, Mortimer, you'd better have some claret up," she
remarked. "Adolphus shouldn't take anything that is heating."

"Thank you," said Crosbie. "I'll have some brandy-and-water, if
Gazebee will give it me."

"Brandy-and-water!" said Lady Amelia. Crosbie in truth was not given
to the drinking of brandy-and-water; but he was prepared to call for
raw gin, if he were driven much further by Lady Amelia's solicitude.

At these Sunday dinners the mistress of the house never went away
into the drawing-room, and the tea was always brought into them at
the table on which they had dined. It was another little step towards
keeping holy the first day of the week. When Lady Rosina was there,
she was indulged with the sight of six or seven solid good books
which were laid upon the mahogany as soon as the bottles were taken
off it. At her first prolonged visit she had obtained for herself
the privilege of reading a sermon; but as on such occasions both
Lady Amelia and Mr. Gazebee would go to sleep,--and as the footman
had also once shown a tendency that way,--the sermon had been
abandoned. But the master of the house, on these evenings, when his
sister-in-law was present, was doomed to sit in idleness, or else to
find solace in one of the solid good books. But Lady Rosina just now
was in the country, and therefore the table was left unfurnished.

"And what am I to say to my mother?" said Lady Amelia, when they were
alone.

"Give her my kindest regards," said Crosbie. It was quite clear, both
to the husband and to the wife, that he was preparing himself for
rebellion against authority.

For some ten minutes there was nothing said. Crosbie amused himself
by playing with the boy whom he called Dicksey, by way of a nickname
for De Courcy.

"Mamma, he calls me Dicksey. Am I Dicksey? I'll call 'oo old Cross,
and then aunt Dina 'on't like 'oo."

"I wish you would not call the child nicknames, Adolphus. It seems as
though you would wish to cast a slur upon the one which he bears."

"I should hardly think that he would feel disposed to do that," said
Mr. Gazebee.

"Hardly, indeed," said Crosbie.

"It has never yet been disgraced in the annals of our country by
being made into a nickname," said the proud daughter of the house.
She was probably unaware that among many of his associates her father
had been called Lord De Curse'ye, from the occasional energy of
his language. "And any such attempt is painful in my ears. I think
something of my family, I can assure you, Adolphus, and so does my
husband."

"A very great deal," said Mr. Gazebee.

"So do I of mine," said Crosbie. "That's natural to all of us. One of
my ancestors came over with William the Conqueror. I think he was one
of the assistant cooks in the king's tent."

"A cook!" said young De Courcy.

"Yes, my boy, a cook. That was the way most of our old families were
made noble. They were cooks, or butlers to the kings--or sometimes
something worse."

"But your family isn't noble?"

"No--I'll tell you how that was. The king wanted this cook to poison
half-a-dozen of his officers who wished to have a way of their
own; but the cook said, 'No, my Lord King; I am a cook, not an
executioner.' So they sent him into the scullery, and when they
called all the other servants barons and lords, they only called him
Cookey. They've changed the name to Crosbie since that, by degrees."

Mr. Gazebee was awestruck, and the face of the Lady Amelia became
very dark. Was it not evident that this snake, when taken into their
innermost bosoms that they might there warm him, was becoming an
adder, and preparing to sting them? There was very little more
conversation that evening, and soon after the story of the cook,
Crosbie got up and went away to his own home.




CHAPTER XXXVI.

"SEE, THE CONQUERING HERO COMES."


John Eames had reached his office precisely at twelve o'clock,
but when he did so he hardly knew whether he was standing on his
heels or his head. The whole morning had been to him one of intense
excitement, and latterly, to a certain extent, one of triumph. But
he did not at all know what might be the results. Would he be taken
before a magistrate and locked up? Would there be a row at the
office? Would Crosbie call him out, and, if so, would it be incumbent
on him to fight a duel with pistols? What would Lord De Guest
say--Lord De Guest, who had specially warned him not to take upon
himself the duty of avenging Lily's wrongs? What would all the Dale
family say of his conduct? And, above all, what would Lily say and
think? Nevertheless, the feeling of triumph was predominant; and now,
at this interval of time, he was beginning to remember with pleasure
the sensation of his fist as it went into Crosbie's eye.

During his first day at the office he heard nothing about the affair,
nor did he say a word of it to any one. It was known in his room that
he had gone down to spend his Christmas holiday with Lord De Guest,
and he was treated with some increased consideration accordingly.
And, moreover, I must explain, in order that I may give Johnny Eames
his due, he was gradually acquiring for himself a good footing
among the Income-tax officials. He knew his work, and did it with
some manly confidence in his own powers, and also with some manly
indifference to the occasional frowns of the mighty men of the
department. He was, moreover, popular--being somewhat of a radical
in his official demeanour, and holding by his own rights, even
though mighty men should frown. In truth, he was emerging from his
hobbledehoyhood and entering upon his young manhood, having probably
to go through much folly and some false sentiment in that period of
his existence, but still with fair promise of true manliness beyond,
to those who were able to read the signs of his character.

Many questions on that first day were asked him about the glories of
his Christmas, but he had very little to say on the subject. Indeed
nothing could have been much more commonplace than his Christmas
visit, had it not been for the one great object which had taken him
down to that part of the country, and for the circumstance with which
his holiday had been ended. On neither of these subjects was he
disposed to speak openly; but as he walked home to Burton Crescent
with Cradell, he did tell him of the affair with Crosbie.

"And you went in at him on the station?" asked Cradell, with admiring
doubt.


[ILLUSTRATION: "And you went in at him on the station?"]


"Yes, I did. If I didn't do it there, where was I to do it? I'd
said I would, and therefore when I saw him I did it." Then the
whole affair was told as to the black eye, the police, and the
superintendent. "And what's to come next?" asked our hero.

"Well, he'll put it in the hands of a friend, of course; as I did
with Fisher in that affair with Lupex. And, upon my word, Johnny, I
shall have to do something of the kind again. His conduct last night
was outrageous; would you believe it--"

"Oh, he's a fool."

"He's a fool you wouldn't like to meet when he's in one of his mad
fits, I can tell you that. I absolutely had to sit up in my own
bedroom all last night. Mother Roper told me that if I remained in
the drawing-room she would feel herself obliged to have a policeman
in the house. What could I do, you know? I made her have a fire for
me, of course."

"And then you went to bed."

"I waited ever so long, because I thought that Maria would want to
see me. At last she sent me a note. Maria is so imprudent, you know.
If he had found anything in her writing, it would have been terrible,
you know,--quite terrible. And who can say whether Jemima mayn't
tell?"

"And what did she say?"

"Come; that's tellings, Master Johnny. I took very good care to take
it with me to the office this morning, for fear of accidents."

But Eames was not so widely awake to the importance of his friend's
adventures as he might have been had he not been weighted with
adventures of his own.

"I shouldn't care so much," said he, "about that fellow Crosbie going
to a friend, as I should about his going to a police magistrate."

"He'll put it in a friend's hands, of course," said Cradell, with the
air of a man who from experience was well up in such matters. "And I
suppose you'll naturally come to me. It's a deuced bore to a man in a
public office, and all that kind of thing, of course. But I'm not the
man to desert my friend. I'll stand by you, Johnny, my boy."

"Oh, thank you," said Eames, "I don't think that I shall want that."

"You must be ready with a friend, you know."

"I should write down to a man I know in the country, and ask his
advice," said Eames; "an older sort of friend, you know."

"By Jove, old fellow, take care what you're about. Don't let them say
of you that you show the white feather. Upon my honour, I'd sooner
have anything said of me than that. I would, indeed,--anything."

"I'm not afraid of that," said Eames, with a touch of scorn
in his voice. "There isn't much thought about white feathers
now-a-days,--not in the way of fighting duels."

After that, Cradell managed to carry back the conversation to Mrs.
Lupex and his own peculiar position, and as Eames did not care to ask
from his companion further advice in his own matters, he listened
nearly in silence till they reached Burton Crescent.

"I hope you found the noble earl well," said Mrs. Roper to him, as
soon as they were all seated at dinner.

"I found the noble earl pretty well, thank you," said Johnny.

It had become plainly understood by all the Roperites that Eames's
position was quite altered since he had been honoured with the
friendship of Lord De Guest. Mrs. Lupex, next to whom he always
sat at dinner, with a view to protecting her as it were from the
dangerous neighbourhood of Cradell, treated him with a marked
courtesy. Miss Spruce always called him "sir." Mrs. Roper helped him
the first of the gentlemen, and was mindful about his fat and gravy,
and Amelia felt less able than she was before to insist upon the
possession of his heart and affections. It must not be supposed that
Amelia intended to abandon the fight, and allow the enemy to walk off
with his forces; but she felt herself constrained to treat him with a
deference that was hardly compatible with the perfect equality which
should attend any union of hearts.

"It is such a privilege to be on visiting terms with the nobility,"
said Mrs. Lupex. "When I was a girl, I used to be very intimate--"

"You ain't a girl any longer, and so you'd better not talk about it,"
said Lupex. Mr. Lupex had been at that little shop in Drury Lane
after he came down from his scene-painting.

"My dear, you needn't be a brute to me before all Mrs. Roper's
company. If, led away by feelings which I will not now describe, I
left my proper circles in marrying you, you need not before all the
world teach me how much I have to regret." And Mrs. Lupex, putting
down her knife and fork, applied her handkerchief to her eyes.

"That's pleasant for a man over his meals, isn't it?" said Lupex,
appealing to Miss Spruce. "I have plenty of that kind of thing, and
you can't think how I like it."

"Them whom God has joined together, let no man put asunder," said
Miss Spruce. "As for me myself, I'm only an old woman."

This little ebullition threw a gloom over the dinner-table, and
nothing more was said on the occasion as to the glories of Eames's
career. But, in the course of the evening, Amelia heard of the
encounter which had taken place at the railway station, and at once
perceived that she might use the occasion for her own purposes.

"John," she whispered to her victim, finding an opportunity for
coming upon him when almost alone, "what is this I hear? I insist
upon knowing. Are you going to fight a duel?"

"Nonsense," said Johnny.

"But it is not nonsense. You don't know what my feelings will be, if
I think that such a thing is going to happen. But then you are so
hard-hearted!"

"I ain't hard-hearted a bit, and I'm not going to fight a duel."

"But is it true that you beat Mr. Crosbie at the station?"

"It is true. I did beat him."

"Oh, John! not that I mean to say you were wrong, and indeed I honour
you for the feeling. There can be nothing so dreadful as a young
man's deceiving a young woman and leaving her after he has won her
heart--particularly when she has had his promise in plain words,
or, perhaps, even in black and white." John thought of that horrid,
foolish, wretched note which he had written. "And a poor girl, if she
can't right herself by a breach of promise, doesn't know what to do.
Does she, John?"

"A girl who'd right herself that way wouldn't be worth having."

"I don't know about that. When a poor girl is in such a position, she
has to be aided by her friends. I suppose, then, Miss Lily Dale won't
bring a breach of promise against him."

This mention of Lily's name in such a place was sacrilege in the ears
of poor Eames. "I cannot tell," said he, "what may be the intention
of the lady of whom you speak. But from what I know of her friends, I
should not think that she will be disgraced by such a proceeding."

"That may be all very well for Miss Lily Dale--" Amelia said, and
then she hesitated. It would not be well, she thought, absolutely to
threaten him as yet,--not as long as there was any possibility that
he might be won without a threat. "Of course I know all about it,"
she continued. "She was your L. D., you know. Not that I was ever
jealous of her. To you she was no more than one of childhood's
friends. Was she, Johnny?"

He stamped his foot upon the floor, and then jumped up from his seat.
"I hate all that sort of twaddle about childhood's friends, and you
know I do. You'll make me swear that I'll never come into this room
again."

"Johnny!"

"So I will. The whole thing makes me sick. And as for that Mrs.
Lupex--"

"If this is what you learn, John, by going to a lord's house, I think
you had better stay at home with your own friends."

"Of course I had;--much better stay at home with my own friends.
Here's Mrs. Lupex, and at any rate I can't stand her." So he went
off, and walked round the Crescent, and down to the New Road, and
almost into the Regent's Park, thinking of Lily Dale and of his own
cowardice with Amelia Roper.

On the following morning he received a message, at about one o'clock,
by the mouth of the Board-room messenger, informing him that his
presence was required in the Board-room. "Sir Raffle Buffle has
desired your presence, Mr. Eames."

"My presence, Tupper! what for?" said Johnny, turning upon the
messenger almost with dismay.

"Indeed I can't say, Mr. Eames; but Sir Raffle Buffle has desired
your presence in the Board-room."

Such a message as that in official life always strikes awe into the
heart of a young man. And yet, young men generally come forth from
such interviews without having received any serious damage, and
generally talk about the old gentlemen whom they have encountered
with a good deal of light-spirited sarcasm,--or chaff, as it is
called in the slang phraseology of the day. It is that same "majesty
which doth hedge a king" that does it. The turkey-cock in his own
farmyard is master of the occasion, and the thought of him creates
fear. A bishop in his lawn, a judge on the bench, a chairman in
the big room at the end of a long table, or a policeman with his
bull's-eye lamp upon his beat, can all make themselves terrible by
means of those appanages of majesty which have been vouchsafed to
them. But how mean is the policeman in his own home, and how few
thought much of Sir Raffle Buffle as he sat asleep after dinner in
his old slippers! How well can I remember the terror created within
me by the air of outraged dignity with which a certain fine old
gentleman, now long since gone, could rub his hands slowly, one on
the other, and look up to the ceiling, slightly shaking his head, as
though lost in the contemplation of my iniquities! I would become
sick in my stomach, and feel as though my ankles had been broken.
That upward turn of the eye unmanned me so completely that I was
speechless as regarded any defence. I think that that old man could
hardly have known the extent of his own power.

Once upon a time a careless lad, having the charge of a bundle of
letters addressed to the King,--petitions and such like, which
in the course of business would not get beyond the hands of some
lord-in-waiting's deputy assistant,--sent the bag which contained
them to the wrong place; to Windsor, perhaps, if the Court were in
London; or to St. James's, if it were at Windsor. He was summoned;
and the great man of the occasion contented himself with holding his
hands up to the heavens as he stood up from his chair, and exclaiming
twice, "Mis-sent the Monarch's pouch! Mis-sent the Monarch's pouch!"
That young man never knew how he escaped from the Board-room; but for
a time he was deprived of all power of exertion, and could not resume
his work till he had had six months' leave of absence, and been
brought round upon rum and asses' milk. In that instance the peculiar
use of the word Monarch had a power which the official magnate had
never contemplated. The story is traditional; but I believe that the
circumstance happened as lately as in the days of George the Third.

John Eames could laugh at the present chairman of the Income-tax
Office with great freedom, and call him old Huffle Scuffle, and the
like; but now that he was sent for, he also, in spite of his radical
propensities, felt a little weak about his ankle joints. He knew,
from the first hearing of the message, that he was wanted with
reference to that affair at the railway station. Perhaps there might
be a rule that any clerk should be dismissed who used his fists in
any public place. There were many rules entailing the punishment
of dismissal for many offences,--and he began to think that he did
remember something of such a regulation. However, he got up, looked
once around him upon his friends, and then followed Tupper into the
Board-room.

"There's Johnny been sent for by old Scuffles," said one clerk.

"That's about his row with Crosbie," said another. "The Board can't
do anything to him for that."

"Can't it?" said the first. "Didn't young Outonites have to resign
because of that row at the Cider Cellars, though his cousin, Sir
Constant Outonites, did all that he could for him?"

"But he was regularly up the spout with accommodation bills."

"I tell you that I wouldn't be in Eames's shoes for a trifle. Crosbie
is secretary at the Committee Office, where Scuffles was chairman
before he came here; and of course they're as thick as thieves. I
shouldn't wonder if they didn't make him go down and apologize."

"Johnny won't do that," said the other.

In the meantime John Eames was standing in the august presence. Sir
Raffle Buffle was throned in his great oak arm-chair at the head of
a long table in a very large room; and by him, at the corner of the
table, was seated one of the assistant secretaries of the office.
Another member of the Board was also at work upon the long table; but
he was reading and signing papers at some distance from Sir Raffle,
and paid no heed whatever to the scene. The assistant secretary,
looking on, could see that Sir Raffle was annoyed by this want of
attention on the part of his colleague, but all this was lost upon
Eames.

"Mr. Eames?" said Sir Raffle, speaking with a peculiarly harsh voice,
and looking at the culprit through a pair of gold-rimmed glasses,
which he perched for the occasion upon his big nose. "Isn't that Mr.
Eames?"

"Yes," said the assistant secretary, "this is Eames."

"Ah!"--and then there was a pause. "Come a little nearer, Mr. Eames,
will you?" and Johnny drew nearer, advancing noiselessly over the
Turkey carpet.

"Let me see; in the second class, isn't he? Ah! Do you know,
Mr. Eames, that I have received a letter from the secretary to
the Directors of the Great Western Railway Company, detailing
circumstances which,--if truly stated in that letter,--redound very
much to your discredit?"

"I did get into a row there yesterday, sir."

"Got into a row! It seems to me that you have got into a very serious
row, and that I must tell the Directors of the Great Western Railway
Company that the law must be allowed to take its course."

"I shan't mind that, sir, in the least," said Eames, brightening up a
little under this view of the case.

"Not mind that, sir!" said Sir Raffle--or rather, he shouted out
the words at the offender before him. I am inclined to think that
he overdid it, missing the effect which a milder tone might have
attained. Perhaps there was lacking to him some of that majesty
of demeanour and dramatic propriety of voice which had been so
efficacious in the little story as to the King's bag of letters.
As it was, Johnny gave a slight jump, but after his jump he felt
better than he had been before. "Not mind, sir, being dragged before
the criminal tribunals of your country, and being punished as a
felon,--or rather as a misdemeanour,--for an outrage committed on a
public platform! Not mind it! What do you mean, sir?"

"I mean, that I don't think the magistrate would say very much about
it, sir. And I don't think Mr. Crosbie would come forward."

"But Mr. Crosbie must come forward, young man. Do you suppose that
an outrage against the peace of the Metropolis is to go unpunished
because he may not wish to pursue the matter? I'm afraid you must be
very ignorant, young man."

"Perhaps I am," said Johnny.

"Very ignorant indeed,--very ignorant indeed. And are you aware, sir,
that it would become a question with the Commissioners of this Board
whether you could be retained in the service of this department if
you were publicly punished by a police magistrate for such a
disgraceful outrage as that?"

Johnny looked round at the other Commissioner, but that gentleman did
not raise his face from his papers.

"Mr. Eames is a very good clerk," whispered the assistant secretary,
but in a voice which made his words audible to Eames; "one of the
best young men we have," he added, in a voice which was not audible.

"Oh,--ah; very well. Now, I'll tell you what, Mr. Eames, I hope this
will be a lesson to you,--a very serious lesson."

The assistant secretary, leaning back in his chair so as to be a
little behind the head of Sir Raffle, did manage to catch the eye of
the other Commissioner. The other Commissioner, barely looking round,
smiled a little, and then the assistant secretary smiled also. Eames
saw this, and he smiled too.

"Whether any ulterior consequences may still await the breach of the
peace of which you have been guilty, I am not yet prepared to say,"
continued Sir Raffle. "You may go now."

And Johnny returned to his own place, with no increased reverence for
the dignity of the chairman.

On the following morning one of his colleagues showed him with great
glee the passage in the newspaper which informed the world that he
had been so desperately beaten by Crosbie that he was obliged to keep
his bed at this present time in consequence of the flogging that
he had received. Then his anger was aroused, and he bounced about
the big room of the Income-tax Office, regardless of assistant
secretaries, head clerks, and all other official grandees whatsoever,
denouncing the iniquities of the public press, and declaring his
opinion that it would be better to live in Russia than in a country
which allowed such audacious falsehoods to be propagated.

"He never touched me, Fisher; I don't think he ever tried; but, upon
my honour, he never touched me."

"But, Johnny, it was bold in you to make up to Lord De Courcy's
daughter," said Fisher.

"I never saw one of them in my life."

"He's going it altogether among the aristocracy, now," said another;
"I suppose you wouldn't look at anybody under a viscount?"

"Can I help what that thief of an editor puts into his paper?
Flogged! Huffle Scuffle told me I was a felon, but that wasn't half
so bad as this fellow;" and Johnny kicked the newspaper across the
room.

"Indict him for a libel," said Fisher.

"Particularly for saying you wanted to marry a countess's daughter,"
said another clerk.

"I never heard such a scandal in my life," declared a third; "and
then to say that the girl wouldn't look at you."

But not the less was it felt by all in the office that Johnny Eames
was becoming a leading man among them, and that he was one with whom
each of them would be pleased to be intimate. And even among the
grandees this affair of the railway station did him no real harm. It
was known that Crosbie had deserved to be thrashed, and known that
Eames had thrashed him. It was all very well for Sir Raffle Buffle to
talk of police magistrates and misdemeanours, but all the world at
the Income-tax Office knew very well that Eames had come out from
that affair with his head upright, and his right foot foremost.

"Never mind about the newspaper," a thoughtful old senior clerk said
to him. "As he did get the licking and you didn't, you can afford to
laugh at the newspaper."

"And you wouldn't write to the editor?"

"No, no; certainly not. No one thinks of defending himself to a
newspaper except an ass;--unless it be some fellow who wants to have
his name puffed. You may write what's as true as the gospel, but
they'll know how to make fun of it."

Johnny therefore gave up his idea of an indignant letter to the
editor, but he felt that he was bound to give some explanation of
the whole matter to Lord De Guest. The affair had happened as he was
coming from the earl's house, and all his own concerns had now been
made so much a matter of interest to his kind friend, that he thought
that he could not with propriety leave the earl to learn from the
newspapers either the facts or the falsehoods. And, therefore, before
he left his office he wrote the following letter:--


   Income-tax Office, December 29, 186--.

   MY LORD,--


He thought a good deal about the style in which he ought to address
the peer, never having hitherto written to him. He began, "My dear
Lord," on one sheet of paper, and then put it aside, thinking that it
looked over-bold.


   MY LORD,--

   As you have been so very kind to me, I feel that I ought
   to tell you what happened the other morning at the railway
   station, as I was coming back from Guestwick. That
   scoundrel Crosbie got into the same carriage with me at
   the Barchester Junction, and sat opposite to me all the
   way up to London. I did not speak a word to him, or he
   to me; but when he got out at the Paddington Station, I
   thought I ought not to let him go away, so I-- I can't
   say that I thrashed him as I wished to do; but I made an
   attempt, and I did give him a black eye. A whole quantity
   of policemen got round us, and I hadn't a fair chance. I
   know you will think that I was wrong, and perhaps I was;
   but what could I do when he sat opposite to me there for
   two hours, looking as though he thought himself the finest
   fellow in all London?

   They've put a horrible paragraph into one of the
   newspapers, saying that I got so "flogged" that I haven't
   been able to stir since. It is an atrocious falsehood,
   as is all the rest of the newspaper account. I was not
   touched. He was not nearly so bad a customer as the
   bull, and seemed to take it all very quietly. I must
   acknowledge, though, that he didn't get such a beating as
   he deserved.

   Your friend Sir R. B. sent for me this morning, and told
   me I was a felon. I didn't seem to care much for that, for
   he might as well have called me a murderer or a burglar;
   but I shall care very much indeed if I have made you angry
   with me. But what I most fear is the anger of some one
   else,--at Allington.

   Believe me to be, my Lord,
   Yours very much obliged and most sincerely,

   JOHN EAMES.


"I knew he'd do it if ever he got the opportunity," said the
earl when he had read his letter; and he walked about his room
striking his hands together, and then thrusting his thumbs into his
waistcoat-pockets. "I knew he was made of the right stuff," and the
earl rejoiced greatly in the prowess of his favourite. "I'd have done
it myself if I'd seen him. I do believe I would." Then he went back
to the breakfast-room and told Lady Julia. "What do you think?" said
he; "Johnny Eames has come across Crosbie, and given him a desperate
beating."

"No!" said Lady Julia, putting down her newspaper and spectacles, and
expressing by the light of her eyes anything but Christian horror at
the wickedness of the deed.

"But he has, though. I knew he would if he saw him."

"Beaten him! Actually beaten him!"

"Sent him home to Lady Alexandrina with two black eyes."

"Two black eyes! What a young pickle! But did he get hurt himself?"

"Not a scratch, he says."

"And what'll they do to him?"

"Nothing. Crosbie won't be fool enough to do anything. A man becomes
an outlaw when he plays such a game as he has played. Anybody's hand
may be raised against him with impunity. He can't show his face, you
know. He can't come forward and answer questions as to what he has
done. There are offences which the law can't touch, but which outrage
public feeling so strongly that any one may take upon himself the
duty of punishing them. He has been thrashed, and that will stick to
him till he dies."

"Do tell Johnny from me that I hope he didn't get hurt," said Lady
Julia. The old lady could not absolutely congratulate him on his feat
of arms, but she did the next thing to it.

But the earl did congratulate him, with a full open assurance of his
approval.

"I hope," he said, "I should have done the same at your age, under
similar circumstances, and I'm very glad that he proved less
difficult than the bull. I'm quite sure you didn't want any one to
help you with Master Crosbie. As for that other person at Allington,
if I understand such matters at all, I think she will forgive you."
It may, however, be a question whether the earl did understand such
matters at all. And then he added, in a postscript: "When you write
to me again,--and don't be long first, begin your letter, 'My dear
Lord De Guest,'--that is the proper way."




CHAPTER XXXVII.

AN OLD MAN'S COMPLAINT.


[ILLUSTRATION: (untitled)]

"Have you been thinking again of what I was saying to you, Bell?"
Bernard said to his cousin one morning.

"Thinking of it, Bernard? Why should I think more of it? I had hoped
that you had forgotten it yourself."

"No," he said; "I am not so easy-hearted as that. I cannot look on
such a thing as I would the purchase of a horse, which I could give
up without sorrow if I found that the animal was too costly for my
purse. I did not tell you that I loved you till I was sure of myself,
and having made myself sure I cannot change at all."

"And yet you would have me change."

"Yes, of course I would. If your heart be free now, it must of course
be changed before you come to love any man. Such change as that is to
be looked for. But when you have loved, then it will not be easy to
change you."

"But I have not."

"Then I have a right to hope. I have been hanging on here, Bell,
longer than I ought to have done, because I could not bring myself to
leave you without speaking of this again. I did not wish to seem to
you to be importunate--"

"If you could only believe me in what I say."

"It is not that I do not believe. I am not a puppy or a fool, to
flatter myself that you must be in love with me. I believe you well
enough. But still it is possible that your mind may alter."

"It is impossible."

"I do not know whether my uncle or your mother have spoken to you
about this."

"Such speaking would have no effect."

In fact, her mother had spoken to her, but she truly said that such
speaking would have no effect. If her cousin could not win the battle
by his own skill, he might have been quite sure, looking at her
character as it was known to him, that he would not be able to win it
by the skill of others.

"We have all been made very unhappy," he went on to say, "by this
calamity which has fallen on poor Lily."

"And because she has been deceived by the man she did love, I am to
make matters square by marrying a man I--" and then she paused. "Dear
Bernard, you should not drive me to say words which will sound harsh
to you."

"No words can be harsher than those which you have already spoken.
But, Bell, at any rate, you may listen to me."

Then he told her how desirable it was with reference to all the
concerns of the Dale family that she should endeavour to look
favourably on his proposition. It would be good for them all, he
said, especially for Lily, as to whom, at the present moment, their
uncle felt so kindly. He, as Bernard pleaded, was so anxious at heart
for this marriage, that he would do anything that was asked of him
if he were gratified. But if he were not gratified in this, he would
feel that he had ground for displeasure.

Bell, as she had been desired to listen, did listen very patiently.
But when her cousin had finished, her answer was very short. "Nothing
that my uncle can say, or think, or do, can make any difference in
this," said she.

"You will think nothing, then, of the happiness of others."

"I would not marry a man I did not love, to ensure any amount of
happiness to others;--at least I know I ought not to do so. But I
do not believe I should ensure any one's happiness by this marriage.
Certainly not yours."

After this Bernard had acknowledged to himself that the difficulties
in his way were great. "I will go away till next autumn," he said to
his uncle.

"If you would give up your profession and remain here, she would not
be so perverse."

"I cannot do that, sir. I cannot risk the well-being of my life on
such a chance." Then his uncle had been angry with him, as well as
with his niece. In his anger he determined that he would go again to
his sister-in-law, and, after some unreasonable fashion, he resolved
that it would become him to be very angry with her also, if she
declined to assist him with all her influence as a mother.

"Why should they not both marry?" he said to himself. Lord De Guest's
offer as to young Eames had been very generous. As he had then
declared, he had not been able to express his own opinion at once;
but on thinking over what the earl had said, he had found himself
very willing to heal the family wound in the manner proposed, if any
such healing might be possible. That, however, could not be done
quite as yet. When the time should come, and he thought it might come
soon,--perhaps in the spring, when the days should be fine and the
evenings again long,--he would be willing to take his share with the
earl in establishing that new household. To Crosbie he had refused to
give anything, and there was upon his conscience a shade of remorse
in that he had so refused. But if Lily could be brought to love this
other man, he would be more open-handed. She should have her share
as though she was in fact his daughter. But then, if he intended
to do so much for them at the Small House, should not they in
return do something also for him? So thinking, he went again to his
sister-in-law, determined to explain his views, even though it might
be at the risk of some hard words between them. As regarded himself,
he did not much care for hard words spoken to him. He almost expected
that people's words should be hard and painful. He did not look for
the comfort of affectionate soft greetings, and perhaps would not
have appreciated them had they come to him. He caught Mrs. Dale
walking in the garden, and brought her into his own room, feeling
that he had a better chance there than in her own house. She, with an
old dislike to being lectured in that room, had endeavoured to avoid
the interview, but had failed.

"So I met John Eames at the manor," he had said to her in the garden.

"Ah, yes; and how did he get on there? I cannot conceive poor Johnny
keeping holiday with the earl and his sister. How did he behave to
them, and how did they behave to him?"

"I can assure you he was very much at home there."

"Was he, indeed? Well, I hope it will do him good. He is, I'm sure, a
very good young man; only rather awkward."

"I didn't think him awkward at all. You'll find, Mary, that he'll do
very well;--a great deal better than his father did."

"I'm sure I hope he may." After that Mrs. Dale made her attempt to
escape; but the squire had taken her prisoner, and led her captive
into the house. "Mary," he said, as soon as he had induced her to sit
down, "it is time that this should be settled between my nephew and
niece."

"I am afraid there will be nothing to settle."

"What do you mean;--that you disapprove of it?"

"By no means,--personally. I should approve of it very strongly. But
that has nothing to do with the question."

"Yes, it has. I beg your pardon, but it must have, and should have
a great deal to do with it. Of course, I am not saying that anybody
should now ever be compelled to marry anybody."

"I hope not."

"I never said that they ought, and never thought so. But I do think
that the wishes of all her family should have very great weight with
a girl that has been well brought up."

"I don't know whether Bell has been well brought up; but in such a
matter as this nobody's wishes would weigh a feather with her; and,
indeed, I could not take upon myself even to express a wish. To you I
can say that I should have been very happy if she could have regarded
her cousin as you wish her to do."

"You mean that you are afraid to tell her so?"

"I am afraid to do what I think is wrong, if you mean that."

"I don't think it would be wrong, and therefore I shall speak to her
myself."

"You must do as you like about that, Mr. Dale; I can't prevent you. I
shall think you wrong to harass her on such a matter, and I fear also
that her answer will not be satisfactory to you. If you choose to
tell her your opinion, you must do so. Of course I shall think you
wrong, that's all."

Mrs. Dale's voice as she said this was stern enough, and so was her
countenance. She could not forbid the uncle to speak his mind to his
niece, but she especially disliked the idea of any interference with
her daughter. The squire got up and walked about the room, trying
to compose himself that he might answer her rationally, but without
anger.

"May I go now?" said Mrs. Dale.

"May you go? Of course you may go if you like it. If you think that
I am intruding upon you in speaking to you of the welfare of your two
girls, whom I endeavour to regard as my own daughters,--except in
this, that I know they have never been taught to love me,--if you
think that it is an interference on my part to show anxiety for their
welfare, of course you may go."

"I did not mean to say anything to hurt you, Mr. Dale."

"Hurt me! What does it signify whether I am hurt or not? I have no
children of my own, and of course my only business in life is to
provide for my nephews and nieces. I am an old fool if I expect that
they are to love me in return, and if I venture to express a wish
I am interfering and doing wrong! It is hard,--very hard. I know
well that they have been brought up to dislike me, and yet I am
endeavouring to do my duty by them."

"Mr. Dale, that accusation has not been deserved. They have not been
brought up to dislike you. I believe that they have both loved and
respected you as their uncle; but such love and respect will not give
you a right to dispose of their hands."

"Who wants to dispose of their hands?"

"There are some things in which I think no uncle,--no parent,--should
interfere, and of all such things this is the chief. If after that
you may choose to tell her your wishes, of course you can do so."

"It will not be much good after you have set her against me."

"Mr. Dale, you have no right to say such things to me, and you are
very unjust in doing so. If you think that I have set my girls
against you, it will be much better that we should leave Allington
altogether. I have been placed in circumstances which have made it
difficult for me to do my duty to my children; but I have endeavoured
to do it, not regarding my own personal wishes. I am quite sure,
however, that it would be wrong in me to keep them here, if I am to
be told by you that I have taught them to regard you unfavourably.
Indeed, I cannot suffer such a thing to be said to me."

All this Mrs. Dale said with an air of decision, and with a voice
expressing a sense of injury received, which made the squire feel
that she was very much in earnest.

"Is it not true," he said, defending himself, "that in all that
relates to the girls you have ever regarded me with suspicion?"

"No, it is not true." And then she corrected herself, feeling
that there was something of truth in the squire's last assertion.
"Certainly not with suspicion," she said. "But as this matter has
gone so far, I will explain what my real feelings have been. In
worldly matters you can do much for my girls, and have done much."

"And wish to do more," said the squire.

"I am sure you do. But I cannot on that account give up my place as
their only living parent. They are my children, and not yours. And
even could I bring myself to allow you to act as their guardian and
natural protector, they would not consent to such an arrangement. You
cannot call that suspicion."

"I can call it jealousy."

"And should not a mother be jealous of her children's love?"

During all this time the squire was walking up and down the room
with his hands in his trousers pockets. And when Mrs. Dale had last
spoken, he continued his walk for some time in silence.

"Perhaps it is well that you should have spoken out," he said.

"The manner in which you accused me made it necessary."

"I did not intend to accuse you, and I do not do so now; but I think
that you have been, and that you are, very hard to me,--very hard
indeed. I have endeavoured to make your children, and yourself also,
sharers with me in such prosperity as has been mine. I have striven
to add to your comfort and to their happiness. I am most anxious to
secure their future welfare. You would have been very wrong had you
declined to accept this on their behalf; but I think that in return
for it you need not have begrudged me the affection and obedience
which generally follows from such good offices."

"Mr. Dale, I have begrudged you nothing of this."

"I am hurt;--I am hurt," he continued. And she was surprised by his
look of pain even more than by the unaccustomed warmth of his words.
"What you have said has, I have known, been the case all along. But
though I had felt it to be so, I own that I am hurt by your open
words."

"Because I have said that my own children must ever be my own?"

"Ah, you have said more than that. You and the girls have been living
here, close to me, for--how many years is it now?--and during all
those years there has grown up for me no kindly feeling. Do you think
that I cannot hear, and see, and feel? Do you suppose that I am a
fool and do not know? As for yourself you would never enter this
house if you did not feel yourself constrained to do so for the
sake of appearances. I suppose it is all as it should be. Having no
children of my own, I owe the duty of a parent to my nieces; but I
have no right to expect from them in return either love, regard, or
obedience. I know I am keeping you here against your will, Mary. I
won't do so any longer." And he made a sign to her that she was to
depart.

As she rose from her seat her heart was softened towards him. In
these latter days he had shown much kindness to the girls,--a
kindness that was more akin to the gentleness of love than had
ever come from him before. Lily's fate had seemed to melt even his
sternness, and he had striven to be tender in his words and ways.
And now he spoke as though he had loved the girls, and had loved
them in vain. Doubtless he had been a disagreeable neighbour to his
sister-in-law, making her feel that it was never for her personally
that he had opened his hand. Doubtless he had been moved by an
unconscious desire to undermine and take upon himself her authority
with her own children. Doubtless he had looked askance at her from
the first day of her marriage with his brother. She had been keenly
alive to all this since she had first known him, and more keenly
alive to it than ever since the failure of those efforts she had made
to live with him on terms of affection, made during the first year or
two of her residence at the Small House. But, nevertheless, in spite
of all, her heart bled for him now. She had gained her victory over
him, having fully held her own position with her children; but now
that he complained that he had been beaten in the struggle, her heart
bled for him.

"My brother," she said, and as she spoke she offered him her hands,
"it may be that we have not thought as kindly of each other as we
should have done."

"I have endeavoured," said the old man. "I have endeavoured--" And
then he stopped, either hindered by some excess of emotion, or unable
to find the words which were necessary for the expression of his
meaning.

"Let us endeavour once again,--both of us."

"What, begin again at near seventy! No, Mary, there is no more
beginning again for me. All this shall make no difference to the
girls. As long as I am here they shall have the house. If they marry,
I will do for them what I can. I believe Bernard is much in earnest
in his suit, and if Bell will listen to him, she shall still be
welcomed here as mistress of Allington. What you have said shall make
no difference;--but as to beginning again, it is simply impossible."

After that Mrs. Dale walked home through the garden by herself. He
had studiously told her that that house in which they lived should be
lent, not to her, but to her children, during his lifetime. He had
positively declined the offer of her warmer regard. He had made her
understand that they were to look on each other almost as enemies;
but that she, enemy as she was, should still be allowed the use of
his munificence, because he chose to do his duty by his nieces!

"It will be better for us that we shall leave it," she said to
herself as she seated herself in her own arm-chair over the
drawing-room fire.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

DOCTOR CROFTS IS CALLED IN.


Mrs. Dale had not sat long in her drawing-room before tidings were
brought to her which for a while drew her mind away from that
question of her removal. "Mamma," said Bell, entering the room,
"I really do believe that Jane has got scarlatina." Jane, the
parlour-maid, had been ailing for the last two days, but nothing
serious had hitherto been suspected.

Mrs. Dale instantly jumped up. "Who is with her?" she asked.

It appeared from Bell's answer that both she and Lily had been with
the girl, and that Lily was still in the room. Whereupon Mrs. Dale
ran upstairs, and there was on the sudden a commotion in the house.
In an hour or so the village doctor was there, and he expressed an
opinion that the girl's ailment was certainly scarlatina. Mrs. Dale,
not satisfied with this, sent off a boy to Guestwick for Dr. Crofts,
having herself maintained an opposition of many years' standing
against the medical reputation of the apothecary, and gave a positive
order to the two girls not to visit poor Jane again. She herself had
had scarlatina, and might do as she pleased. Then, too, a nurse was
hired.

All this changed for a few hours the current of Mrs. Dale's thoughts:
but in the evening she went back to the subject of her morning
conversation, and before the three ladies went to bed, they held
together an open council of war upon the subject. Dr. Crofts had
been found to be away from Guestwick, and word had been sent on his
behalf that he would be over at Allington early on the following
morning. Mrs. Dale had almost made up her mind that the malady of
her favourite maid was not scarlatina, but had not on that account
relaxed her order as to the absence of her daughters from the maid's
bedside.

"Let us go at once," said Bell, who was even more opposed to any
domination on the part of her uncle than was her mother. In the
discussion which had been taking place between them the whole matter
of Bernard's courtship had come upon the carpet. Bell had kept her
cousin's offer to herself as long as she had been able to do so;
but since her uncle had pressed the subject upon Mrs. Dale, it was
impossible for Bell to remain silent any longer. "You do not want
me to marry him, mamma; do you?" she had said, when her mother had
spoken with some show of kindness towards Bernard. In answer to this,
Mrs. Dale had protested vehemently that she had no such wish, and
Lily, who still held to her belief in Dr. Crofts, was almost equally
animated. To them all, the idea that their uncle should in any
way interfere in their own views of life, on the strength of the
pecuniary assistance which they had received from him, was peculiarly
distasteful. But it was especially distasteful that he should presume
to have even an opinion as to their disposition in marriage. They
declared to each other that their uncle could have no right to object
to any marriage which either of them might contemplate as long as
their mother should approve of it. The poor old squire had been right
in saying that he was regarded with suspicion. He was so regarded.
The fault had certainly been his own, in having endeavoured to win
the daughters without thinking it worth his while to win the mother.
The girls had unconsciously felt that the attempt was made, and had
vigorously rebelled against it. It had not been their fault that they
had been brought to live in their uncle's house, and made to ride
on his ponies, and to eat partially of his bread. They had so eaten,
and so lived, and declared themselves to be grateful. The squire was
good in his way, and they recognized his goodness; but not on that
account would they transfer to him one jot of the allegiance which
as children they owed to their mother. When she told them her tale,
explaining to them the words which their uncle had spoken that
morning, they expressed their regret that he should be so grieved;
but they were strong in assurances to their mother that she had been
sinned against, and was not sinning.

"Let us go at once," said Bell.

"It is much easier said than done, my dear."

"Of course it is, mamma; else we shouldn't be here now. What I mean
is this,--let us take some necessary first step at once. It is clear
that my uncle thinks that our remaining here should give him some
right over us. I do not say that he is wrong to think so. Perhaps it
is natural. Perhaps, in accepting his kindness, we ought to submit
ourselves to him. If that be so, it is a conclusive reason for our
going."

"Could we not pay him rent for the house," said Lily, "as Mrs. Hearn
does? You would like to remain here, mamma, if you could do that?"

"But we could not do that, Lily. We must choose for ourselves a
smaller house than this, and one that is not burdened with the
expense of a garden. Even if we paid but a moderate rent for this
place, we should not have the means of living here."

"Not if we lived on toast and tea?" said Lily, laughing.

"But I should hardly wish you to live upon toast and tea; and indeed
I fancy that I should get tired of such a diet myself."

"Never, mamma," said Lily. "As for me, I confess to a longing after
mutton chops; but I don't think you would ever want such vulgar
things."

"At any rate, it would be impossible to remain here," said Bell.
"Uncle Christopher would not take rent from mamma; and even if he
did, we should not know how to go on with our other arrangements
after such a change. No; we must give up the dear old Small House."

"It is a dear old house," said Lily, thinking, as she spoke, more of
those late scenes in the garden, when Crosbie had been with them in
the autumn months, than of any of the former joys of her childhood.

"After all, I do not know that I should be right to move," said Mrs.
Dale, doubtingly.

"Yes, yes," said both the girls at once. "Of course you will be
right, mamma; there cannot be a doubt about it, mamma. If we can get
any cottage, or even lodgings, that would be better than remaining
here, now that we know what uncle Christopher thinks of it."

"It will make him very unhappy," said Mrs. Dale.

But even this argument did not in the least move the girls. They were
very sorry that their uncle should be unhappy. They would endeavour
to show him by some increased show of affection that their feelings
towards him were not unkind. Should he speak to them they would
endeavour to explain to him that their thoughts towards him were
altogether affectionate. But they could not remain at Allington
increasing their load of gratitude, seeing that he expected a certain
payment which they did not feel themselves able to render.

"We should be robbing him, if we stayed here," Bell
declared;--"wilfully robbing him of what he believes to be his just
share of the bargain."

So it was settled among them that notice should be given to their
uncle of their intention to quit the Small House of Allington.

And then came the question as to their new home. Mrs. Dale was aware
that her income was at any rate better than that possessed by Mrs.
Eames, and therefore she had fair ground for presuming that she could
afford to keep a house at Guestwick. "If we do go away, that is what
we must do," she said.

"And we shall have to walk out with Mary Eames, instead of Susan
Boyce," said Lily. "It won't make so much difference after all."

"In that respect we shall gain as much as we lose," said Bell.

"And then it will be so nice to have the shops," said Lily,
ironically.

"Only we shall never have any money to buy anything," said Bell.

"But we shall see more of the world," said Lily. "Lady Julia's
carriage comes into town twice a week, and the Miss Gruffens drive
about in great style. Upon the whole, we shall gain a great deal;
only for the poor old garden. Mamma, I do think I shall break my
heart at parting with Hopkins; and as to him, I shall be disappointed
in mankind if he ever holds his head up again after I am gone."

But in truth there was very much of sadness in their resolution, and
to Mrs. Dale it seemed as though she were managing matters badly
for her daughters, and allowing poverty and misfortune to come upon
them through her own fault. She well knew how great a load of sorrow
was lying on Lily's heart, hidden beneath those little attempts at
pleasantry which she made. When she spoke of being disappointed in
mankind, Mrs. Dale could hardly repress an outward shudder that would
betray her thoughts. And now she was consenting to take them forth
from their comfortable home, from the luxury of their lawns and
gardens, and to bring them to some small dingy corner of a provincial
town,--because she had failed to make herself happy with her
brother-in-law. Could she be right to give up all the advantages
which they enjoyed at Allington,--advantages which had come to them
from so legitimate a source,--because her own feelings had been
wounded? In all their future want of comfort, in the comfortless
dowdiness of the new home to which she would remove them, would
she not always blame herself for having brought them to that by
her own false pride? And yet it seemed to her that she now had no
alternative. She could not now teach her daughters to obey their
uncle's wishes in all things. She could not make Bell understand that
it would be well that she should marry Bernard because the squire had
set his heart on such a marriage. She had gone so far that she could
not now go back.

"I suppose we must move at Lady-day?" said Bell, who was in favour of
instant action. "If so, had you not better let uncle Christopher know
at once?"

"I don't think that we can find a house by that time."

"We can get in somewhere," continued Bell. "There are plenty of
lodgings in Guestwick, you know." But the sound of the word lodgings
was uncomfortable in Mrs. Dale's ears.

"If we are to go, let us go at once," said Lily. "We need not stand
much upon the order of our going."

"Your uncle will be very much shocked," said Mrs. Dale.

"He cannot say that it is your fault," said Bell.

It was thus agreed between them that the necessary information should
be at once given to the squire, and that the old, well-loved house
should be left for ever. It would be a great fall in a worldly
point of view,--from the Allington Small House to an abode in some
little street of Guestwick. At Allington they had been county
people,--raised to a level with their own squire and other squires by
the circumstance of their residence; but at Guestwick they would be
small even among the people of the town. They would be on an equality
with the Eameses, and much looked down upon by the Gruffens. They
would hardly dare to call any more at Guestwick Manor, seeing that
they certainly could not expect Lady Julia to call upon them at
Guestwick. Mrs. Boyce no doubt would patronize them, and they could
already anticipate the condolence which would be offered to them by
Mrs. Hearn. Indeed such a movement on their part would be tantamount
to a confession of failure in the full hearing of so much of the
world as was known to them.

I must not allow my readers to suppose that these considerations were
a matter of indifference to any of the ladies at the Small House. To
some women of strong mind, of highly-strung philosophic tendencies,
such considerations might have been indifferent. But Mrs. Dale was
not of this nature, nor were her daughters. The good things of the
world were good in their eyes, and they valued the privilege of
a pleasant social footing among their friends. They were by no
means capable of a wise contempt of the advantages which chance had
hitherto given to them. They could not go forth rejoicing in the
comparative poverty of their altered condition. But then, neither
could they purchase those luxuries which they were about to abandon
at the price which was asked for them.

"Had you not better write to my uncle?" said one of the girls. But
to this Mrs. Dale objected that she could not make a letter on such
a subject clearly intelligible, and that therefore she would see the
squire on the following morning. "It will be very dreadful," she
said, "but it will soon be over. It is not what he will say at the
moment that I fear so much, as the bitter reproaches of his face when
I shall meet him afterwards." So, on the following morning, she again
made her way, and now without invitation, to the squire's study.

"Mr. Dale," she began, starting upon her work with some confusion in
her manner, and hurry in her speech, "I have been thinking over what
we were saying together yesterday, and I have come to a resolution
which I know I ought to make known to you without a moment's delay."

The squire also had thought of what had passed between them, and had
suffered much as he had done so; but he had thought of it without
acerbity or anger. His thoughts were ever gentler than his words, and
his heart softer than any exponent of his heart that he was able to
put forth. He wished to love his brother's children, and to be loved
by them; but even failing that, he wished to do good to them. It had
not occurred to him to be angry with Mrs. Dale after that interview
was over. The conversation had not gone pleasantly with him; but
then he hardly expected that things would go pleasantly. No idea had
occurred to him that evil could come upon any of the Dale ladies from
the words which had then been spoken. He regarded the Small House as
their abode and home as surely as the Great House was his own. In
giving him his due, it must be declared that any allusion to their
holding these as a benefit done to them by him had been very far
from his thoughts. Mrs. Hearn, who held her cottage at half its real
value, grumbled almost daily at him as her landlord; but it never
occurred to him that therefore he should raise her rent, or that in
not doing so he was acting with special munificence. It had ever been
to him a grumbling, cross-grained, unpleasant world; and he did not
expect from Mrs. Hearn, or from his sister-in-law, anything better
than that to which he had ever been used.

"It will make me very happy," said he, "if it has any bearing on
Bell's marriage with her cousin."

"Mr. Dale, that is out of the question. I would not vex you by saying
so if I were not certain of it; but I know my child so well!"

"Then we must leave it to time, Mary."

"Yes, of course; but no time will suffice to make Bell change her
mind. We will, however, leave the subject. And now, Mr. Dale, I have
to tell you of something else;--we have resolved to leave the Small
House."

"Resolved on what?" said the squire, turning his eyes full upon her.

"We have resolved to leave the Small House."

"Leave the Small House!" he said, repeating her words; "and where on
earth do you mean to go?"

"We think we shall go into Guestwick."

"And why?"

"Ah, that is so hard to explain. If you would only accept the fact as
I tell it to you, and not ask for the reasons which have guided me!"

"But that is out of the question, Mary. In such a matter as that I
must ask your reasons; and I must tell you also that, in my opinion,
you will not be doing your duty to your daughters in carrying out
such an intention, unless your reasons are very strong indeed."

"But they are very strong," said Mrs. Dale; and then she paused.

"I cannot understand it," said the squire. "I cannot bring myself
to believe that you are really in earnest. Are you not comfortable
there?"

"More comfortable than we have any right to be with our means."

"But I thought you always did very nicely with your money. You never
get into debt."

"No; I never get into debt. It is not that, exactly. The fact is,
Mr. Dale, we have no right to live there without paying rent; but we
could not afford to live there if we did pay rent."

"Who has talked about rent?" he said, jumping up from his chair.
"Some one has been speaking falsehoods of me behind my back." No
gleam of the real truth had yet come to him. No idea had reached his
mind that his relatives thought it necessary to leave his house in
consequence of any word that he himself had spoken. He had never
considered himself to have been in any special way generous to them,
and would not have thought it reasonable that they should abandon the
house in which they had been living, even if his anger against them
had been strong and hot. "Mary," he said, "I must insist upon getting
to the bottom of this. As for your leaving the house, it is out of
the question. Where can you be better off, or so well? As to going
into Guestwick, what sort of life would there be for the girls? I
put all that aside as out of the question; but I must know what has
induced you to make such a proposition. Tell me honestly,--has any
one spoken evil of me behind my back?"

Mrs. Dale had been prepared for opposition and for reproach; but
there was a decision about the squire's words, and an air of
masterdom in his manner, which made her recognize more fully than she
had yet done the difficulty of her position. She almost began to fear
that she would lack power to carry out her purpose.

"Indeed, it is not so, Mr. Dale."

"Then what is it?"

"I know that if I attempt to tell you, you will be vexed, and will
contradict me."

"Vexed I shall be, probably."

"And yet I cannot help it. Indeed, I am endeavouring to do what is
right by you and by the children."

"Never mind me; your duty is to think of them."

"Of course it is; and in doing this they most cordially agree with
me."

In using such argument as that, Mrs. Dale showed her weakness, and
the squire was not slow to take advantage of it. "Your duty is to
them," he said; "but I do not mean by that that your duty is to let
them act in any way that may best please them for the moment. I
can understand that they should be run away with by some romantic
nonsense, but I cannot understand it of you."

"The truth is this, Mr. Dale. You think that my children owe to you
that sort of obedience which is due to a parent, and as long as they
remain here, accepting from your hands so large a part of their daily
support, it is perhaps natural that you should think so. In this
unhappy affair about Bell--"

"I have never said anything of the kind," said the squire,
interrupting her.

"No; you have not said so. And I do not wish you to think that I
make any complaint. But I feel that it is so, and they feel it. And,
therefore, we have made up our minds to go away."

Mrs. Dale, as she finished, was aware that she had not told her story
well, but she had acknowledged to herself that it was quite out of
her power to tell it as it should be told. Her main object was to
make her brother-in-law understand that she certainly would leave his
house, and to make him understand this with as little pain to himself
as possible. She did not in the least mind his thinking her foolish,
if only she could so carry her point as to be able to tell her
daughters on her return that the matter was settled. But the squire,
from his words and manners, seemed indisposed to give her this
privilege.

"Of all the propositions which I ever heard," said he, "it is the
most unreasonable. It amounts to this, that you are too proud to live
rent-free in a house which belongs to your husband's brother, and
therefore you intend to subject yourself and your children to the
great discomfort of a very straitened income. If you yourself only
were concerned I should have no right to say anything; but I think
myself bound to tell you that, as regards the girls, everybody that
knows you will think you to have been very wrong. It is in the
natural course of things that they should live in that house. The
place has never been let. As far as I know, no rent has ever been
paid for the house since it was built. It has always been given to
some member of the family, who has been considered as having the best
right to it. I have considered your footing there as firm as my own
here. A quarrel between me and your children would be to me a great
calamity, though, perhaps, they might be indifferent to it. But if
there were such a quarrel it would afford no reason for their leaving
that house. Let me beg you to think over the matter again."


[ILLUSTRATION: "Let me beg you to think over the matter again."]


The squire could assume an air of authority on certain occasions, and
he had done so now. Mrs. Dale found that she could only answer him
by a simple repetition of her own intention; and, indeed, failed in
making him any serviceable answer whatsoever.

"I know that you are very good to my girls," she said.

"I will say nothing about that," he answered; not thinking at that
moment of the Small House, but of the full possession which he had
desired to give to the elder of all the privileges which should
belong to the mistress of Allington,--thinking also of the means by
which he was hoping to repair poor Lily's shattered fortunes. What
words were further said had no great significance, and Mrs. Dale got
herself away, feeling that she had failed. As soon as she was gone
the squire arose, and putting on his great-coat, went forth with his
hat and stick to the front of the house. He went out in order that
his thoughts might be more free, and that he might indulge in that
solace which an injured man finds in contemplating his injury. He
declared to himself that he was very hardly used,--so hardly used,
that he almost began to doubt himself and his own motives. Why was
it that the people around him disliked him so strongly,--avoided him
and thwarted him in the efforts which he made for their welfare? He
offered to his nephew all the privileges of a son,--much more indeed
than the privileges of a son,--merely asking in return that he would
consent to live permanently in the house which was to be his own. But
his nephew refused. "He cannot bear to live with me," said the old
man to himself sorely. He was prepared to treat his nieces with more
generosity than the daughters of the House of Allington had usually
received from their fathers; and they repelled his kindness, running
away from him, and telling him openly that they would not be beholden
to him. He walked slowly up and down the terrace, thinking of this
very bitterly. He did not find in the contemplation of his grievance
all that solace which a grievance usually gives, because he accused
himself in his thoughts rather than others. He declared to himself
that he was made to be hated, and protested to himself that it would
be well that he should die and be buried out of memory, so that
the remaining Dales might have a better chance of living happily;
and then as he thus discussed all this within his own bosom, his
thoughts were very tender, and though he was aggrieved, he was most
affectionate to those who had most injured him. But it was absolutely
beyond his power to reproduce outwardly, with words and outward
signs, such thoughts and feelings.

It was now very nearly the end of the year, but the weather was still
soft and open. The air was damp rather than cold, and the lawns
and fields still retained the green tints of new vegetation. As
the squire was walking on the terrace Hopkins came up to him, and
touching his hat, remarked that they should have frost in a day or
two.

"I suppose we shall," said the squire.

"We must have the mason to the flues of that little grape-house, sir,
before I can do any good with a fire there."

"Which grape-house?" said the squire, crossly.

"Why, the grape-house in the other garden, sir. It ought to have been
done last year by rights." This Hopkins said to punish his master
for being cross to him. On that matter of the flues of Mrs. Dale's
grape-house he had, with much consideration, spared his master during
the last winter, and he felt that this ought to be remembered now. "I
can't put any fire in it, not to do any real good, till something's
done. That's sure."

"Then don't put any fire in it," said the squire.

Now the grapes in question were supposed to be peculiarly fine, and
were the glory of the garden of the Small House. They were always
forced, though not forced so early as those at the Great House, and
Hopkins was in a state of great confusion.

"They'll never ripen, sir; not the whole year through."

"Then let them be unripe," said the squire, walking about.

Hopkins did not at all understand it. The squire in his natural
course was very unwilling to neglect any such matter as this, but
would be specially unwilling to neglect anything touching the
Small House. So Hopkins stood on the terrace, raising his hat and
scratching his head. "There's something wrong amongst them," said he
to himself, sorrowfully.

But when the squire had walked to the end of the terrace and had
turned upon the path which led round the side of the house, he
stopped and called to Hopkins.

"Have what is needful done to the flue," he said.

"Yes, sir; very well, sir. It'll only be re-setting the bricks.
Nothing more ain't needful, just this winter."

"Have the place put in perfect order while you're about it," said the
squire, and then he walked away.




CHAPTER XXXIX.

DR. CROFTS IS TURNED OUT.


"Have you heard the news, my dear, from the Small House?" said Mrs.
Boyce to her husband, some two or three days after Mrs. Dale's visit
to the squire. It was one o'clock, and the parish pastor had come in
from his ministrations to dine with his wife and children.

"What news?" said Mr. Boyce, for he had heard none.

"Mrs. Dale and the girls are going to leave the Small House; they're
going into Guestwick to live."

"Mrs. Dale going away; nonsense!" said the vicar. "What on earth
should take her into Guestwick? She doesn't pay a shilling of rent
where she is."

"I can assure you it's true, my dear. I was with Mrs. Hearn just now,
and she had it direct from Mrs. Dale's own lips. Mrs. Hearn said
she'd never been taken so much aback in her whole life. There's been
some quarrel, you may be sure of that."

Mr. Boyce sat silent, pulling off his dirty shoes preparatory to his
dinner. Tidings so important, as touching the social life of his
parish, had not come to him for many a day, and he could hardly bring
himself to credit them at so short a notice.

"Mrs. Hearn says that Mrs. Dale spoke ever so firmly about it, as
though determined that nothing should change her."

"And did she say why?"

"Well, not exactly. But Mrs. Hearn said she could understand there
had been words between her and the squire. It couldn't be anything
else, you know. Probably it had something to do with that man
Crosbie."

"They'll be very pushed about money," said Mr. Boyce, thrusting his
feet into his slippers.

"That's just what I said to Mrs. Hearn. And those girls have never
been used to anything like real economy. What's to become of them I
don't know;" and Mrs. Boyce, as she expressed her sympathy for her
dear friends, received considerable comfort from the prospect of
their future poverty. It always is so, and Mrs. Boyce was not worse
than her neighbours.

"You'll find they'll make it up before the time comes," said Mr.
Boyce, to whom the excitement of such a change in affairs was almost
too good to be true.

"I am afraid not," said Mrs. Boyce; "I'm afraid not. They are both so
determined. I always thought that riding and giving the girls hats
and habits was injurious. It was treating them as though they were
the squire's daughters, and they were not the squire's daughters."

"It was almost the same thing."

"But now we see the difference," said the judicious Mrs. Boyce. "I
often said that dear Mrs. Dale was wrong, and it turns out that I was
right. It will make no difference to me, as regards calling on them
and that sort of thing."

"Of course it won't."

"Not but what there must be a difference, and a very great difference
too. It will be a terrible come down for poor Lily, with the loss of
her fine husband and all."

After dinner, when Mr. Boyce had again gone forth upon his labours,
the same subject was discussed between Mrs. Boyce and her daughters,
and the mother was very careful to teach her children that Mrs. Dale
would be just as good a person as ever she had been, and quite as
much a lady, even though she should live in a very dingy house at
Guestwick; from which lesson the Boyce girls learned plainly that
Mrs. Dale, with Bell and Lily, were about to have a fall in the
world, and that they were to be treated accordingly.

From all this, it will be discovered that Mrs. Dale had not given
way to the squire's arguments, although she had found herself unable
to answer them. As she had returned home she had felt herself to be
almost vanquished, and had spoken to the girls with the air and tone
of a woman who hardly knew in which course lay the line of her duty.
But they had not seen the squire's manner on the occasion, nor heard
his words, and they could not understand that their own purpose
should be abandoned because he did not like it. So they talked their
mother into fresh resolves, and on the following morning she wrote a
note to her brother-in-law, assuring him that she had thought much of
all that he had said, but again declaring that she regarded herself
as bound in duty to leave the Small House. To this he had returned
no answer, and she had communicated her intention to Mrs. Hearn,
thinking it better that there should be no secret in the matter.

"I am sorry to hear that your sister-in-law is going to leave us,"
Mr. Boyce said to the squire that same afternoon.

"Who told you that?" asked the squire, showing by his tone that he by
no means liked the topic of conversation which the parson had chosen.

"Well, I had it from Mrs. Boyce, and I think Mrs. Hearn told her."

"I wish Mrs. Hearn would mind her own business, and not spread idle
reports."

The squire said nothing more, and Mr. Boyce felt that he had been
very unjustly snubbed.

Dr. Crofts had come over and pronounced as a fact that it was
scarlatina. Village apothecaries are generally wronged by the doubts
which are thrown upon them, for the town doctors when they come
always confirm what the village apothecaries have said.

"There can be no doubt as to its being scarlatina," the doctor
declared; "but the symptoms are all favourable."

There was, however, much worse coming than this. Two days afterwards
Lily found herself to be rather unwell. She endeavoured to keep it to
herself, fearing that she should be brought under the doctor's notice
as a patient; but her efforts were unavailing, and on the following
morning it was known that she had also taken the disease. Dr. Crofts
declared that everything was in her favour. The weather was cold.
The presence of the malady in the house had caused them all to be
careful, and, moreover, good advice was at hand at once. The doctor
begged Mrs. Dale not to be uneasy, but he was very eager in begging
that the two sisters might not be allowed to be together. "Could
you not send Bell into Guestwick,--to Mrs. Eames's?" said he. But
Bell did not choose to be sent to Mrs. Eames's, and was with great
difficulty kept out of her mother's bedroom, to which Lily as an
invalid was transferred.

"If you will allow me to say so," he said to Bell, on the second day
after Lily's complaint had declared itself, "you are wrong to stay
here in the house."

"I certainly shall not leave mamma, when she has got so much upon her
hands," said Bell.

"But if you should be taken ill she would have more on her hands,"
pleaded the doctor.

"I could not do it," Bell replied. "If I were taken over to
Guestwick, I should be so uneasy that I should walk back to Allington
the first moment that I could escape from the house."

"I think your mother would be more comfortable without you."

"And I think she would be more comfortable with me. I don't ever like
to hear of a woman running away from illness; but when a sister or
a daughter does so, it is intolerable." So Bell remained, without
permission indeed to see her sister, but performing various outside
administrations which were much needed.

And thus all manner of trouble came upon the inhabitants of the Small
House, falling upon them as it were in a heap together. It was as yet
barely two months since those terrible tidings had come respecting
Crosbie; tidings which, it was felt at the time, would of themselves
be sufficient to crush them; and now to that misfortune other
misfortunes had been added,--one quick upon the heels of another. In
the teeth of the doctor's kind prophecy Lily became very ill, and
after a few days was delirious. She would talk to her mother about
Crosbie, speaking of him as she used to speak in the autumn that was
passed. But even in her madness she remembered that they had resolved
to leave their present home; and she asked the doctor twice whether
their lodgings in Guestwick were ready for them.

It was thus that Crofts first heard of their intention. Now, in
these days of Lily's worst illness, he came daily over to Allington,
remaining there, on one occasion, the whole night. For all this he
would take no fee;--nor had he ever taken a fee from Mrs. Dale. "I
wish you would not come so often," Bell said to him one evening, as
he stood with her at the drawing-room fire, after he had left the
patient's room; "you are overloading us with obligations." On that
day Lily was over the worst of the fever, and he had been able to
tell Mrs. Dale that he did not think that she was now in danger.

"It will not be necessary much longer," he said; "the worst of it is
over."

"It is such a luxury to hear you say so. I suppose we shall owe her
life to you; but nevertheless--"

"Oh, no; scarlatina is not such a terrible thing now as it used to
be."

"Then why should you have devoted your time to her as you have done?
It frightens me when I think of the injury we must have done you."

"My horse has felt it more than I have," said the doctor, laughing.
"My patients at Guestwick are not so very numerous." Then, instead of
going, he sat himself down. "And it is really true," he said, "that
you are all going to leave this house?"

"Quite true. We shall do so at the end of March, if Lily is well
enough to be moved."

"Lily will be well long before that, I hope; not, indeed, that she
ought to be moved out of her own rooms for many weeks to come yet."

"Unless we are stopped by her we shall certainly go at the end of
March." Bell now had also sat down, and they both remained for some
time looking at the fire in silence.

"And why is it, Bell?" he said, at last. "But I don't know whether I
have a right to ask."

"You have a right to ask any question about us," she said. "My uncle
is very kind. He is more than kind; he is generous. But he seems to
think that our living here gives him a right to interfere with mamma.
We don't like that, and, therefore, we are going."

The doctor still sat on one side of the fire, and Bell still sat
opposite to him; but the conversation did not form itself very freely
between them. "It is bad news," he said, at last.

"At any rate, when we are ill you will not have so far to come and
see us."

"Yes, I understand. That means that I am ungracious not to
congratulate myself on having you all so much nearer to me; but I do
not in the least. I cannot bear to think of you as living anywhere
but here at Allington. Dales will be out of their place in a street
at Guestwick."

"That's hard upon the Dales, too."

"It is hard upon them. It's a sort of offshoot from that very
tyrannical law of noblesse oblige. I don't think you ought to go away
from Allington, unless the circumstances are very imperative."

"But they are very imperative."

"In that case, indeed!" And then again he fell into silence.

"Have you never seen that mamma is not happy here?" she said, after
another pause. "For myself, I never quite understood it all before as
I do now; but now I see it."

"And I have seen it;--have seen at least what you mean. She has led
a life of restraint; but then, how frequently is such restraint the
necessity of a life? I hardly think that your mother would move on
that account."

"No. It is on our account. But this restraint, as you call it, makes
us unhappy, and she is governed by seeing that. My uncle is generous
to her as regards money; but in other things,--in matters of
feeling,--I think he has been ungenerous."

"Bell," said the doctor; and then he paused.

She looked up at him, but made no answer. He had always called her
by her Christian name, and they two had ever regarded each other
as close friends. At the present moment she had forgotten all else
besides this, and yet she had infinite pleasure in sitting there and
talking to him.

"I am going to ask you a question which perhaps I ought not to ask,
only that I have known you so long that I almost feel that I am
speaking to a sister."

"You may ask me what you please," said she.

"It is about your cousin Bernard."

"About Bernard!" said Bell.

It was now dusk; and as they were sitting without other light than
that of the fire, she knew that he could not discern the colour which
covered her face as her cousin's name was mentioned. But, had the
light of day pervaded the whole room, I doubt whether Crofts would
have seen that blush, for he kept his eyes firmly fixed upon the
fire.

"Yes, about Bernard. I don't know whether I ought to ask you."

"I'm sure I can't say," said Bell, speaking words of the nature of
which she was not conscious.

"There has been a rumour in Guestwick that he and you--"

"It is untrue," said Bell; "quite untrue. If you hear it repeated,
you should contradict it. I wonder why people should say such
things."

"It would have been an excellent marriage;--all your friends must
have approved it."

"What do you mean, Dr. Crofts? How I do hate those words, 'an
excellent marriage.' In them is contained more of wicked worldliness
than any other words that one ever hears spoken. You want me to marry
my cousin simply because I should have a great house to live in, and
a coach. I know that you are my friend; but I hate such friendship as
that."

"I think you misunderstand me, Bell. I mean that it would have been
an excellent marriage, provided you had both loved each other."

"No, I don't misunderstand you. Of course it would be an excellent
marriage, if we loved each other. You might say the same if I loved
the butcher or the baker. What you mean is, that it makes a reason
for loving him."

"I don't think I did mean that."

"Then you mean nothing."

After that, there were again some minutes of silence during which
Dr. Crofts got up to go away. "You have scolded me very dreadfully,"
he said, with a slight smile, "and I believe I have deserved it for
interfering--"

"No; not at all for interfering."

"But at any rate you must forgive me before I go."

"I won't forgive you at all, unless you repent of your sins, and
alter altogether the wickedness of your mind. You will become very
soon as bad as Dr. Gruffen."

"Shall I?"

"Oh, but I will forgive you; for after all, you are the most generous
man in the world."

"Oh, yes; of course I am. Well,--good-by."

"But, Dr. Crofts, you should not suppose others to be so much more
worldly than yourself. You do not care for money so very much--"

"But I do care very much."

"If you did, you would not come here for nothing day after day."

"I do care for money very much. I have sometimes nearly broken my
heart because I could not get opportunities of earning it. It is the
best friend that a man can have--"

"Oh, Dr. Crofts!"

"--the best friend that a man can have, if it be honestly come by.
A woman can hardly realize the sorrow which may fall upon a man from
the want of such a friend."

"Of course a man likes to earn a decent living by his profession; and
you can do that."

"That depends upon one's ideas of decency."

"Ah! mine never ran very high. I've always had a sort of aptitude for
living in a pigsty;--a clean pigsty, you know, with nice fresh bean
straw to lie upon. I think it was a mistake when they made a lady of
me. I do, indeed."

"I do not," said Dr. Crofts.

"That's because you don't quite know me yet. I've not the slightest
pleasure in putting on three different dresses a day. I do it very
often because it comes to me to do it, from the way in which we have
been taught to live. But when we get to Guestwick I mean to change
all that; and if you come in to tea, you'll see me in the same brown
frock that I wear in the morning,--unless, indeed, the morning
work makes the brown frock dirty. Oh, Dr. Crofts! you'll have it
pitch-dark riding home under the Guestwick elms."

"I don't mind the dark," he said; and it seemed as though he hardly
intended to go even yet.

"But I do," said Bell, "and I shall ring for candles." But he stopped
her as she put her hand out to the bell-pull.

"Stop a moment, Bell. You need hardly have the candles before I go,
and you need not begrudge my staying either, seeing that I shall be
all alone at home."

"Begrudge your staying!"

"But, however, you shall begrudge it, or else make me very welcome."
He still held her by the wrist, which he had caught as he prevented
her from summoning the servant.

"What do you mean?" said she. "You know you are welcome to us as
flowers in May. You always were welcome; but now, when you have come
to us in our trouble-- At any rate, you shall never say that I turn
you out."

"Shall I never say so?" And still he held her by the wrist. He had
kept his chair throughout, but she was standing before him,--between
him and the fire. But she, though he held her in this way, thought
little of his words, or of his action. They had known each other with
great intimacy, and though Lily would still laugh at her, saying that
Dr. Crofts was her lover, she had long since taught herself that no
such feeling as that would ever exist between them.

"Shall I never say so, Bell? What if so poor a man as I ask for the
hand that you will not give to so rich a man as your cousin Bernard?"

She instantly withdrew her arm and moved back very quickly a step or
two across the rug. She did it almost with the motion which she might
have used had he insulted her; or had a man spoken such words who
would not, under any circumstances, have a right to speak them.

"Ah, yes! I thought it would be so," he said. "I may go now, and may
know that I have been turned out."

"What is it you mean, Dr. Crofts? What is it you are saying? Why do
you talk that nonsense, trying to see if you can provoke me?"

"Yes; it is nonsense. I have no right to address you in that way, and
certainly should not have done it now that I am in your house in the
way of my profession. I beg your pardon." Now he also was standing,
but he had not moved from his side of the fireplace. "Are you going
to forgive me before I go?"

"Forgive you for what?" said she.

"For daring to love you; for having loved you almost as long as you
can remember; for loving you better than all beside. This alone you
should forgive; but will you forgive me for having told it?"

He had made her no offer, nor did she expect that he was about to
make one. She herself had hardly yet realized the meaning of his
words, and she certainly had asked herself no question as to the
answer which she should give to them. There are cases in which lovers
present themselves in so unmistakeable a guise, that the first word
of open love uttered by them tells their whole story, and tells it
without the possibility of a surprise. And it is generally so when
the lover has not been an old friend, when even his acquaintance
has been of modern date. It had been so essentially in the case of
Crosbie and Lily Dale. When Crosbie came to Lily and made his offer,
he did it with perfect ease and thorough self-possession, for he
almost knew that it was expected. And Lily, though she had been
flurried for a moment, had her answer pat enough. She already loved
the man with all her heart, delighted in his presence, basked in
the sunshine of his manliness, rejoiced in his wit, and had tuned
her ears to the tone of his voice. It had all been done, and the
world expected it. Had he not made his offer, Lily would have been
ill-treated;--though, alas, alas, there was future ill-treatment, so
much heavier, in store for her! But there are other cases in which
a lover cannot make himself known as such without great difficulty,
and when he does do so, cannot hope for an immediate answer in his
favour. It is hard upon old friends that this difficulty should
usually fall the heaviest upon them. Crofts had been so intimate with
the Dale family that very many persons had thought it probable that
he would marry one of the girls. Mrs. Dale herself had thought so,
and had almost hoped it. Lily had certainly done both. These thoughts
and hopes had somewhat faded away, but yet their former existence
should have been in the doctor's favour. But now, when he had in some
way spoken out, Bell started back from him and would not believe that
he was in earnest. She probably loved him better than any man in the
world, and yet, when he spoke to her of love, she could not bring
herself to understand him.

"I don't know what you mean, Dr. Crofts; indeed I do not," she said.

"I had meant to ask you to be my wife; simply that. But you shall not
have the pain of making me a positive refusal. As I rode here to-day
I thought of it. During my frequent rides of late I have thought of
little else. But I told myself that I had no right to do it. I have
not even a house in which it would be fit that you should live."

"Dr. Crofts, if I loved you,--if I wished to marry you--" and then
she stopped herself.

"But you do not?"

"No; I think not. I suppose not. No. But in any way no consideration
about money has anything to do with it."

"But I am not that butcher or that baker whom you could love?"

"No," said Bell; and then she stopped herself from further speech,
not as intending to convey all her answer in that one word, but as
not knowing how to fashion any further words.

"I knew it would be so," said the doctor.

It will, I fear, be thought by those who condescend to criticize this
lover's conduct and his mode of carrying on his suit, that he was
very unfit for such work. Ladies will say that he wanted courage, and
men will say that he wanted wit. I am inclined, however, to believe
that he behaved as well as men generally do behave on such occasions,
and that he showed himself to be a good average lover. There is your
bold lover, who knocks his lady-love over as he does a bird, and
who would anathematize himself all over, and swear that his gun was
distraught, and look about as though he thought the world was coming
to an end, if he missed to knock over his bird. And there is your
timid lover, who winks his eyes when he fires, who has felt certain
from the moment in which he buttoned on his knickerbockers that he
at any rate would kill nothing, and who, when he hears the loud
congratulations of his friends, cannot believe that he really did
bag that beautiful winged thing by his own prowess. The beautiful
winged thing which the timid man carries home in his bosom, declining
to have it thrown into a miscellaneous cart, so that it may never
be lost in a common crowd of game, is better to him than are the
slaughtered hecatombs to those who kill their birds by the hundred.

But Dr. Crofts had so winked his eye, that he was not in the least
aware whether he had winged his bird or no. Indeed, having no one at
hand to congratulate him, he was quite sure that the bird had flown
away uninjured into the next field. "No" was the only word which Bell
had given in answer to his last sidelong question, and No is not a
comfortable word to lovers. But there had been that in Bell's No
which might have taught him that the bird was not escaping without a
wound, if he had still had any of his wits about him.

"Now I will go," said he. Then he paused for an answer, but none
came. "And you will understand what I meant when I spoke of being
turned out."

"Nobody--turns you out." And Bell, as she spoke, had almost descended
to a sob.

"It is time, at any rate, that I should go; is it not? And, Bell,
don't suppose that this little scene will keep me away from your
sister's bedside. I shall be here to-morrow, and you will find that
you will hardly know me again for the same person." Then in the dark
he put out his hand to her.

"Good-by," she said, giving him her hand. He pressed hers very
closely, but she, though she wished to do so, could not bring herself
to return the pressure. Her hand remained passive in his, showing no
sign of offence; but it was absolutely passive.

"Good-by, dearest friend," he said.

"Good-by," she answered,--and then he was gone.

She waited quite still till she heard the front-door close after him,
and then she crept silently up to her own bedroom, and sat herself
down in a low rocking-chair over the fire. It was in accordance with
a custom already established that her mother should remain with Lily
till the tea was ready downstairs; for in these days of illness such
dinners as were provided were eaten early. Bell, therefore, knew that
she had still some half-hour of her own, during which she might sit
and think undisturbed.

And what naturally should have been her first thoughts?--that she had
ruthlessly refused a man who, as she now knew, loved her well, and
for whom she had always felt at any rate the warmest friendship? Such
were not her thoughts, nor were they in any way akin to this. They
ran back instantly to years gone by,--over long years, as her few
years were counted,--and settled themselves on certain halcyon days,
in which she had dreamed that he had loved her, and had fancied
that she had loved him. How she had schooled herself for those days
since that, and taught herself to know that her thoughts had been
over-bold! And now it had all come round. The only man that she
had ever liked had loved her. Then there came to her a memory of a
certain day, in which she had been almost proud to think that Crosbie
had admired her, in which she had almost hoped that it might be so;
and as she thought of this she blushed, and struck her foot twice
upon the floor. "Dear Lily," she said to herself--"poor Lily!" But
the feeling which induced her then to think of her sister had had no
relation to that which had first brought Crosbie into her mind.

And this man had loved her through it all,--this priceless, peerless
man,--this man who was as true to the backbone as that other man had
shown himself to be false; who was as sound as the other man had
proved himself to be rotten. A smile came across her face as she sat
looking at the fire, thinking of this. A man had loved her, whose
love was worth possessing. She hardly remembered whether or no she
had refused him or accepted him. She hardly asked herself what she
would do. As to all that it was necessary that she should have many
thoughts, but the necessity did not press upon her quite immediately.
For the present, at any rate, she might sit and triumph;--and thus
triumphant she sat there till the old nurse came in and told her that
her mother was waiting for her below.




CHAPTER XL.

PREPARATIONS FOR THE WEDDING.


[ILLUSTRATION: (untitled)]

The fourteenth of February was finally settled as the day on which
Mr. Crosbie was to be made the happiest of men. A later day had been
at first named, the twenty-seventh or twenty-eighth having been
suggested as an improvement over the first week in March; but Lady
Amelia had been frightened by Crosbie's behaviour on that Sunday
evening, and had made the countess understand that there should be no
unnecessary delay. "He doesn't scruple at that kind of thing," Lady
Amelia had said in one of her letters, showing perhaps less trust in
the potency of her own rank than might have been expected from her.
The countess, however, had agreed with her, and when Crosbie received
from his mother-in-law a very affectionate epistle, setting forth all
the reasons which would make the fourteenth so much more convenient
a day than the twenty-eighth, he was unable to invent an excuse for
not being made happy a fortnight earlier than the time named in the
bargain. His first impulse had been against yielding, arising from
some feeling which made him think that more than the bargain ought
not to be exacted. But what was the use to him of quarrelling? What
the use, at least, of quarrelling just then? He believed that he
could more easily enfranchise himself from the De Courcy tyranny when
he should be once married than he could do now. When Lady Alexandrina
should be his own he would let her know that he intended to be her
master. If in doing so it would be necessary that he should divide
himself altogether from the De Courcys, such division should be made.
At the present moment he would yield to them, at any rate in this
matter. And so the fourteenth of February was fixed for the marriage.

In the second week in January Alexandrina came up to look after her
things; or, in more noble language, to fit herself with becoming
bridal appanages. As she could not properly do all this work alone,
or even under the surveillance and with the assistance of a sister,
Lady De Courcy was to come up also. But Alexandrina came first,
remaining with her sister in St. John's Wood till the countess should
arrive. The countess had never yet condescended to accept of her
son-in-law's hospitality, but always went to the cold, comfortless
house in Portman Square,--the house which had been the De Courcy town
family mansion for many years, and which the countess would long
since have willingly exchanged for some abode on the other side of
Oxford Street; but the earl had been obdurate; his clubs and certain
lodgings which he had occasionally been wont to occupy, were on the
right side of Oxford Street; why should he change his old family
residence? So the countess was coming up to Portman Square, not
having been even asked on this occasion to St. John's Wood.

"Don't you think we'd better," Mr. Gazebee had said to his wife,
almost trembling at the renewal of his own proposition.

"I think not, my dear," Lady Amelia had answered. "Mamma is not very
particular; but there are little things, you know--"

"Oh, yes, of course," said Mr. Gazebee; and then the conversation
had been dropped. He would most willingly have entertained his
august mother-in-law during her visit to the metropolis, and yet her
presence in his house would have made him miserable as long as she
remained there.

But for a week Alexandrina sojourned under Mr. Gazebee's roof,
during which time Crosbie was made happy with all the delights of an
expectant bridegroom. Of course he was given to understand that he
was to dine at the Gazebees' every day, and spend all his evenings
there; and, under the circumstances, he had no excuse for not doing
so. Indeed, at the present moment, his hours would otherwise have
hung heavily enough upon his hands. In spite of his bold resolution
with reference to his eye, and his intention not to be debarred from
the pleasures of society by the marks of the late combat, he had not,
since that occurrence, frequented his club very closely; and though
London was now again becoming fairly full, he did not find himself
going out so much as had been his wont. The brilliance of his coming
marriage did not seem to have added much to his popularity; in
fact, the world,--his world,--was beginning to look coldly at him.
Therefore that daily attendance at St. John's Wood was not felt to be
so irksome as might have been expected.

A residence had been taken for the couple in a very fashionable row
of buildings abutting upon the Bayswater Road, called Princess Royal
Crescent. The house was quite new, and the street being unfinished
had about it a strong smell of mortar, and a general aspect of
builders' poles and brickbats; but nevertheless, it was acknowledged
to be a quite correct locality. From one end of the crescent a corner
of Hyde Park could be seen, and the other abutted on a very handsome
terrace indeed, in which lived an ambassador,--from South America,--a
few bankers' senior clerks, and a peer of the realm. We know how
vile is the sound of Baker Street, and how absolutely foul to the
polite ear is the name of Fitzroy Square. The houses, however, in
those purlieus are substantial, warm, and of good size. The house in
Princess Royal Crescent was certainly not substantial, for in these
days substantially-built houses do not pay. It could hardly have
been warm, for, to speak the truth, it was even yet not finished
throughout; and as for the size, though the drawing-room was a noble
apartment, consisting of a section of the whole house, with a corner
cut out for the staircase, it was very much cramped in its other
parts, and was made like a cherub, in this respect, that it had
no rear belonging to it. "But if you have no private fortune of
your own, you cannot have everything," as the countess observed
when Crosbie objected to the house because a closet under the
kitchen-stairs was to be assigned to him as his own dressing-room.

When the question of the house was first debated, Lady Amelia had
been anxious that St. John's Wood should be selected as the site, but
to this Crosbie had positively objected.

"I think you don't like St. John's Wood," Lady Amelia had said to
him somewhat sternly, thinking to awe him into a declaration that he
entertained no general enmity to the neighbourhood. But Crosbie was
not weak enough for this.

"No; I do not," he said. "I have always disliked it. It amounts to a
prejudice, I daresay. But if I were made to live here I am convinced
I should cut my throat in the first six months."

Lady Amelia had then drawn herself up, declaring her sorrow that her
house should be so hateful to him.

"Oh, dear, no," said he. "I like it very much for you, and enjoy
coming here of all things. I speak only of the effect which living
here myself would have upon me."

Lady Amelia was quite clever enough to understand it all; but she
had her sister's interest at heart, and therefore persevered in her
affectionate solicitude for her brother-in-law, giving up that point
as to St. John's Wood. Crosbie himself had wished to go to one of the
new Pimlico squares down near Vauxhall Bridge and the river, actuated
chiefly by consideration of the enormous distance lying between that
locality and the northern region in which Lady Amelia lived; but
to this Lady Alexandrina had objected strongly. If, indeed, they
could have achieved Eaton Square, or a street leading out of Eaton
Square,--if they could have crept on to the hem of the skirt of
Belgravia,--the bride would have been delighted. And at first she was
very nearly being taken in with the idea that such was the proposal
made to her. Her geographical knowledge of Pimlico had not been
perfect, and she had nearly fallen into a fatal error. But a friend
had kindly intervened. "For heaven's sake, my dear, don't let him
take you anywhere beyond Eccleston Square!" had been exclaimed to her
in dismay by a faithful married friend. Thus warned, Alexandrina had
been firm, and now their tent was to be pitched in Princess Royal
Crescent, from one end of which the Hyde Park may be seen.

The furniture had been ordered chiefly under the inspection, and by
the experience, of the Lady Amelia. Crosbie had satisfied himself
by declaring that she at any rate could get the things cheaper than
he could buy them, and that he had no taste for such employment.
Nevertheless, he had felt that he was being made subject to tyranny
and brought under the thumb of subjection. He could not go cordially
into this matter of beds and chairs, and, therefore, at last deputed
the whole matter to the De Courcy faction. And for this there was
another reason, not hitherto mentioned. Mr. Mortimer Gazebee was
finding the money with which all the furniture was being bought.
He, with an honest but almost unintelligible zeal for the De Courcy
family, had tied up every shilling on which he could lay his hand
as belonging to Crosbie, in the interest of Lady Alexandrina.
He had gone to work for her, scraping here and arranging there,
strapping the new husband down upon the grindstone of his matrimonial
settlement, as though the future bread of his, Gazebee's, own
children were dependent on the validity of his legal workmanship.
And for this he was not to receive a penny, or gain any advantage,
immediate or ulterior. It came from his zeal,--his zeal for the
coronet which Lord De Courcy wore. According to his mind an earl and
an earl's belongings were entitled to such zeal. It was the theory
in which he had been educated, and amounted to a worship which,
unconsciously, he practised. Personally, he disliked Lord De Courcy,
who ill-treated him. He knew that the earl was a heartless, cruel,
bad man. But as an earl he was entitled to an amount of service
which no commoner could have commanded from Mr. Gazebee. Mr. Gazebee,
having thus tied up all the available funds in favour of Lady
Alexandrina's seemingly expected widowhood, was himself providing the
money with which the new house was to be furnished. "You can pay me a
hundred and fifty a year with four per cent. till it is liquidated,"
he had said to Crosbie; and Crosbie had assented with a grunt.
Hitherto, though he had lived in London expensively, and as a man
of fashion, he had never owed any one anything. He was now to begin
that career of owing. But when a clerk in a public office marries an
earl's daughter, he cannot expect to have everything his own way.

Lady Amelia had bought the ordinary furniture--the beds, the
stair-carpets, the washing-stands, and the kitchen things.
Gazebee had got a bargain of the dinner-table and sideboard. But
Lady Alexandrina herself was to come up with reference to the
appurtenances of the drawing-room. It was with reference to matters
of costume that the countess intended to lend her assistance--matters
of costume as to which the bill could not be sent in to Gazebee,
and be paid for by him with five per cent. duly charged against the
bridegroom. The bridal trousseau must be produced by De Courcy's
means, and, therefore, it was necessary that the countess herself
should come upon the scene. "I will have no bills, d'ye hear?"
snarled the earl, gnashing and snapping upon his words with one
specially ugly black tooth. "I won't have any bills about this
affair." And yet he made no offer of ready money. It was very
necessary under such circumstances that the countess herself should
come upon the scene. An ambiguous hint had been conveyed to Mr.
Gazebee, during a visit of business which he had lately made to
Courcy Castle, that the milliner's bills might as well be pinned
on to those of the furniture-makers, the crockery-mongers, and the
like. The countess, putting it in her own way, had gently suggested
that the fashion of the thing had changed lately, and that such
an arrangement was considered to be the proper thing among people
who lived really in the world. But Gazebee was a clear-headed,
honest man; and he knew the countess. He did not think that such an
arrangement could be made on the present occasion. Whereupon the
countess pushed her suggestion no further, but made up her mind that
she must come up to London herself.

It was pleasant to see the Ladies Amelia and Alexandrina, as they sat
within a vast emporium of carpets in Bond Street, asking questions of
the four men who were waiting upon them, putting their heads together
and whispering, calculating accurately as to extra twopences a yard,
and occasioning as much trouble as it was possible for them to give.
It was pleasant because they managed their large hoops cleverly among
the huge rolls of carpets, because they were enjoying themselves
thoroughly, and taking to themselves the homage of the men as clearly
their due. But it was not so pleasant to look at Crosbie, who was
fidgeting to get away to his office, to whom no power of choosing
in the matter was really given, and whom the men regarded as being
altogether supernumerary. The ladies had promised to be at the
shop by half-past ten, so that Crosbie should reach his office at
eleven--or a little after. But it was nearly eleven before they left
the Gazebee residence, and it was very evident that half-an-hour
among the carpets would be by no means sufficient. It seemed as
though miles upon miles of gorgeous colouring were unrolled before
them; and then when any pattern was regarded as at all practicable,
it was unrolled backwards and forwards till a room was nearly covered
by it. Crosbie felt for the men who were hauling about the huge heaps
of material; but Lady Amelia sat as composed as though it were her
duty to inspect every yard of stuff in the warehouse. "I think we'll
look at that one at the bottom again." Then the men went to work and
removed a mountain. "No, my dear, that green in the scroll-work won't
do. It would fly directly, if any hot water were spilt." The man
smiling ineffably, declared that that particular green never flew
anywhere. But Lady Amelia paid no attention to him, and the carpet
for which the mountain had been removed became part of another
mountain.

"That might do," said Alexandrina, gazing upon a magnificent crimson
ground through which rivers of yellow meandered, carrying with them
in their streams an infinity of blue flowers. And as she spoke she
held her head gracefully on one side, and looked down upon the carpet
doubtingly. Lady Amelia poked it with her parasol as though to test
its durability, and whispered something about yellows showing the
dirt. Crosbie took out his watch and groaned.


[ILLUSTRATION: "That might do."]


"It's a superb carpet, my lady, and about the newest thing we have.
We put down four hundred and fifty yards of it for the Duchess of
South Wales, at Cwddglwlch Castle, only last month. Nobody has had
it since, for it has not been in stock." Whereupon Lady Amelia again
poked it, and then got up and walked upon it. Lady Alexandrina held
her head a little more on one side.

"Five and three?" said Lady Amelia.

"Oh, no, my lady; five and seven; and the cheapest carpet we have
in the house. There is twopence a yard more in the colour; there is,
indeed."

"And the discount?" asked Lady Amelia.

"Two and a half, my lady."

"Oh dear, no," said Lady Amelia. "I always have five per cent. for
immediate payment--quite immediate, you know." Upon which the man
declared the question must be referred to his master. Two and a half
was the rule of the house. Crosbie, who had been looking out of the
window, said that upon his honour he couldn't wait any longer.

"And what do you think of it, Adolphus?" asked Alexandrina.

"Think of what?"

"Of the carpet--this one, you know!"

"Oh--what do I think of the carpet? I don't think I quite like all
these yellow bands; and isn't it too red? I should have thought
something brown with a small pattern would have been better. But,
upon my word, I don't much care."

"Of course he doesn't," said Lady Amelia. Then the two ladies put
their heads together for another five minutes, and the carpet was
chosen--subject to that question of the discount. "And now about the
rug," said Lady Amelia. But here Crosbie rebelled, and insisted that
he must leave them and go to his office. "You can't want me about
the rug," he said. "Well, perhaps not," said Lady Amelia. But it was
manifest that Alexandrina did not approve of being thus left by her
male attendant.

The same thing happened in Oxford Street with reference to the chairs
and sofas, and Crosbie began to wish that he were settled, even
though he should have to dress himself in the closet below the
kitchen-stairs. He was learning to hate the whole household in St.
John's Wood, and almost all that belonged to it. He was introduced
there to little family economies of which hitherto he had known
nothing, and which were disgusting to him, and the necessity for
which was especially explained to him. It was to men placed as he
was about to place himself that these economies were so vitally
essential--to men who with limited means had to maintain a decorous
outward face towards the fashionable world. Ample supplies of
butchers' meat and unlimited washing-bills might be very well upon
fifteen hundred a year to those who went out but seldom, and who
could use the first cab that came to hand when they did go out.
But there were certain things that Lady Alexandrina must do, and
therefore the strictest household economy became necessary. Would
Lily Dale have required the use of a carriage, got up to look as
though it were private, at the expense of her husband's beefsteaks
and clean shirts? That question and others of that nature were asked
by Crosbie within his own mind, not unfrequently.

But, nevertheless, he tried to love Alexandrina, or rather to
persuade himself that he loved her. If he could only get her away
from the De Courcy faction, and especially from the Gazebee branch
of it, he would break her of all that. He would teach her to sit
triumphantly in a street cab, and to cater for her table with a
plentiful hand. Teach her!--at some age over thirty; and with such
careful training as she had already received! Did he intend to forbid
her ever again to see her relations, ever to go to St. John's Wood,
or to correspond with the countess and Lady Margaretta? Teach her,
indeed! Had he yet to learn that he could not wash a blackamoor
white?--that he could not have done so even had he himself been
well adapted for the attempt, whereas he was in truth nearly as ill
adapted as a man might be? But who could pity him? Lily, whom he
might have had in his bosom, would have been no blackamoor.

Then came the time of Lady De Courcy's visit to town, and Alexandrina
moved herself off to Portman Square. There was some apparent comfort
in this to Crosbie, for he would thereby be saved from those daily
dreary journeys up to the north-west. I may say that he positively
hated that windy corner near the church, round which he had to walk
in getting to the Gazebee residence, and that he hated the lamp which
guided him to the door, and the very door itself. This door stood
buried as it were in a wall, and opened on to a narrow passage which
ran across a so-called garden, or front yard, containing on each side
two iron receptacles for geraniums, painted to look like Palissy
ware, and a naked female on a pedestal. No spot in London was, as he
thought, so cold as the bit of pavement immediately in front of that
door. And there he would be kept five, ten, fifteen minutes, as he
declared--though I believe in my heart that the time never exceeded
three,--while Richard was putting off the trappings of his work and
putting on the trappings of his grandeur.

If people would only have their doors opened to you by such
assistance as may come most easily and naturally to the work! I stood
lately for some minutes on a Tuesday afternoon at a gallant portal,
and as I waxed impatient a pretty maiden came and opened it. She
was a pretty maiden, though her hands and face and apron told tales
of the fire-grates. "Laws, sir," she said, "the visitors' day is
Wednesday; and if you would come then, there would be the man in
livery!" She took my card with the corner of her apron, and did just
as well as the man in livery; but what would have happened to her had
her little speech been overheard by her mistress?

Crosbie hated the house in St. John's Wood, and therefore the coming
of the countess was a relief to him. Portman Square was easily to be
reached, and the hospitalities of the countess would not be pressed
upon him so strongly as those of the Gazebees. When he first called
he was shown into the great family dining-room, which looked out
towards the back of the house. The front windows were, of course,
closed, as the family was not supposed to be in London. Here he
remained in the room for some quarter of an hour, and then the
countess descended upon him in all her grandeur. Perhaps he had never
before seen her so grand. Her dress was very large, and rustled
through the broad doorway, as if demanding even a broader passage.
She had on a wonder of a bonnet, and a velvet mantle that was nearly
as expansive as her petticoats. She threw her head a little back as
she accosted him, and he instantly perceived that he was enveloped
in the fumes of an affectionate but somewhat contemptuous patronage.
In old days he had liked the countess, because her manner to him had
always been flattering. In his intercourse with her he had been able
to feel that he gave quite as much as he got, and that the countess
was aware of the fact. In all the circumstances of their acquaintance
the ascendancy had been with him, and therefore the acquaintance had
been a pleasant one. The countess had been a good-natured, agreeable
woman, whose rank and position had made her house pleasant to him;
and therefore he had consented to shine upon her with such light as
he had to give. Why was it that the matter was reversed, now that
there was so much stronger a cause for good feeling between them? He
knew that there was such change, and with bitter internal upbraidings
he acknowledged to himself that this woman was getting the mastery
over him. As the friend of the countess he had been a great man in
her eyes;--in all her little words and looks she had acknowledged his
power; but now, as her son-in-law, he was to become a very little
man,--such as was Mortimer Gazebee!

"My dear Adolphus," she said, taking both his hands, "the day is
coming very near now; is it not?"

"Very near, indeed," he said.

"Yes, it is very near. I hope you feel yourself a happy man."

"Oh, yes, that's of course."

"It ought to be. Speaking very seriously, I mean that it ought to be
a matter of course. She is everything that a man should desire in a
wife. I am not alluding now to her rank, though of course you feel
what a great advantage she gives you in this respect."

Crosbie muttered something as to his consciousness of having drawn a
prize in the lottery; but he so muttered it as not to convey to the
lady's ears a proper sense of his dependent gratitude. "I know of no
man more fortunate than you have been," she continued; "and I hope
that my dear girl will find that you are fully aware that it is so.
I think that she is looking rather fagged. You have allowed her to do
more than was good for her in the way of shopping."

"She has done a good deal, certainly," said Crosbie.

"She is so little used to anything of that kind! But of course, as
things have turned out, it was necessary that she should see to these
things herself."

"I rather think she liked it," said Crosbie.

"I believe she will always like doing her duty. We are just going now
to Madame Millefranc's, to see some silks;--perhaps you would wish to
go with us?"

Just at this moment Alexandrina came into the room, and looked as
though she were in all respects a smaller edition of her mother.
They were both well-grown women, with handsome, large figures, and a
certain air about them which answered almost for beauty. As to the
countess, her face, on close inspection, bore, as it was entitled
to do, deep signs of age; but she so managed her face that any such
close inspection was never made; and her general appearance for her
time of life was certainly good. Very little more than this could be
said in favour of her daughter.

"Oh dear, no, mamma," she said, having heard her mother's last words.
"He's the worst person in a shop in the world. He likes nothing, and
dislikes nothing. Do you, Adolphus?"

"Indeed I do. I like all the cheap things, and dislike all the dear
things."

"Then you certainly shall not go with us to Madame Millefranc's,"
said Alexandrina.

"It would not matter to him there, you know, my dear," said the
countess, thinking perhaps of the suggestion she had lately made to
Mr. Gazebee.

On this occasion Crosbie managed to escape, simply promising to
return to Portman Square in the evening after dinner. "By-the-by,
Adolphus," said the countess, as he handed her into the hired
carriage which stood at the door, "I wish you would go to Lambert's,
on Ludgate Hill, for me. He has had a bracelet of mine for nearly
three months. Do, there's a good creature. Get it if you can, and
bring it up this evening."

Crosbie, as he made his way back to his office, swore that he would
not do the bidding of the countess. He would not trudge off into
the city after her trinkets. But at five o'clock, when he left his
office, he did go there. He apologized to himself by saying that he
had nothing else to do, and bethought himself that at the present
moment his lady mother-in-law's smiles might be more convenient than
her frowns. So he went to Lambert's, on Ludgate Hill, and there
learned that the bracelet had been sent down to Courcy Castle full
two months since.

After that he dined at his club, at Sebright's. He dined alone,
sitting by no means in bliss with his half-pint of sherry on the
table before him. A man now and then came up and spoke to him, one a
few words, and another a few, and two or three congratulated him as
to his marriage; but the club was not the same thing to him as it had
formerly been. He did not stand in the centre of the rug, speaking
indifferently to all or any around him, ready with his joke, and
loudly on the alert with the last news of the day. How easy it is to
be seen when any man has fallen from his pride of place, though the
altitude was ever so small, and the fall ever so slight. Where is the
man who can endure such a fall without showing it in his face, in his
voice, in his step, and in every motion of every limb? Crosbie knew
that he had fallen, and showed that he knew it by the manner in which
he ate his mutton chop.

At half-past eight he was again in Portman Square, and found the
two ladies crowding over a small fire in a small back drawing-room.
The furniture was all covered with brown holland, and the place
had about it that cold comfortless feeling which uninhabited rooms
always produce. Crosbie, as he had walked from the club up to Portman
Square, had indulged in some serious thoughts. The kind of life which
he had hitherto led had certainly passed away from him. He could
never again be the pet of a club, or indulged as one to whom all good
things were to be given without any labour at earning them on his own
part. Such for some years had been his good fortune, but such could
be his good fortune no longer. Was there anything within his reach
which he might take in lieu of that which he had lost? He might still
be victorious at his office, having more capacity for such victory
than others around him. But such success alone would hardly suffice
for him. Then he considered whether he might not even yet be happy in
his own home,--whether Alexandrina, when separated from her mother,
might not become such a wife as he could love. Nothing softens a
man's feelings so much as failure, or makes him turn so anxiously
to an idea of home as buffetings from those he meets abroad. He
had abandoned Lily because his outer world had seemed to him too
bright to be deserted. He would endeavour to supply her place with
Alexandrina, because his outer world had seemed to him too harsh to
be supported. Alas! alas! a man cannot so easily repent of his sins,
and wash himself white from their stains!

When he entered the room the two ladies were sitting over the fire,
as I have stated, and Crosbie could immediately perceive that the
spirit of the countess was not serene. In fact there had been a few
words between the mother and child on that matter of the trousseau,
and Alexandrina had plainly told her mother that if she were to be
married at all she would be married with such garments belonging to
her as were fitting for an earl's daughter. It was in vain that her
mother had explained with many circumlocutional phrases, that the
fitness in this respect should be accommodated rather to the plebeian
husband than to the noble parent. Alexandrina had been very firm, and
had insisted on her rights, giving the countess to understand that if
her orders for finery were not complied with, she would return as a
spinster to Courcy, and prepare herself for partnership with Rosina.

"My dear," said the countess, piteously, "you can have no idea of
what I shall have to go through with your father. And, of course, you
could get all these things afterwards."

"Papa has no right to treat me in such a way. And if he would not
give me any money himself, he should have let me have some of my
own."

"Ah, my dear, that was Mr. Gazebee's fault."

"I don't care whose fault it was. It certainly was not mine. I
won't have him to tell me"--"him" was intended to signify Adolphus
Crosbie--"that he had to pay for my wedding-clothes."

"Of course not that, my dear."

"No; nor yet for the things which I wanted immediately. I'd much
rather go and tell him at once that the marriage must be put off."

Alexandrina of course carried her point, the countess reflecting with
a maternal devotion equal almost to that of the pelican, that the
earl could not do more than kill her. So the things were ordered as
Alexandrina chose to order them, and the countess desired that the
bills might be sent in to Mr. Gazebee. Much self-devotion had been
displayed by the mother, but the mother thought that none had been
displayed by the daughter, and therefore she had been very cross with
Alexandrina.

Crosbie, taking a chair, sat himself between them, and in a very
good-humoured tone explained the little affair of the bracelet. "Your
ladyship's memory must have played you false," said he, with a smile.

"My memory is very good," said the countess; "very good indeed. If
Twitch got it, and didn't tell me, that was not my fault." Twitch was
her ladyship's lady's-maid. Crosbie, seeing how the land lay, said
nothing more about the bracelet.

After a minute or two he put out his hand to take that of
Alexandrina. They were to be married now in a week or two, and such a
sign of love might have been allowed to him, even in the presence of
the bride's mother. He did succeed in getting hold of her fingers,
but found in them none of the softness of a response. "Don't," said
Lady Alexandrina, withdrawing her hand; and the tone of her voice as
she spoke the word was not sweet to his ears. He remembered at the
moment a certain scene which took place one evening at the little
bridge at Allington, and Lily's voice, and Lily's words, and Lily's
passion, as he caressed her: "Oh, my love, my love, my love!"

"My dear," said the countess, "they know how tired I am. I wonder
whether they are going to give us any tea." Whereupon Crosbie rang
the bell, and, on resuming his chair, moved it a little farther away
from his lady-love.

Presently the tea was brought to them by the housekeeper's assistant,
who did not appear to have made herself very smart for the occasion,
and Crosbie thought that he was _de trop_. This, however, was a
mistake on his part. As he had been admitted into the family, such
little matters were no longer subject of care. Two or three months
since, the countess would have fainted at the idea of such a domestic
appearing with a tea-tray before Mr. Crosbie. Now, however, she
was utterly indifferent to any such consideration. Crosbie was to
be admitted into the family, thereby becoming entitled to certain
privileges,--and thereby also becoming subject to certain domestic
drawbacks. In Mrs. Dale's little household there had been no rising
to grandeur; but then, also, there had never been any bathos of dirt.
Of this also Crosbie thought as he sat with his tea in his hand.

He soon, however, got himself away. When he rose to go Alexandrina
also rose, and he was permitted to press his nose against her
cheekbone by way of a salute.

"Good-night, Adolphus," said the countess, putting out her hand to
him. "But stop a minute; I know there is something I want you to
do for me. But you will look in as you go to your office to-morrow
morning."




CHAPTER XLI.

DOMESTIC TROUBLES.


When Crosbie was making his ineffectual inquiry after Lady De
Courcy's bracelet at Lambert's, John Eames was in the act of entering
Mrs. Roper's front door in Burton Crescent.

"Oh, John, where's Mr. Cradell?" were the first words which greeted
him, and they were spoken by the divine Amelia. Now, in her usual
practice of life, Amelia did not interest herself much as to the
whereabouts of Mr. Cradell.

"Where's Cradell?" said Eames, repeating the question. "Upon my word,
I don't know. I walked to the office with him, but I haven't seen him
since. We don't sit in the same room, you know."

"John!" and then she stopped.

"What's up now?" said John.

"John! That woman's off and left her husband. As sure as your name's
John Eames, that foolish fellow has gone off with her."

"What, Cradell? I don't believe it."

"She went out of this house at two o'clock in the afternoon, and has
never been back since." That, certainly, was only four hours from
the present time, and such an absence from home in the middle of
the day was but weak evidence on which to charge a married woman
with the great sin of running off with a lover. This Amelia felt,
and therefore she went on to explain. "He's there upstairs in the
drawing-room, the very picture of disconsolateness."

"Who,--Cradell?"

"Lupex is. He's been drinking a little, I'm afraid; but he's very
unhappy, indeed. He had an appointment to meet his wife here at four
o'clock, and when he came he found her gone. He rushed up into their
room, and now he says she has broken open a box he had and taken off
all his money."

"But he never had any money."

"He paid mother some the day before yesterday."

"That's just the reason he shouldn't have any to-day."

"She certainly has taken things she wouldn't have taken if she'd
merely gone out shopping or anything like that, for I've been up in
the room and looked about it. She'd three necklaces. They weren't
much account; but she must have them all on, or else have got them in
her pocket."

"Cradell has never gone off with her in that way. He may be a fool--"

"Oh, he is, you know. I've never seen such a fool about a woman as he
has been."

"But he wouldn't be a party to stealing a lot of trumpery trinkets,
or taking her husband's money. Indeed, I don't think he has anything
to do with it." Then Eames thought over the circumstances of the
day, and remembered that he had certainly not seen Cradell since
the morning. It was that public servant's practice to saunter into
Eames's room in the middle of the day, and there consume bread and
cheese and beer,--in spite of an assertion which Johnny had once made
as to crumbs of biscuit bathed in ink. But on this special day he had
not done so. "I can't think he has been such a fool as that," said
Johnny.

"But he has," said Amelia. "It's dinner-time now, and where is he?
Had he any money left, Johnny?"

So interrogated, Eames disclosed a secret confided to him by his
friend which no other circumstances would have succeeded in dragging
from his breast.

"She borrowed twelve pounds from him about a fortnight since,
immediately after quarter-day. And she owed him money, too, before
that."

"Oh, what a soft!" exclaimed Amelia; "and he hasn't paid mother a
shilling for the last two months!"

"It was his money, perhaps, that Mrs. Roper got from Lupex the day
before yesterday. If so, it comes to the same thing as far as she is
concerned, you know."

"And what are we to do now?" said Amelia, as she went before her
lover upstairs. "Oh, John, what will become of me if ever you serve
me in that way? What should I do if you were to go off with another
lady?"

"Lupex hasn't gone off," said Eames, who hardly knew what to say
when the matter was brought before him with so closely personal a
reference.

"But it's the same thing," said Amelia. "Hearts is divided. Hearts
that have been joined together ought never to be divided; ought
they?" And then she hung upon his arm just as they got to the
drawing-room door.

"Hearts and darts are all my eye," said Johnny. "My belief is that
a man had better never marry at all. How d'you do, Mr. Lupex? Is
anything the matter?"

Mr. Lupex was seated on a chair in the middle of the room, and was
leaning with his head over the back of it. So despondent was he in
his attitude that his head would have fallen off and rolled on to the
floor, had it followed the course which its owner seemed to intend
that it should take. His hands hung down also along the back legs of
the chair, till his fingers almost touched the ground, and altogether
his appearance was pendent, drooping, and wobegone. Miss Spruce
was seated in one corner of the room, with her hands folded in her
lap before her, and Mrs. Roper was standing on the rug with a look
of severe virtue on her brow,--of virtue which, to judge by its
appearance, was very severe. Nor was its severity intended to be
exercised solely against Mrs. Lupex. Mrs. Roper was becoming very
tired of Mr. Lupex also, and would not have been unhappy if he also
had run away,--leaving behind him so much of his property as would
have paid his bill.

Mr. Lupex did not stir when first addressed by John Eames, but a
certain convulsive movement was to be seen on the back of his head,
indicating that this new arrival in the drawing-room had produced
a fresh accession of agony. The chair, too, quivered under him, and
his fingers stretched themselves nearer to the ground and shook
themselves.

"Mr. Lupex, we're going to dinner immediately," said Mrs. Roper. "Mr.
Eames, where is your friend, Mr. Cradell?"

"Upon my word I don't know," said Eames.

"But I know," said Lupex, jumping up and standing at his full height,
while he knocked down the chair which had lately supported him. "The
traitor to domestic bliss! I know. And wherever he is, he has that
false woman in his arms. Would he were here!" And as he expressed
the last wish he went through a motion with his hands and arms which
seemed intended to signify that if that unfortunate young man were in
the company he would pull him in pieces and double him up, and pack
him close, and then despatch his remains off, through infinite space,
to the Prince of Darkness. "Traitor," he exclaimed, as he finished
the process. "False traitor! Foul traitor! And she too!" Then, as he
thought of this softer side of the subject, he prepared himself to
relapse again on to the chair. Finding it on the ground he had to
pick it up. He did pick it up, and once more flung away his head over
the back of it, and stretched his finger-nails almost down to the
carpet.

"James," said Mrs. Roper to her son, who was now in the room, "I
think you'd better stay with Mr. Lupex while we are at dinner. Come,
Miss Spruce, I'm very sorry that you should be annoyed by this kind
of thing."

"It don't hurt me," said Miss Spruce, preparing to leave the room.
"I'm only an old woman."

"Annoyed!" said Lupex, raising himself again from his chair, not
perhaps altogether disposed to remain upstairs while the dinner, for
which it was intended that he should some day pay, was being eaten
below. "Annoyed! It is a profound sorrow to me that any lady should
be annoyed by my misfortunes. As regards Miss Spruce, I look upon her
character with profound veneration."

"You needn't mind me; I'm only an old woman," said Miss Spruce.

"But, by heavens, I do mind!" exclaimed Lupex; and hurrying forward
he seized Miss Spruce by the hand. "I shall always regard age as
entitled--" But the special privileges which Mr. Lupex would have
accorded to age were never made known to the inhabitants of Mrs.
Roper's boarding-house, for the door of the room was again opened at
this moment, and Mr. Cradell entered.

"Here you are, old fellow, to answer for yourself," said Eames.

Cradell, who had heard something as he came in at the front door,
but had not heard that Lupex was in the drawing-room, made a slight
start backwards when he saw that gentleman's face. "Upon my word and
honour," he began;--but he was able to carry his speech no further.
Lupex, dropping the hand of the elderly lady whom he reverenced, was
upon him in an instant, and Cradell was shaking beneath his grasp
like an aspen leaf,--or rather not like an aspen leaf, unless an
aspen leaf when shaken is to be seen with its eyes shut, its mouth
open, and its tongue hanging out.

"Come, I say," said Eames, stepping forward to his friend's
assistance; "this won't do at all, Mr. Lupex. You've been drinking.
You'd better wait till to-morrow morning, and speak to Cradell then."

"To-morrow morning, viper," shouted Lupex, still holding his prey,
but looking back at Eames over his shoulder. Who the viper was had
not been clearly indicated. "When will he restore to me my wife? When
will he restore to me my honour?"

"Upon-on-on-on my--" It was for the moment in vain that poor Mr.
Cradell endeavoured to asseverate his innocence, and to stake his
honour upon his own purity as regarded Mrs. Lupex. Lupex still held
to his enemy's cravat, though Eames had now got him by the arm, and
so far impeded his movements as to hinder him from proceeding to any
graver attack.

"Jemima, Jemima, Jemima!" shouted Mrs. Roper. "Run for the police;
run for the police!" But Amelia, who had more presence of mind than
her mother, stopped Jemima as she was making to one of the front
windows. "Keep where you are," said Amelia. "They'll come quiet in a
minute or two." And Amelia no doubt was right. Calling for the police
when there is a row in the house is like summoning the water-engines
when the soot is on fire in the kitchen chimney. In such cases good
management will allow the soot to burn itself out, without aid from
the water-engines. In the present instance the police were not called
in, and I am inclined to think that their presence would not have
been advantageous to any of the party.

"Upon-my-honour--I know nothing about her," were the first words
which Cradell was able to articulate, when Lupex, under Eames's
persuasion, at last relaxed his hold.

Lupex turned round to Miss Spruce with a sardonic grin. "You hear his
words,--this enemy to domestic bliss,--Ha, ha! man, tell me whither
you have conveyed my wife!"

"If you were to give me the Bank of England I don't know," said
Cradell.

"And I'm sure he does not know," said Mrs. Roper, whose suspicions
against Cradell were beginning to subside. But as her suspicions
subsided, her respect for him decreased. Such was the case also with
Miss Spruce, and with Amelia, and with Jemima. They had all thought
him to be a great fool for running away with Mrs. Lupex, but now
they were beginning to think him a poor creature because he had not
done so. Had he committed that active folly he would have been an
interesting fool. But now, if, as they all suspected, he knew no
more about Mrs. Lupex than they did, he would be a fool without any
special interest whatever.

"Of course he doesn't," said Eames.

"No more than I do," said Amelia.

"His very looks show him innocent," said Mrs. Roper.

"Indeed they do," said Miss Spruce.

Lupex turned from one to the other as they thus defended the man
whom he suspected, and shook his head at each assertion that was
made. "And if he doesn't know who does?" he asked. "Haven't I seen
it all for the last three months? Is it reasonable to suppose that
a creature such as she, used to domestic comforts all her life,
should have gone off in this way, at dinner-time, taking with her my
property and all her jewels, and that nobody should have instigated
her; nobody assisted her! Is that a story to tell to such a man as
me! You may tell it to the marines!" Mr. Lupex, as he made this
speech, was walking about the room, and as he finished it he threw
his pocket-handkerchief with violence on to the floor. "I know what
to do, Mrs. Roper," he said. "I know what steps to take. I shall put
the affair into the hands of my lawyer to-morrow morning." Then he
picked up his handkerchief and walked down into the dining-room.

"Of course you know nothing about it?" said Eames to his friend,
having run upstairs for the purpose of saying a word to him while he
washed his hands.

"What,--about Maria? I don't know where she is, if you mean that."

"Of course I mean that. What else should I mean? And what makes you
call her Maria?"

"It is wrong. I admit it's wrong. The word will come out, you know."

"Will come out! I'll tell you what it is, old fellow, you'll get
yourself into a mess, and all for nothing. That fellow will have you
up before the police for stealing his things--"

"But, Johnny--"

"I know all about it. Of course you have not stolen them, and of
course there was nothing to steal. But if you go on calling her Maria
you'll find that he'll have a pull on you. Men don't call other men's
wives names for nothing."

"Of course we've been friends," said Cradell, who rather liked this
view of the matter.

"Yes,--you have been friends! She's diddled you out of your money,
and that's the beginning and the end of it. And now, if you go on
showing off your friendship, you'll be done out of more money. You're
making an ass of yourself. That's the long and the short of it."

"And what have you made of yourself with that girl? There are worse
asses than I am yet, Master Johnny." Eames, as he had no answer ready
to this counter attack, left the room and went downstairs. Cradell
soon followed him, and in a few minutes they were all eating their
dinner together at Mrs. Roper's hospitable table.

Immediately after dinner Lupex took himself away, and the
conversation upstairs became general on the subject of the lady's
departure.

"If I was him I'd never ask a question about her, but let her go,"
said Amelia.

"Yes; and then have all her bills following you, wherever you went,"
said Amelia's brother.

"I'd sooner have her bills than herself," said Eames.

"My belief is, that she's been an ill-used woman," said Cradell. "If
she had a husband that she could respect and have loved, and all that
sort of thing, she would have been a charming woman."

"She's every bit as bad as he is," said Mrs. Roper.

"I can't agree with you, Mrs. Roper," continued the lady's champion.
"Perhaps I ought to understand her position better than any one here,
and--"

"Then that's just what you ought not to do, Mr. Cradell," said Mrs.
Roper. And now the lady of the house spoke out her mind with much
maternal dignity and with some feminine severity. "That's just what
a young man like you has no business to know. What's a married
woman like that to you, or you to her; or what have you to do with
understanding her position? When you've a wife of your own, if ever
you do have one, you'll find you'll have trouble enough then without
anybody else interfering with you. Not but what I believe you're
innocent as a lamb about Mrs. Lupex; that is, as far as any harm
goes. But you've got yourself into all this trouble by meddling, and
was like enough to get yourself choked upstairs by that man. And
who's to wonder when you go on pretending to be in love with a woman
in that way, and she old enough to be your mother? What would your
mamma say if she saw you at it?"

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Cradell.

"It's all very well your laughing, but I hate such folly. If I see a
young man in love with a young woman, I respect him for it;" and then
she looked at Johnny Eames. "I respect him for it,--even though he
may now and then do things as he shouldn't. They most of 'em does
that. But to see a young man like you, Mr. Cradell, dangling after an
old married woman, who doesn't know how to behave herself; and all
just because she lets him to do it;--ugh!--an old broomstick with a
petticoat on would do just as well! It makes me sick to see it, and
that's the truth of it. I don't call it manly; and it ain't manly, is
it, Miss Spruce?"

"Of course I know nothing about it," said the lady to whom the appeal
was thus made. "But a young gentleman should keep himself to himself
till the time comes for him to speak out,--begging your pardon all
the same, Mr. Cradell."

"I don't see what a married woman should want with any one after her
but her own husband," said Amelia.

"And perhaps not always that," said John Eames.

It was about an hour after this when the front-door bell was rung,
and a scream from Jemima announced to them all that some critical
moment had arrived. Amelia, jumping up, opened the door, and then the
rustle of a woman's dress was heard on the lower stairs. "Oh, laws,
ma'am, you have given us sich a turn," said Jemima. "We all thought
you was run away."

"It's Mrs. Lupex," said Amelia. And in two minutes more that ill-used
lady was in the room.

"Well, my dears," said she, gaily, "I hope nobody has waited dinner."

"No; we didn't wait dinner," said Mrs. Roper, very gravely.

"And where's my Orson? Didn't he dine at home? Mr. Cradell, will you
oblige me by taking my shawl? But perhaps you had better not. People
are so censorious; ain't they, Miss Spruce? Mr. Eames shall do it;
and everybody knows that that will be quite safe. Won't it, Miss
Amelia?"

"Quite, I should think," said Amelia. And Mrs. Lupex knew that she
was not to look for an ally in that quarter on the present occasion.
Eames got up to take the shawl, and Mrs. Lupex went on.

"And didn't Orson dine at home? Perhaps they kept him down at the
theatre. But I've been thinking all day what fun it would be when he
thought his bird was flown."

"He did dine at home," said Mrs. Roper; "and he didn't seem to like
it. There wasn't much fun, I can assure you."

"Ah, wasn't there, though? I believe that man would like to have me
tied to his button-hole. I came across a few friends,--lady friends,
Mr. Cradell, though two of them had their husbands; so we made a
party, and just went down to Hampton Court. So my gentleman has gone
again, has he? That's what I get for gadding about myself, isn't it,
Miss Spruce?"

Mrs. Roper, as she went to bed that night, made up her mind that,
whatever might be the cost and trouble of doing so, she would lose no
further time in getting rid of her married guests.




CHAPTER XLII.

LILY'S BEDSIDE.


Lily Dale's constitution was good, and her recovery was retarded by
no relapse or lingering debility; but, nevertheless, she was forced
to keep her bed for many days after the fever had left her. During
all this period Dr. Crofts came every day. It was in vain that Mrs.
Dale begged him not to do so; telling him in simple words that she
felt herself bound not to accept from him all this continuation of
his unremunerated labours now that the absolute necessity for them
was over. He answered her only by little jokes, or did not answer her
at all; but still he came daily, almost always at the same hour, just
as the day was waning, so that he could sit for a quarter of an hour
in the dusk, and then ride home to Guestwick in the dark. At this
time Bell had been admitted into her sister's room, and she would
always meet Dr. Crofts at Lily's bedside; but she never sat with
him alone, since the day on which he had offered her his love with
half-articulated words, and she had declined it with words also
half-articulated. She had seen him alone since that, on the stairs,
or standing in the hall, but she had not remained with him, talking
to him after her old fashion, and no further word of his love had
been spoken in speech either half or wholly articulate.

Nor had Bell spoken of what had passed to any one else. Lily would
probably have told both her mother and sister instantly; but then no
such scene as that which had taken place with Bell would have been
possible with Lily. In whatever way the matter might have gone with
her, there would certainly have been some clear tale to tell when
the interview was over. She would have known whether or no she loved
the man, or could love him, and would have given him some true and
intelligible answer. Bell had not done so, but had given him an
answer which, if true, was not intelligible, and if intelligible was
not true. And yet, when she had gone away to think over what had
passed, she had been happy and satisfied, and almost triumphant. She
had never yet asked herself whether she expected anything further
from Dr. Crofts, nor what that something further might be,--and yet
she was happy!

Lily had now become pert and saucy in her bed, taking upon herself
the little airs which are allowed to a convalescent invalid as
compensation for previous suffering and restraint. She pretended to
much anxiety on the subject of her dinner, and declared that she
would go out on such or such a day, let Dr. Crofts be as imperious
as he might. "He's an old savage, after all," she said to her sister,
one evening, after he was gone, "and just as bad as the rest of
them."

"I do not know who the rest of them are," said Bell, "but at any rate
he's not very old."

"You know what I mean. He's just as grumpy as Dr. Gruffen, and thinks
everybody is to do what he tells them. Of course, you take his part."

"And of course you ought, seeing how good he has been."

"And of course I should, to anybody but you. I do like to abuse him
to you."

"Lily, Lily!"

"So I do. It's so hard to knock any fire out of you, that when one
does find the place where the flint lies, one can't help hammering at
it. What did he mean by saying that I shouldn't get up on Sunday? Of
course I shall get up if I like it."

"Not if mamma asks you not?"

"Oh, but she won't, unless he interferes and dictates to her. Oh,
Bell, what a tyrant he would be if he were married!"

"Would he?"

"And how submissive you would be, if you were his wife! It's a
thousand pities that you are not in love with each other;--that is,
if you are not."

"Lily, I thought that there was a promise between us about that."

"Ah! but that was in other days. Things are all altered since that
promise was given,--all the world has been altered." And as she said
this the tone of her voice was changed, and it had become almost sad.
"I feel as though I ought to be allowed now to speak about anything I
please."

"You shall, if it pleases you, my pet."

"You see how it is, Bell; I can never again have anything of my own
to talk about."

"Oh, my darling, do not say that."

"But it is so, Bell; and why not say it? Do you think I never
say it to myself in the hours when I am all alone, thinking over
it--thinking, thinking, thinking. You must not,--you must not grudge
to let me talk of it sometimes."

"I will not grudge you anything;--only I cannot believe that it must
be so always."

"Ask yourself, Bell, how it would be with you. But I sometimes fancy
that you measure me differently from yourself."

"Indeed I do, for I know how much better you are."

"I am not so much better as to be ever able to forget all that. I
know I never shall do so. I have made up my mind about it clearly and
with an absolute certainty."

"Lily, Lily, Lily! pray do not say so."

"But I do say it. And yet I have not been very mopish and melancholy;
have I, Bell? I do think I deserve some little credit, and yet, I
declare, you won't allow me the least privilege in the world."

"What privilege would you wish me to give you?"

"To talk about Dr. Crofts."

"Lily, you are a wicked, wicked tyrant." And Bell leaned over her,
and fell upon her, and kissed her, hiding her own face in the gloom
of the evening. After that it came to be an accepted understanding
between them that Bell was not altogether indifferent to Dr. Crofts.

"You heard what he said, my darling," Mrs. Dale said the next day,
as the three were in the room together after Dr. Crofts was gone.
Mrs. Dale was standing on one side of the bed, and Bell on the other,
while Lily was scolding them both. "You can get up for an hour or two
to-morrow, but he thinks you had better not go out of the room."

"What would be the good of that, mamma? I am so tired of looking
always at the same paper. It is such a tiresome paper. It makes one
count the pattern over and over again. I wonder how you ever can live
here."

"I've got used to it, you see."

"I never can get used to that sort of thing; but go on counting, and
counting, and counting. I'll tell you what I should like; and I'm
sure it would be the best thing, too."

"And what would you like?" said Bell.

"Just to get up at nine o'clock to-morrow, and go to church as though
nothing had happened. Then, when Dr. Crofts came in the evening, you
would tell him I was down at the school."

"I wouldn't quite advise that," said Mrs. Dale.

"It would give him such a delightful start. And when he found I
didn't die immediately, as of course I ought to do according to rule,
he would be so disgusted."

"It would be very ungrateful, to say the least of it," said Bell.

"No, it wouldn't, a bit. He needn't come, unless he likes it. And I
don't believe he comes to see me at all. It's all very well, mamma,
your looking in that way; but I'm sure it's true. And I'll tell you
what I'll do, I'll pretend to be bad again, otherwise the poor man
will be robbed of his only happiness."

"I suppose we must allow her to say what she likes till she gets
well," said Mrs. Dale, laughing. It was now nearly dark, and Mrs.
Dale did not see that Bell's hand had crept under the bed-clothes,
and taken hold of that of her sister. "It's true, mamma," continued
Lily, "and I defy her to deny it. I would forgive him for keeping me
in bed if he would only make her fall in love with him."

"She has made a bargain, mamma," said Bell, "that she is to say
whatever she likes till she gets well."

"I am to say whatever I like always; that was the bargain, and I mean
to stand to it."

On the following Sunday Lily did get up, but did not leave her
mother's bedroom. There she was, seated in that half-dignified and
half-luxurious state which belongs to the first getting up of an
invalid, when Dr. Crofts called. There she had eaten her tiny bit
of roast mutton, and had called her mother a stingy old creature,
because she would not permit another morsel; and there she had drunk
her half glass of port wine, pretending that it was very bad, and
twice worse than the doctor's physic; and there, Sunday though it
was, she had fully enjoyed the last hour of daylight, reading that
exquisite new novel which had just completed itself, amidst the
jarring criticisms of the youth and age of the reading public.

"I am quite sure she was right in accepting him, Bell," she said,
putting down the book as the light was fading, and beginning to
praise the story.

"It was a matter of course," said Bell. "It always is right in the
novels. That's why I don't like them. They are too sweet."

"That's why I do like them, because they are so sweet. A sermon is
not to tell you what you are, but what you ought to be, and a novel
should tell you not what you are to get, but what you'd like to get."

"If so, then, I'd go back to the old school, and have the heroine
really a heroine, walking all the way up from Edinburgh to London,
and falling among thieves; or else nursing a wounded hero, and
describing the battle from the window. We've got tired of that; or
else the people who write can't do it now-a-days. But if we are to
have real life, let it be real."

"No, Bell, no!" said Lily. "Real life sometimes is so painful." Then
her sister, in a moment, was down on the floor at her feet, kissing
her hand and caressing her knees, and praying that the wound might be
healed.

On that morning Lily had succeeded in inducing her sister to tell
her all that had been said by Dr. Crofts. All that had been said by
herself also, Bell had intended to tell; but when she came to this
part of the story, her account was very lame. "I don't think I said
anything," she said. "But silence always gives consent. He'll know
that," Lily had rejoined. "No, he will not; my silence didn't give
any consent; I'm sure of that. And he didn't think that it did." "But
you didn't mean to refuse him?" "I think I did. I don't think I knew
what I meant; and it was safer, therefore, to look no, than to look
yes. If I didn't say it, I'm sure I looked it." "But you wouldn't
refuse him now?" asked Lily. "I don't know," said Bell. "It seems as
though I should want years to make up my mind; and he won't ask me
again."

Bell was still at her sister's feet, caressing them, and praying with
all her heart that that wound might be healed in due time, when Mrs.
Dale came in and announced the doctor's daily visit. "Then I'll go,"
said Bell.

"Indeed you won't," said Lily. "He's coming simply to make a morning
call, and nobody need run away. Now, Dr. Crofts, you need not come
and stand over me with your watch, for I won't let you touch my hand
except to shake hands with me;" and then she held her hand out to
him. "And all you'll know of my tongue you'll learn from the sound."

"I don't care in the least for your tongue."

"I dare say not, and yet you may some of these days. I can speak out,
if I like it; can't I, mamma?"

"I should think Dr. Crofts knows that by this time, my dear."

"I don't know. There are some things gentlemen are very slow
to learn. But you must sit down, Dr. Crofts, and make yourself
comfortable and polite; for you must understand that you are not
master here any longer. I am out of bed now, and your reign is over."

"That's the gratitude of the world, all through," said Mrs. Dale.

"Who is ever grateful to a doctor? He only cures you that he may
triumph over some other doctor, and declare, as he goes by Dr.
Gruffen's door, 'There, had she called you in, she'd have been dead
before now; or else would have been ill for twelve months.' Don't you
jump for joy when Dr. Gruffen's patients die?"

"Of course I do--out in the market-place, so that everybody shall see
me," said the doctor.

"Lily, how can you say such shocking things?" said her sister.

Then the doctor did sit down, and they were all very cosy together
over the fire, talking about things which were not medical, or
only half medical in their appliance. By degrees the conversation
came round to Mrs. Eames and to John Eames. Two or three days
since, Crofts had told Mrs. Dale of that affair at the railway
station, of which up to that time she had heard nothing. Mrs.
Dale, when she was assured that young Eames had given Crosbie a
tremendous thrashing--the tidings of the affair which had got
themselves substantiated at Guestwick so described the nature of the
encounter--could not withhold some meed of applause.

"Dear boy!" she said, almost involuntarily. "Dear boy! it came from
the honestness of his heart!" And then she gave special injunctions
to the doctor--injunctions which were surely unnecessary--that no
word of the matter should be whispered before Lily.

"I was at the manor, yesterday," said the doctor, "and the earl would
talk about nothing but Master Johnny. He says he's the finest fellow
going." Whereupon Mrs. Dale touched him with her foot, fearing that
the conversation might be led away in the direction of Johnny's
prowess.

"I am so glad," said Lily. "I always knew that they'd find John out
at last."

"And Lady Julia is just as fond of him," said the doctor.

"Dear me!" said Lily. "Suppose they were to make up a match!"

"Lily, how can you be so absurd?"

"Let me see; what relation would he be to us? He would certainly
be Bernard's uncle, and uncle Christopher's half brother-in-law.
Wouldn't it be odd?"

"It would rather," said Mrs. Dale.

"I hope he'll be civil to Bernard. Don't you, Bell? Is he to give up
the Income-tax Office, Dr. Crofts?"

"I didn't hear that that was settled yet." And so they went on
talking about John Eames.

"Joking apart," said Lily, "I am very glad that Lord De Guest has
taken him by the hand. Not that I think an earl is better than
anybody else, but because it shows that people are beginning to
understand that he has got something in him. I always said that they
who laughed at John would see him hold up his head yet." All which
words sank deep into Mrs. Dale's mind. If only, in some coming time,
her pet might be taught to love this new young hero! But then would
not that last heroic deed of his militate most strongly against any
possibility of such love!

"And now I may as well be going," said the doctor, rising from his
chair. At this time Bell had left the room, but Mrs. Dale was still
there.

"You need not be in such a hurry, especially this evening," said
Lily.

"Why especially this evening?"

"Because it will be the last. Sit down again, Dr. Crofts. I've got a
little speech to make to you. I've been preparing it all the morning,
and you must give me an opportunity of speaking it."

"I'll come the day after to-morrow, and I'll hear it then."

"But I choose, sir, that you should hear it now. Am I not to be
obeyed when I first get up on to my own throne? Dear, dear Dr.
Crofts, how am I to thank you for all that you have done?"

"How are any of us to thank him?" said Mrs. Dale.

"I hate thanks," said the doctor. "One kind glance of the eye is
worth them all, and I've had many such in this house."

"You have our hearts' love, at any rate," said Mrs. Dale.

"God bless you all!" said he, as he prepared to go.

"But I haven't made my speech yet," said Lily. "And to tell the
truth, mamma, you must go away, or I shall never be able to make it.
It's very improper, is it not, turning you out, but it shall only
take three minutes." Then Mrs. Dale, with some little joking word,
left the room; but, as she left it, her mind was hardly at ease.
Ought she to have gone, leaving it to Lily's discretion to say what
words she might think fit to Dr. Crofts? Hitherto she had never
doubted her daughters--not even their discretion; and therefore it
had been natural to her to go when she was bidden. But as she went
downstairs she had her doubts whether she was right or no.

"Dr. Crofts," said Lily, as soon as they were alone. "Sit down there,
close to me. I want to ask you a question. What was it you said to
Bell when you were alone with her the other evening in the parlour?"

The doctor sat for a moment without answering, and Lily, who was
watching him closely, could see by the light of the fire that he had
been startled--had almost shuddered as the question was asked him.

"What did I say to her?" and he repeated her words in a very low
voice. "I asked her if she could love me, and be my wife."

"And what answer did she make to you?"

"What answer did she make? She simply refused me."

"No, no, no; don't believe her, Dr. Crofts. It was not so;--I think
it was not so. Mind you, I can say nothing as coming from her. She
has not told me her own mind. But if you really love her, she will be
mad to refuse you."

"I do love her, Lily; that at any rate is true."

"Then go to her again. I am speaking for myself now. I cannot afford
to lose such a brother as you would be. I love you so dearly that I
cannot spare you. And she,--I think she'll learn to love you as you
would wish to be loved. You know her nature, how silent she is, and
averse to talk about herself. She has confessed nothing to me but
this,--that you spoke to her and took her by surprise. Are we to have
another chance? I know how wrong I am to ask such a question. But,
after all, is not the truth the best?"

"Another chance!"

"I know what you mean, and I think she is worthy to be your wife. I
do, indeed; and if so, she must be very worthy. You won't tell of me,
will you now, doctor?"

"No; I won't tell of you."

"And you'll try again?"

"Yes; I'll try again."

"God bless you, my brother! I hope,--I hope you'll be my brother."
Then, as he put out his hand to her once more, she raised her head
towards him, and he, stooping down, kissed her forehead. "Make mamma
come to me," were the last words she spoke as he went out at the
door.

"So you've made your speech," said Mrs. Dale.

"Yes, mamma."

"I hope it was a discreet speech."

"I hope it was, mamma. But it has made me so tired, and I believe
I'll go to bed. Do you know I don't think I should have done much
good down at the school to-day?"

Then Mrs. Dale, in her anxiety to repair what injury might have been
done to her daughter by over-exertion, omitted any further mention of
the farewell speech.

Dr. Crofts as he rode home enjoyed but little of the triumph of a
successful lover. "It may be that she's right," he said to himself;
"and, at any rate, I'll ask again." Nevertheless, that "No" which
Bell had spoken, and had repeated, still sounded in his ears harsh
and conclusive. There are men to whom a peal of noes rattling about
their ears never takes the sound of a true denial, and others to whom
the word once pronounced, be it whispered ever so softly, comes as
though it were an unchangeable verdict from the supreme
judgment-seat.




CHAPTER XLIII.

FIE, FIE!


[ILLUSTRATION: (untitled)]

Will any reader remember the loves,--no, not the loves; that word
is so decidedly ill-applied as to be incapable of awakening the
remembrance of any reader; but the flirtations--of Lady Dumbello and
Mr. Plantagenet Palliser? Those flirtations, as they had been carried
on at Courcy Castle, were laid bare in all their enormities to the
eye of the public, and it must be confessed that if the eye of the
public was shocked, that eye must be shocked very easily.

But the eye of the public was shocked, and people who were particular
as to their morals said very strange things. Lady De Courcy herself
said very strange things indeed, shaking her head, and dropping
mysterious words; whereas Lady Clandidlem spoke much more openly,
declaring her opinion that Lady Dumbello would be off before May.
They both agreed that it would not be altogether bad for Lord
Dumbello that he should lose his wife, but shook their heads very
sadly when they spoke of poor Plantagenet Palliser. As to the lady's
fate, that lady whom they had both almost worshipped during the days
at Courcy Castle,--they did not seem to trouble themselves about
that.

And it must be admitted that Mr. Palliser had been a little
imprudent,--imprudent, that is, if he knew anything about the rumours
afloat,--seeing that soon after his visit at Courcy Castle he had
gone down to Lady Hartletop's place in Shropshire, at which the
Dumbellos intended to spend the winter, and on leaving it had
expressed his intention of returning in February. The Hartletop
people had pressed him very much,--the pressure having come with
peculiar force from Lord Dumbello. Therefore it is reasonable to
suppose that the Hartletop people had at any rate not heard of the
rumour.

Mr. Plantagenet Palliser spent his Christmas with his uncle, the Duke
of Omnium, at Gatherum Castle. That is to say, he reached the castle
in time for dinner on Christmas eve, and left it on the morning after
Christmas day. This was in accordance with the usual practice of
his life, and the tenants, dependants, and followers of the Omnium
interest were always delighted to see this manifestation of a healthy
English domestic family feeling between the duke and his nephew.
But the amount of intercourse on such occasions between them was
generally trifling. The duke would smile as he put out his right hand
to his nephew, and say,--

"Well, Plantagenet,--very busy, I suppose?"

The duke was the only living being who called him Plantagenet to his
face, though there were some scores of men who talked of Planty Pal
behind his back. The duke had been the only living being so to call
him. Let us hope that it still was so, and that there had arisen
no feminine exception, dangerous in its nature and improper in its
circumstances.

"Well, Plantagenet," said the duke, on the present occasion, "very
busy, I suppose?"

"Yes, indeed, duke," said Mr. Palliser. "When a man gets the harness
on him he does not easily get quit of it."

The duke remembered that his nephew had made almost the same remark
at his last Christmas visit.

"By-the-by," said the duke, "I want to say a word or two to you
before you go."

Such a proposition on the duke's part was a great departure from
his usual practice, but the nephew of course undertook to obey his
uncle's behests.

"I'll see you before dinner to-morrow," said Plantagenet.

"Ah, do," said the duke. "I'll not keep you five minutes." And at six
o'clock on the following afternoon the two were closeted together in
the duke's private room.

"I don't suppose there is much in it," began the duke, "but people
are talking about you and Lady Dumbello."

"Upon my word, people are very kind." And Mr. Palliser bethought
himself of the fact,--for it certainly was a fact,--that people for
a great many years had talked about his uncle and Lady Dumbello's
mother-in-law.

"Yes; kind enough; are they not? You've just come from Hartlebury,
I believe." Hartlebury was the Marquis of Hartletop's seat in
Shropshire.

"Yes, I have. And I'm going there again in February."

"Ah, I'm sorry for that. Not that I mean, of course, to interfere
with your arrangements. You will acknowledge that I have not often
done so, in any matter whatever."

"No; you have not," said the nephew, comforting himself with an
inward assurance that no such interference on his uncle's part could
have been possible.

"But in this instance it would suit me, and I really think it would
suit you too, that you should be as little at Hartlebury as possible.
You have said you would go there, and of course you will go. But if I
were you, I would not stay above a day or two."

Mr. Plantagenet Palliser received everything he had in the world from
his uncle. He sat in Parliament through his uncle's interest, and
received an allowance of ever so many thousand a year which his uncle
could stop to-morrow by his mere word. He was his uncle's heir, and
the dukedom, with certain entailed properties, must ultimately fall
to him, unless his uncle should marry and have a son. But by far the
greater portion of the duke's property was unentailed; the duke might
probably live for the next twenty years or more; and it was quite
possible that, if offended, he might marry and become a father. It
may be said that no man could well be more dependent on another than
Plantagenet Palliser was upon his uncle; and it may be said also that
no father or uncle ever troubled his heir with less interference.
Nevertheless, the nephew immediately felt himself aggrieved by this
allusion to his private life, and resolved at once that he would not
submit to such surveillance.

"I don't know how long I shall stay," said he; "but I cannot say that
my visit will be influenced one way or the other by such a rumour as
that."

"No; probably not. But it may perhaps be influenced by my request."
And the duke, as he spoke, looked a little savage.

"You wouldn't ask me to regard a report that has no foundation."

"I am not asking about its foundation. Nor do I in the least wish to
interfere with your manner in life." By which last observation the
duke intended his nephew to understand that he was quite at liberty
to take away any other gentleman's wife, but that he was not at
liberty to give occasion even for a surmise that he wanted to take
Lord Dumbello's wife. "The fact is this, Plantagenet. I have for many
years been intimate with that family. I have not many intimacies, and
shall probably never increase them. Such friends as I have, I wish
to keep, and you will easily perceive that any such report as that
which I have mentioned, might make it unpleasant for me to go to
Hartlebury, or for the Hartlebury people to come here." The duke
certainly could not have spoken plainer, and Mr. Palliser understood
him thoroughly. Two such alliances between the two families could not
be expected to run pleasantly together, and even the rumour of any
such second alliance might interfere with the pleasantness of the
former one.

"That's all," said the duke.

"It's a most absurd slander," said Mr. Palliser.

"I dare say. Those slanders always are absurd; but what can we do?
We can't tie up people's tongues." And the duke looked as though he
wished to have the subject considered as finished, and to be left
alone.

"But we can disregard them," said the nephew, indiscreetly.

"You may. I have never been able to do so. And yet, I believe, I
have not earned for myself the reputation of being subject to the
voices of men. You think that I am asking much of you; but you should
remember that hitherto I have given much and have asked nothing. I
expect you to oblige me in this matter."

Then Mr. Plantagenet Palliser left the room, knowing that he had been
threatened. What the duke had said amounted to this.--If you go on
dangling after Lady Dumbello, I'll stop the seven thousand a year
which I give you. I'll oppose your next return at Silverbridge, and
I'll make a will and leave away from you Matching and The Horns,--a
beautiful little place in Surrey, the use of which had been already
offered to Mr. Palliser in the event of his marriage; all the
Littlebury estate in Yorkshire, and the enormous Scotch property. Of
my personal goods, and money invested in loans, shares, and funds,
you shall never touch a shilling, or the value of a shilling. And, if
I find that I can suit myself, it may be that I'll leave you plain
Mr. Plantagenet Palliser, with a little first cousin for the head of
your family.

The full amount of this threat Mr. Palliser understood, and, as he
thought of it, he acknowledged to himself that he had never felt for
Lady Dumbello anything like love. No conversation between them had
ever been warmer than that of which the reader has seen a sample.
Lady Dumbello had been nothing to him. But now,--now that the matter
had been put before him in this way, might it not become him, as a
gentleman, to fall in love with so very beautiful a woman, whose name
had already been linked with his own? We all know that story of the
priest, who, by his question in the confessional, taught the ostler
to grease the horses' teeth. "I never did yet," said the ostler, "but
I'll have a try at it." In this case, the duke had acted the part of
the priest, and Mr. Palliser, before the night was over, had almost
become as ready a pupil as the ostler. As to the threat, it would ill
become him, as a Palliser and a Plantagenet, to regard it. The duke
would not marry. Of all men in the world he was the least likely to
spite his own face by cutting off his own nose; and, for the rest of
it, Mr. Palliser would take his chance. Therefore he went down to
Hartlebury early in February, having fully determined to be very
particular in his attentions to Lady Dumbello.

Among a houseful of people at Hartlebury, he found Lord Porlock, a
slight, sickly, worn-out looking man, who had something about his eye
of his father's hardness, but nothing in his mouth of his father's
ferocity.

"So your sister is going to be married?" said Mr. Palliser.

"Yes. One has no right to be surprised at anything they do, when one
remembers the life their father leads them."

"I was going to congratulate you."

"Don't do that."

"I met him at Courcy, and rather liked him."

Mr. Palliser had barely spoken to Mr. Crosbie at Courcy, but then in
the usual course of his social life he seldom did more than barely
speak to anybody.

"Did you?" said Lord Porlock. "For the poor girl's sake I hope he's
not a ruffian. How any man should propose to my father to marry a
daughter out of his house, is more than I can understand. How was my
mother looking?"

"I didn't see anything amiss about her."

"I expect that he'll murder her some day." Then that conversation
came to an end.

Mr. Palliser himself perceived--as he looked at her he could not but
perceive--that a certain amount of social energy seemed to enliven
Lady Dumbello when he approached her. She was given to smile when
addressed, but her usual smile was meaningless, almost leaden, and
never in any degree flattering to the person to whom it was accorded.
Very many women smile as they answer the words which are spoken to
them, and most who do so flatter by their smile. The thing is so
common that no one thinks of it. The flattering pleases, but means
nothing. The impression unconsciously taken simply conveys a feeling
that the woman has made herself agreeable, as it was her duty to
do,--agreeable, as far as that smile went, in some very infinitesimal
degree. But she has thereby made her little contribution to society.
She will make the same contribution a hundred times in the same
evening. No one knows that she has flattered anybody; she does not
know it herself; and the world calls her an agreeable woman. But Lady
Dumbello put no flattery into her customary smiles. They were cold,
unmeaning, accompanied by no special glance of the eye, and seldom
addressed to the individual. They were given to the room at large;
and the room at large, acknowledging her great pretensions, accepted
them as sufficient. But when Mr. Palliser came near to her she would
turn herself slightly, ever so slightly, on her seat, and would allow
her eyes to rest for a moment upon his face. Then when he remarked
that it had been rather cold, she would smile actually upon him as
she acknowledged the truth of his observation. All this Mr. Palliser
taught himself to observe, having been instructed by his foolish
uncle in that lesson as to the greasing of the horses' teeth.

But, nevertheless, during the first week of his stay at Hartlebury,
he did not say a word to her more tender than his observation about
the weather. It is true that he was very busy. He had undertaken to
speak upon the address, and as Parliament was now about to be opened,
and as his speech was to be based upon statistics, he was full of
figures and papers. His correspondence was pressing, and the day was
seldom long enough for his purposes. He felt that the intimacy to
which he aspired was hindered by the laborious routine of his life;
but nevertheless he would do something before he left Hartlebury, to
show the special nature of his regard. He would say something to her,
that should open to her view the secret of--shall we say his heart?
Such was his resolve, day after day. And yet day after day went by,
and nothing was said. He fancied that Lord Dumbello was somewhat less
friendly in his manner than he had been, that he put himself in the
way and looked cross; but, as he declared to himself, he cared very
little for Lord Dumbello's looks.

"When do you go to town?" he said to her one evening.

"Probably in April. We certainly shall not leave Hartlebury before
that."

"Ah, yes. You stay for the hunting."

"Yes; Lord Dumbello always remains here through March. He may run up
to town for a day or two."

"How comfortable! I must be in London on Thursday, you know."

"When Parliament meets, I suppose?"

"Exactly. It is such a bore; but one has to do it."

"When a man makes a business of it, I suppose he must."

"Oh, dear, yes; it's quite imperative." Then Mr. Palliser looked
round the room, and thought he saw Lord Dumbello's eye fixed upon
him. It was really very hard work. If the truth must be told, he
did not know how to begin. What was he to say to her? How was he to
commence a conversation that should end by being tender? She was very
handsome certainly, and for him she could look interesting; but for
his very life he did not know how to begin to say anything special
to her. A liaison with such a woman as Lady Dumbello,--platonic,
innocent, but nevertheless very intimate,--would certainly lend
a grace to his life, which, under its present circumstances, was
rather dry. He was told,--told by public rumour which had reached
him through his uncle,--that the lady was willing. She certainly
looked as though she liked him; but how was he to begin? The art of
startling the House of Commons and frightening the British public by
the voluminous accuracy of his statistics he had already learned; but
what was he to say to a pretty woman?

"You'll be sure to be in London in April?"

This was on another occasion.

"Oh, yes; I think so."

"In Carlton Gardens, I suppose."

"Yes; Lord Dumbello has got a lease of the house now."

"Has he, indeed? Ah, it's an excellent house. I hope I shall be
allowed to call there sometimes."

"Certainly,--only I know you must be so busy."

"Not on Saturdays and Sundays."

"I always receive on Sundays," said Lady Dumbello. Mr. Palliser felt
that there was nothing peculiarly gracious in this. A permission to
call when all her other acquaintances would be there, was not much;
but still, perhaps, it was as much as he could expect to obtain on
that occasion. He looked up and saw that Lord Dumbello's eyes were
again upon him, and that Lord Dumbello's brow was black. He began
to doubt whether a country house, where all the people were thrown
together, was the best place in the world for such manoeuvring.
Lady Dumbello was very handsome, and he liked to look at her, but
he could not find any subject on which to interest her in that
drawing-room at Hartlebury. Later in the evening he found himself
saying something to her about the sugar duties, and then he knew that
he had better give it up. He had only one day more, and that was
required imperatively for his speech. The matter would go much
easier in London, and he would postpone it till then. In the crowded
rooms of London private conversation would be much easier, and Lord
Dumbello wouldn't stand over and look at him. Lady Dumbello had
taken his remarks about the sugar very kindly, and had asked for a
definition of an ad valorem duty. It was a nearer approach to a real
conversation than he had ever before made; but the subject had been
unlucky, and could not, in his hands, be brought round to anything
tender; so he resolved to postpone his gallantry till the London
spring should make it easy, and felt as he did so, that he was
relieved for the time from a heavy weight.

"Good-by, Lady Dumbello," he said, on the next evening. "I start
early to-morrow morning."

"Good-by, Mr. Palliser."

As she spoke she smiled ever so sweetly, but she certainly had not
learned to call him Plantagenet as yet. He went up to London and
immediately got himself to work. The accurate and voluminous speech
came off with considerable credit to himself,--credit of that
quiet, enduring kind which is accorded to such men. The speech was
respectable, dull, and correct. Men listened to it, or sat with
their hats over their eyes, asleep, pretending to do so; and the
Daily Jupiter in the morning had a leading article about it, which,
however, left the reader at its close altogether in doubt whether
Mr. Palliser might be supposed to be a great financial pundit or no.
Mr. Palliser might become a shining light to the moneyed world, and
a glory to the banking interests; he might be a future Chancellor
of the Exchequer. But then again, it might turn out that, in these
affairs, he was a mere ignis fatuus, a blind guide,--a man to be laid
aside as very respectable, but of no depth. Who, then, at the present
time, could judiciously risk his credit by declaring whether Mr.
Palliser understood his subject or did not understand it? We are not
content in looking to our newspapers for all the information that
earth and human intellect can afford; but we demand from them what
we might demand if a daily sheet could come to us from the world of
spirits. The result, of course, is this,--that the papers do pretend
that they have come daily from the world of spirits; but the oracles
are very doubtful, as were those of old.

Plantagenet Palliser, though he was contented with this article,
felt, as he sat in his chambers in the Albany, that something else
was wanting to his happiness. This sort of life was all very well.
Ambition was a grand thing, and it became him, as a Palliser and a
future peer, to make politics his profession. But might he not spare
an hour or two for Amaryllis in the shade? Was it not hard, this life
of his? Since he had been told that Lady Dumbello smiled upon him, he
had certainly thought more about her smiles than had been good for
his statistics. It seemed as though a new vein in his body had been
brought into use, and that blood was running where blood had never
run before. If he had seen Lady Dumbello before Dumbello had seen
her, might he not have married her? Ah! in such case as that, had she
been simply Miss Grantly, or Lady Griselda Grantly, as the case might
have been, he thought he might have been able to speak to her with
more ease. As it was, he certainly had found the task difficult, down
in the country, though he had heard of men of his class doing the
same sort of thing all his life. For my own part, I believe that the
reputed sinners are much more numerous than the sinners.

As he sat there, a certain Mr. Fothergill came in upon him. Mr.
Fothergill was a gentleman who managed most of his uncle's ordinary
affairs,--a clever fellow, who knew on which side his bread was
buttered. Mr. Fothergill was naturally anxious to stand well with the
heir; but to stand well with the owner was his business in life, and
with that business he never allowed anything to interfere. On this
occasion Mr. Fothergill was very civil, complimenting his future
possible patron on his very powerful speech, and predicting for him
political power with much more certainty than the newspapers which
had, or had not, come from the world of spirits. Mr. Fothergill had
come in to say a word or two about some matter of business. As all
Mr. Palliser's money passed through Mr. Fothergill's hands, and as
his electioneering interests were managed by Mr. Fothergill, Mr.
Fothergill not unfrequently called to say a necessary word or two.
When this was done he said another word or two, which might be
necessary or not, as the case might be.

"Mr. Palliser," said he, "I wonder you don't think of marrying. I
hope you'll excuse me."

Mr. Palliser was by no means sure that he would excuse him, and sat
himself suddenly upright in his chair in a manner that was intended
to exhibit a first symptom of outraged dignity. But, singularly
enough, he had himself been thinking of marriage at that moment.
How would it have been with him had he known the beautiful Griselda
before the Dumbello alliance had been arranged? Would he have married
her? Would he have been comfortable if he had married her? Of
course he could not marry now, seeing that he was in love with Lady
Dumbello, and that the lady in question, unfortunately, had a husband
of her own; but though he had been thinking of marrying, he did not
like to have the subject thus roughly thrust before his eyes, and,
as it were, into his very lap by his uncle's agent. Mr. Fothergill,
no doubt, saw the first symptom of outraged dignity, for he was a
clever, sharp man. But, perhaps, he did not in truth much regard it.
Perhaps he had received instructions which he was bound to regard
above all other matters.

"I hope you'll excuse me, Mr. Palliser, I do, indeed; but I say it
because I am half afraid of some,--some,--some diminution of good
feeling, perhaps, I had better call it, between you and your uncle.
Anything of that kind would be such a monstrous pity."

"I am not aware of any such probability."

This Mr. Palliser said with considerable dignity; but when the words
were spoken he bethought himself whether he had not told a fib.

"No; perhaps not. I trust there is no such probability. But the duke
is a very determined man if he takes anything into his head;--and
then he has so much in his power."

"He has not me in his power, Mr. Fothergill."

"No, no, no. One man does not have another in his power in this
country,--not in that way; but then you know, Mr. Palliser, it would
hardly do to offend him; would it?"

"I would rather not offend him, as is natural. Indeed, I do not wish
to offend any one."

"Exactly so; and least of all the duke, who has the whole property in
his own hands. We may say the whole, for he can marry to-morrow if he
pleases. And then his life is so good. I don't know a stouter man of
his age, anywhere."

"I'm very glad to hear it."

"I'm sure you are, Mr. Palliser. But if he were to take offence, you
know?"

"I should put up with it."

"Yes, exactly; that's what you would do. But it would be worth while
to avoid it, seeing how much he has in his power."

"Has the duke sent you to me now, Mr. Fothergill?"

"No, no, no,--nothing of the sort. But he dropped words the other day
which made me fancy that he was not quite,--quite,--quite at ease
about you. I have long known that he would be very glad indeed to
see an heir born to the property. The other morning,--I don't know
whether there was anything in it,--but I fancied he was going to make
some change in the present arrangements. He did not do it, and it
might have been fancy. Only think, Mr. Palliser, what one word of
his might do! If he says a word, he never goes back from it." Then,
having said so much, Mr. Fothergill went his way.

Mr. Palliser understood the meaning of all this very well. It
was not the first occasion on which Mr. Fothergill had given him
advice,--advice such as Mr. Fothergill himself had no right to give
him. He always received such counsel with an air of half-injured
dignity, intending thereby to explain to Mr. Fothergill that he was
intruding. But he knew well whence the advice came; and though, in
all such cases, he had made up his mind not to follow such counsel,
it had generally come to pass that Mr. Palliser's conduct had more or
less accurately conformed itself to Mr. Fothergill's advice. A word
from the duke might certainly do a great deal! Mr. Palliser resolved
that in that affair of Lady Dumbello he would follow his own devices.
But, nevertheless, it was undoubtedly true that a word from the duke
might do a great deal!

We, who are in the secret, know how far Mr. Palliser had already
progressed in his iniquitous passion before he left Hartlebury.
Others, who were perhaps not so well informed, gave him credit
for a much more advanced success. Lady Clandidlem, in her letter
to Lady De Courcy, written immediately after the departure of Mr.
Palliser, declared that, having heard of that gentleman's intended
matutinal departure, she had confidently expected to learn at the
breakfast-table that Lady Dumbello had flown with him. From the tone
of her ladyship's language, it seemed as though she had been robbed
of an anticipated pleasure by Lady Dumbello's prolonged sojourn
in the halls of her husband's ancestors. "I feel, however, quite
convinced," said Lady Clandidlem, "that it cannot go on longer than
the spring. I never yet saw a man so infatuated as Mr. Palliser. He
did not leave her for one moment all the time he was here. No one
but Lady Hartletop would have permitted it. But, you know, there is
nothing so pleasant as good old family friendships."




CHAPTER XLIV.

VALENTINE'S DAY AT ALLINGTON.


Lily had exacted a promise from her mother before her illness,
and during the period of her convalescence often referred to it,
reminding her mother that that promise had been made, and must be
kept. Lily was to be told the day on which Crosbie was to be married.
It had come to the knowledge of them all that the marriage was to
take place in February. But this was not sufficient for Lily. She
must know the day.

And as the time drew nearer,--Lily becoming stronger the while, and
less subject to medical authority,--the marriage of Crosbie and
Alexandrina was spoken of much more frequently at the Small House.
It was not a subject which Mrs. Dale or Bell would have chosen for
conversation; but Lily would refer to it. She would begin by doing so
almost in a drolling strain, alluding to herself as a forlorn damsel
in a play-book; and then she would go on to speak of his interests as
a matter which was still of great moment to her. But in the course of
such talking she would too often break down, showing by some sad word
or melancholy tone how great was the burden on her heart. Mrs. Dale
and Bell would willingly have avoided the subject, but Lily would not
have it avoided. For them it was a very difficult matter on which
to speak in her hearing. It was not permitted to them to say a word
of abuse against Crosbie, as to whom they thought that no word of
condemnation could be sufficiently severe; and they were forced to
listen to such excuses for his conduct as Lily chose to manufacture,
never daring to point out how vain those excuses were.

Indeed, in those days Lily reigned as a queen at the Small House.
Ill-usage and illness together falling into her hands had given her
such power, that none of the other women were able to withstand it.
Nothing was said about it; but it was understood by them all, Jane
and the cook included, that Lily was for the time paramount. She was
a dear, gracious, loving, brave queen, and no one was anxious to
rebel;--only that those praises of Crosbie were so very bitter in the
ears of her subjects. The day was named soon enough, and the tidings
came down to Allington. On the fourteenth of February, Crosbie was
to be made a happy man. This was not known to the Dales till the
twelfth, and they would willingly have spared the knowledge then, had
it been possible to spare it. But it was not so, and on that evening
Lily was told.

During these days, Bell used to see her uncle daily. Her visits were
made with the pretence of taking to him information as to Lily's
health; but there was perhaps at the bottom of them a feeling that,
as the family intended to leave the Small House at the end of March,
it would be well to let the squire know that there was no enmity in
their hearts against him. Nothing more had been said about their
moving,--nothing, that is, from them to him. But the matter was going
on, and he knew it. Dr. Crofts was already in treaty on their behalf
for a small furnished house at Guestwick. The squire was very sad
about it,--very sad indeed. When Hopkins spoke to him on the subject,
he sharply desired that faithful gardener to hold his tongue, giving
it to be understood that such things were not to be made matter
of talk by the Allington dependants till they had been officially
announced. With Bell during these visits he never alluded to the
matter. She was the chief sinner, in that she had refused to marry
her cousin, and had declined even to listen to rational counsel upon
the matter. But the squire felt that he could not discuss the subject
with her, seeing that he had been specially informed by Mrs. Dale
that his interference would not be permitted; and then he was perhaps
aware that if he did discuss the subject with Bell, he would not gain
much by such discussion. Their conversation, therefore, generally
fell upon Crosbie, and the tone in which he was mentioned in the
Great House was very different from that assumed in Lily's presence.

"He'll be a wretched man," said the squire, when he told Bell of the
day that had been fixed.

"I don't want him to be wretched," said Bell. "But I can hardly think
that he can act as he has done without being punished."

"He will be a wretched man. He gets no fortune with her, and she will
expect everything that fortune can give. I believe, too, that she
is older than he is. I cannot understand it. Upon my word, I cannot
understand how a man can be such a knave and such a fool. Give my
love to Lily. I'll see her to-morrow or the next day. She's well rid
of him; I'm sure of that;--though I suppose it would not do to tell
her so."

The morning of the fourteenth came upon them at the Small House,
as comes the morning of those special days which have been long
considered, and which are to be long remembered. It brought with it a
hard, bitter frost,--a black, biting frost,--such a frost as breaks
the water-pipes, and binds the ground to the hardness of granite.
Lily, queen as she was, had not yet been allowed to go back to her
own chamber, but occupied the larger bed in her mother's room, her
mother sleeping on a smaller one.

"Mamma," she said, "how cold they'll be!" Her mother had announced to
her the fact of the black frost, and these were the first words she
spoke.

"I fear their hearts will be cold also," said Mrs. Dale. She ought
not to have said so. She was transgressing the acknowledged rule
of the house in saying any word that could be construed as being
inimical to Crosbie or his bride. But her feeling on the matter was
too strong, and she could not restrain herself.

"Why should their hearts be cold? Oh, mamma, that is a terrible thing
to say. Why should their hearts be cold?"

"I hope it may not be so."

"Of course you do; of course we all hope it. He was not cold-hearted,
at any rate. A man is not cold-hearted, because he does not know
himself. Mamma, I want you to wish for their happiness."

Mrs. Dale was silent for a minute or two before she answered this,
but then she did answer it. "I think I do," said she. "I think I do
wish for it."

"I am very sure that I do," said Lily.

At this time Lily had her breakfast upstairs, but went down into the
drawing-room in the course of the morning.

"You must be very careful in wrapping yourself as you go downstairs,"
said Bell, who stood by the tray on which she had brought up the
toast and tea. "The cold is what you would call awful."

"I should call it jolly," said Lily, "if I could get up and go out.
Do you remember lecturing me about talking slang the day that he
first came?"

"Did I, my pet?"

"Don't you remember, when I called him a swell? Ah, dear! so he was.
That was the mistake, and it was all my own fault, as I had seen it
from the first."

Bell for a moment turned her face away, and beat with her foot
against the ground. Her anger was more difficult of restraint than
was even her mother's,--and now, not restraining it, but wishing to
hide it, she gave it vent in this way.

"I understand, Bell. I know what your foot means when it goes in that
way; and you shan't do it. Come here, Bell, and let me teach you
Christianity. I'm a fine sort of teacher, am I not? And I did not
quite mean that."

"I wish I could learn it from some one," said Bell. "There are
circumstances in which what we call Christianity seems to me to be
hardly possible."

"When your foot goes in that way it is a very unchristian foot, and
you ought to keep it still. It means anger against him, because he
discovered before it was too late that he would not be happy,--that
is, that he and I would not be happy together if we were married."

"Don't scrutinize my foot too closely, Lily."

"But your foot must bear scrutiny, and your eyes, and your voice. He
was very foolish to fall in love with me. And so was I very foolish
to let him love me, at a moment's notice,--without a thought as it
were. I was so proud of having him, that I gave myself up to him all
at once, without giving him a chance of thinking of it. In a week or
two it was done. Who could expect that such an engagement should be
lasting?"

"And why not? That is nonsense, Lily. But we will not talk about it."

"Ah, but I want to talk about it. It was as I have said, and if
so, you shouldn't hate him because he did the only thing which he
honestly could do when he found out his mistake."

"What; become engaged again within a week!"

"There had been a very old friendship, Bell; you must remember that.
But I was speaking of his conduct to me, and not of his conduct to--"
And then she remembered that that other lady might at this very
moment possess the name which she had once been so proud to think
that she would bear herself. "Bell," she said, stopping her other
speech suddenly, "at what o'clock do people get married in London?"

"Oh, at all manner of hours,--any time before twelve. They will be
fashionable, and will be married late."

"You don't think she's Mrs. Crosbie yet, then?"

"Lady Alexandrina Crosbie," said Bell, shuddering.

"Yes, of course; I forgot. I should so like to see her. I feel such
an interest about her. I wonder what  hair she has. I suppose
she is a sort of Juno of a woman,--very tall and handsome. I'm sure
she has not got a pug-nose like me. Do you know what I should really
like, only of course it's not possible;--to be godmother to his first
child."

"Oh, Lily!"

"I should. Don't you hear me say that I know it's not possible? I'm
not going up to London to ask her. She'll have all manner of grandees
for her godfathers and godmothers. I wonder what those grand people
are really like."

"I don't think there's any difference. Look at Lady Julia."

"Oh, she's not a grand person. It isn't merely having a title. Don't
you remember that he told us that Mr. Palliser is about the grandest
grandee of them all. I suppose people do learn to like them. He
always used to say that he had been so long among people of that
sort, that it would be very difficult for him to divide himself off
from them. I should never have done for that kind of thing; should
I?"

"There is nothing I despise so much as what you call that kind of
thing."

"Do you? I don't. After all, think how much work they do. He used to
tell me of that. They have all the governing in their hands, and get
very little money for doing it."

"Worse luck for the country."

"The country seems to do pretty well. But you're a radical, Bell. My
belief is, you wouldn't be a lady if you could help it."

"I'd sooner be an honest woman."

"And so you are,--my own dear, dearest, honest Bell,--and the fairest
lady that I know. If I were a man, Bell, you are just the girl that I
should worship."

"But you are not a man; so it's no good."

"But you mustn't let your foot go astray in that way; you mustn't,
indeed. Somebody said, that whatever is, is right, and I declare I
believe it."

"I'm sometimes inclined to think, that whatever is, is wrong."

"That's because you're a radical. I think I'll get up now, Bell; only
it's so frightfully cold that I'm afraid."

"There's a beautiful fire," said Bell.

"Yes; I see. But the fire won't go all around me, like the bed does.
I wish I could know the very moment when they're at the altar. It's
only half-past ten yet."

"I shouldn't be at all surprised if it's over."

"Over! What a word that is! A thing like that is over, and then all
the world cannot put it back again. What if he should be unhappy
after all?"

"He must take his chance," said Bell, thinking within her own mind
that that chance would be a very bad one.

"Of course he must take his chance. Well,--I'll get up now." And then
she took her first step out into the cold world beyond her bed. "We
must all take our chance. I have made up my mind that it will be at
half-past eleven."

When half-past eleven came, she was seated in a large easy chair over
the drawing-room fire, with a little table by her side, on which a
novel was lying. She had not opened her book that morning, and had
been sitting for some time perfectly silent, with her eyes closed,
and her watch in her hand.

"Mamma," she said at last, "it is over now, I'm sure."


[ILLUSTRATION: "Mamma," she said at last, "it is over now,
I'm sure."]


"What is over, my dear?"

"He has made that lady his wife. I hope God will bless them, and I
pray that they may be happy." As she spoke these words, there was an
unwonted solemnity in her tone which startled Mrs. Dale and Bell.

"I also will hope so," said Mrs. Dale. "And now, Lily, will it not
be well that you should turn your mind away from the subject, and
endeavour to think of other things?"

"But I can't, mamma. It is so easy to say that; but people can't
choose their own thoughts."

"They can usually direct them as they will, if they make the effort."

"But I can't make the effort. Indeed, I don't know why I should. It
seems natural to me to think about him, and I don't suppose it can
be very wrong. When you have had so deep an interest in a person,
you can't drop him all of a sudden." Then there was again silence,
and after a while Lily took up her novel. She made that effort of
which her mother had spoken, but she made it altogether in vain. "I
declare, Bell," she said, "it's the greatest rubbish I ever attempted
to read." This was specially ungrateful, because Bell had recommended
the book. "All the books have got to be so stupid! I think I'll read
Pilgrim's Progress again."

"What do you say to Robinson Crusoe?" said Bell.

"Or Paul and Virginia?" said Lily. "But I believe I'll have Pilgrim's
Progress. I never can understand it, but I rather think that makes it
nicer."

"I hate books I can't understand," said Bell. "I like a book to be
clear as running water, so that the whole meaning may be seen at
once."

"The quick seeing of the meaning must depend a little on the reader,
must it not?" said Mrs. Dale.

"The reader mustn't be a fool, of course," said Bell.

"But then so many readers are fools," said Lily. "And yet they get
something out of their reading. Mrs. Crump is always poring over the
Revelations, and nearly knows them by heart. I don't think she could
interpret a single image, but she has a hazy, misty idea of the
truth. That's why she likes it,--because it's too beautiful to be
understood; and that's why I like Pilgrim's Progress." After which
Bell offered to get the book in question.

"No, not now," said Lily. "I'll go on with this, as you say it's so
grand. The personages are always in their tantrums, and go on as
though they were mad. Mamma, do you know where they're going for the
honeymoon?"

"No, my dear."

"He used to talk to me about going to the lakes." And then there was
another pause, during which Bell observed that her mother's face
became clouded with anxiety. "But I won't think of it any more,"
continued Lily; "I will fix my mind to something." And then she got
up from her chair. "I don't think it would have been so difficult if
I had not been ill."

"Of course it would not, my darling."

"And I'm going to be well again now, immediately. Let me see: I was
told to read Carlyle's History of the French Revolution, and I think
I'll begin now." It was Crosbie who had told her to read the book, as
both Bell and Mrs. Dale were well aware. "But I must put it off till
I can get it down from the other house."

"Jane shall fetch it, if you really want it," said Mrs. Dale.

"Bell shall get it, when she goes up in the afternoon; will you,
Bell? And I'll try to get on with this stuff in the meantime." Then
again she sat with her eyes fixed upon the pages of the book. "I'll
tell you what, mamma,--you may have some comfort in this: that when
to-day's gone by, I shan't make a fuss about any other day."

"Nobody thinks that you are making a fuss, Lily."

"Yes, but I am. Isn't it odd, Bell, that it should take place on
Valentine's day? I wonder whether it was so settled on purpose,
because of the day. Oh, dear, I used to think so often of the letter
that I should get from him on this day, when he would tell me that I
was his valentine. Well; he's got another--valen--tine--now." So much
she said with articulate voice, and then she broke down, bursting out
into convulsive sobs, and crying in her mother's arms as though she
would break her heart. And yet her heart was not broken, and she
was still strong in that resolve which she had made, that her grief
should not overpower her. As she had herself said, the thing would
not have been so difficult, had she not been weakened by illness.

"Lily, my darling; my poor, ill-used darling."

"No, mamma, I won't be that." And she struggled grievously to get the
better of the hysterical attack which had overpowered her. "I won't
be regarded as ill-used; not as specially ill-used. But I am your
darling, your own darling. Only I wish you'd beat me and thump me
when I'm such a fool, instead of pitying me. It's a great mistake
being soft to people when they make fools of themselves. There, Bell;
there's your stupid book, and I won't have any more of it. I believe
it was that that did it." And she pushed the book away from her.

After this little scene she said no further word about Crosbie and
his bride on that day, but turned the conversation towards the
prospect of their new house at Guestwick.

"It will be a great comfort to be nearer Dr. Crofts; won't it, Bell?"

"I don't know," said Bell.

"Because if we are ill, he won't have such a terrible distance to
come."

"That will be a comfort for him, I should think," said Bell, very
demurely.

In the evening the first volume of the French Revolution had been
procured, and Lily stuck to her reading with laudable perseverance;
till at eight her mother insisted on her going to bed, queen as she
was.

"I don't believe a bit, you know, that the king was such a bad man as
that," she said.

"I do," said Bell.

"Ah, that's because you're a radical. I never will believe that kings
are so much worse than other people. As for Charles the First, he was
about the best man in history."

This was an old subject of dispute; but Lily on the present occasion
was allowed her own way,--as being an invalid.




CHAPTER XLV.

VALENTINE'S DAY IN LONDON.


The fourteenth of February in London was quite as black, and cold,
and as wintersome as it was at Allington, and was, perhaps, somewhat
more melancholy in its coldness. Nevertheless Lady Alexandrina De
Courcy looked as bright as bridal finery could make her, when she
got out of her carriage and walked into St. James's church at eleven
o'clock on that morning.

It had been finally arranged that the marriage should take place in
London. There were certainly many reasons which would have made a
marriage from Courcy Castle more convenient. The De Courcy family
were all assembled at their country family residence, and could
therefore have been present at the ceremony without cost or trouble.
The castle too was warm with the warmth of life, and the pleasantness
of home would have lent a grace to the departure of one of the
daughters of the house. The retainers and servants were there, and
something of the rich mellowness of a noble alliance might have been
felt, at any rate by Crosbie, at a marriage so celebrated. And it
must have been acknowledged, even by Lady De Courcy, that the house
in Portman Square was very cold--that a marriage from thence would
be cold,--that there could be no hope of attaching to it any honour
and glory, or of making it resound with fashionable eclat in the
columns of the _Morning Post_. But then, had they been married in
the country, the earl would have been there; whereas there was no
probability of his travelling up to London for the purpose of being
present on such an occasion.

The earl was very terrible in these days, and Alexandrina, as she
became confidential in her communications with her future husband,
spoke of him as of an ogre, who could not by any means be avoided
in all the concerns of life, but whom one might shun now and
again by some subtle device and careful arrangement of favourable
circumstances. Crosbie had more than once taken upon himself to hint
that he did not specially regard the ogre, seeing that for the future
he could keep himself altogether apart from the malicious monster's
dominions.

"He will not come to me in our new home," he had said to his love,
with some little touch of affection. But to this view of the case
Lady Alexandrina had demurred. The ogre in question was not only her
parent, but was also a noble peer, and she could not agree to any
arrangement by which their future connection with the earl, and with
nobility in general, might be endangered. Her parent, doubtless, was
an ogre, and in his ogreship could make himself very terrible to
those near him; but then might it not be better for them to be near
to an earl who was an ogre, than not to be near to any earl at all?
She had therefore signified to Crosbie that the ogre must be endured.

But, nevertheless, it was a great thing to be rid of him on that
happy occasion. He would have said very dreadful things,--things so
dreadful that there might have been a question whether the bridegroom
could have borne them. Since he had heard of Crosbie's accident at
the railway station, he had constantly talked with fiendish glee of
the beating which had been administered to his son-in-law. Lady De
Courcy in taking Crosbie's part, and maintaining that the match was
fitting for her daughter, had ventured to declare before her husband
that Crosbie was a man of fashion, and the earl would now ask, with
a loathsome grin, whether the bridegroom's fashion had been improved
by his little adventure at Paddington. Crosbie, to whom all this was
not repeated, would have preferred a wedding in the country. But the
countess and Lady Alexandrina knew better.

The earl had strictly interdicted any expenditure, and the countess
had of necessity construed this as forbidding any unnecessary
expense. "To marry a girl without any immediate cost was a thing
which nobody could understand," as the countess remarked to her
eldest daughter.

"I would really spend as little as possible," Lady Amelia had
answered. "You see, mamma, there are circumstances about it which one
doesn't wish to have talked about just at present. There's the story
of that girl,--and then that fracas at the station. I really think
it ought to be as quiet as possible." The good sense of Lady Amelia
was not to be disputed, as her mother acknowledged. But then if
the marriage were managed in any notoriously quiet way, the very
notoriety of that quiet would be as dangerous as an attempt at loud
glory. "But it won't cost as much," said Amelia. And thus it had been
resolved that the wedding should be very quiet.

To this Crosbie had assented very willingly, though he had not
relished the manner in which the countess had explained to him her
views.

"I need not tell you, Adolphus," she had said, "how thoroughly
satisfied I am with this marriage. My dear girl feels that she can be
happy as your wife, and what more can I want? I declared to her and
to Amelia that I was not ambitious, for their sakes, and have allowed
them both to please themselves."

"I hope they have pleased themselves," said Crosbie.

"I trust so; but nevertheless,--I don't know whether I make myself
understood?"

"Quite so, Lady De Courcy. If Alexandrina were going to marry the
eldest son of a marquis, you would have a longer procession to church
than will be necessary when she marries me."

"You put it in such an odd way, Adolphus."

"It's all right so long as we understand each other. I can assure you
I don't want any procession at all. I should be quite contented to go
down with Alexandrina, arm in arm, like Darby and Joan, and let the
clerk give her away."

We may say that he would have been much better contented could he
have been allowed to go down the street without any encumbrance on
his arm. But there was no possibility now for such deliverance as
that.

Both Lady Amelia and Mr. Gazebee had long since discovered the
bitterness of his heart and the fact of his repentance, and Gazebee
had ventured to suggest to his wife that his noble sister-in-law was
preparing for herself a life of misery.

"He'll become quiet and happy when he's used to it," Lady Amelia had
replied, thinking, perhaps, of her own experiences.

"I don't know, my dear; he's not a quiet man. There's something in
his eye which tells me that he could be very hard to a woman."

"It has gone too far now for any change," Lady Amelia had answered.

"Well; perhaps it has."

"And I know my sister so well; she would not hear of it. I really
think they will do very well when they become used to each other."

Mr. Gazebee, who also had had his own experiences, hardly dared to
hope so much. His home had been satisfactory to him, because he had
been a calculating man, and having made his calculation correctly
was willing to take the net result. He had done so all his life with
success. In his house his wife was paramount,--as he very well knew.
But no effort on his wife's part, had she wished to make such effort,
could have forced him to spend more than two-thirds of his income.
Of this she also was aware, and had trimmed her sails accordingly,
likening herself to him in this respect. But of such wisdom, and such
trimmings, and such adaptability, what likelihood was there with Mr.
Crosbie and Lady Alexandrina?

"At any rate, it is too late now," said Lady Amelia, thus concluding
the conversation.

But nevertheless, when the last moment came, there was some little
attempt at glory. Who does not know the way in which a lately
married couple's little dinner-party stretches itself out from the
pure simplicity of a fried sole and a leg of mutton to the attempt
at clear soup, the unfortunately cold dish of round balls which
is handed about after the sole, and the brightly red jelly, and
beautifully pink cream, which are ordered, in the last agony of
ambition, from the next pastrycook's shop?

"We cannot give a dinner, my dear, with only cook and Sarah."

It has thus begun, and the husband has declared that he has no such
idea. "If Phipps and Dowdney can come here and eat a bit of mutton,
they are very welcome; if not, let them stay away. And you might as
well ask Phipps's sister; just to have some one to go with you into
the drawing-room."

"I'd much rather go alone, because then I can read,"--or sleep, we
may say.

But her husband has explained that she would look friendless in this
solitary state, and therefore Phipps's sister has been asked. Then
the dinner has progressed down to those costly jellies which have
been ordered in a last agony. There has been a conviction on the
minds of both of them that the simple leg of mutton would have been
more jolly for them all. Had those round balls not been carried about
by a hired man; had simple mutton with hot potatoes been handed to
Miss Phipps by Sarah, Miss Phipps would not have simpered with such
unmeaning stiffness when young Dowdney spoke to her. They would have
been much more jolly. "Have a bit more mutton, Phipps; and where
do you like it?" How pleasant it sounds! But we all know that it
is impossible. My young friend had intended this, but his dinner
had run itself away to cold round balls and  forms from the
pastrycook. And so it was with the Crosbie marriage.

The bride must leave the church in a properly appointed carriage, and
the postboys must have wedding favours. So the thing grew; not into
noble proportions, not into proportions of true glory, justifying
the attempt and making good the gala. A well-cooked rissole, brought
pleasantly to you, is good eating. A gala marriage, when everything
is in keeping, is excellent sport. Heaven forbid that we should
have no gala marriages. But the small spasmodic attempt, made in
opposition to manifest propriety, made with an inner conviction of
failure,--that surely should be avoided in marriages, in dinners, and
in all affairs of life.

There were bridesmaids and there was a breakfast. Both Margaretta and
Rosina came up to London for the occasion, as did also a first cousin
of theirs, one Miss Gresham, a lady whose father lived in the same
county. Mr. Gresham had married a sister of Lord De Courcy's, and his
services were also called into requisition. He was brought up to give
away the bride, because the earl,--as the paragraph in the newspaper
declared,--was confined at Courcy Castle by his old hereditary enemy,
the gout. A fourth bridesmaid also was procured, and thus there was
a bevy, though not so large a bevy as is now generally thought to be
desirable. There were only three or four carriages at the church, but
even three or four were something. The weather was so frightfully
cold that the light- silks of the ladies carried with them
a show of discomfort. Girls should be very young to look nice in
light dresses on a frosty morning, and the bridesmaids at Lady
Alexandrina's wedding were not very young. Lady Rosina's nose was
decidedly red. Lady Margaretta was very wintry, and apparently very
cross. Miss Gresham was dull, tame, and insipid; and the Honourable
Miss O'Flaherty, who filled the fourth place, was sulky at finding
that she had been invited to take a share in so very lame a
performance.

But the marriage was made good, and Crosbie bore up against his
misfortunes like a man. Montgomerie Dobbs and Fowler Pratt both stood
by him, giving him, let us hope, some assurance that he was not
absolutely deserted by all the world,--that he had not given himself
up, bound hand and foot, to the De Courcys, to be dealt with in all
matters as they might please. It was that feeling which had been so
grievous to him,--and that other feeling, cognate to it, that if he
should ultimately succeed in rebelling against the De Courcys, he
would find himself a solitary man.

"Yes; I shall go," Fowler Pratt had said to Montgomerie Dobbs.
"I always stick to a fellow if I can. Crosbie has behaved like a
blackguard, and like a fool also; and he knows that I think so. But I
don't see why I should drop him on that account. I shall go as he has
asked me."

"So shall I," said Montgomerie Dobbs, who considered that he would be
safe in doing whatever Fowler Pratt did, and who remarked to himself
that after all Crosbie was marrying the daughter of an earl.

Then, after the marriage, came the breakfast, at which the countess
presided with much noble magnificence. She had not gone to church,
thinking, no doubt, that she would be better able to maintain her
good humour at the feast, if she did not subject herself to the
chance of lumbago in the church. At the foot of the table sat Mr.
Gresham, her brother-in-law, who had undertaken to give the necessary
toast and make the necessary speech. The Honourable John was there,
saying all manner of ill-natured things about his sister and new
brother-in-law, because he had been excluded from his proper position
at the foot of the table. But Alexandrina had declared that she would
not have the matter entrusted to her brother. The Honourable George
would not come, because the countess had not asked his wife.

"Maria may be slow, and all that sort of thing," George had said;
"but she is my wife. And she had got what they haven't. Love me, love
my dog, you know." So he had stayed down at Courcy,--very properly as
I think.

Alexandrina had wished to go away before breakfast, and Crosbie would
not have cared how early an escape had been provided for him; but
the countess had told her daughter that if she would not wait for
the breakfast, there should be no breakfast at all, and in fact no
wedding; nothing but a simple marriage. Had there been a grand party,
that going away of the bride and bridegroom might be very well; but
the countess felt that on such an occasion as this nothing but the
presence of the body of the sacrifice could give any reality to
the festivity. So Crosbie and Lady Alexandrina Crosbie heard Mr.
Gresham's speech, in which he prophesied for the young couple an
amount of happiness and prosperity almost greater than is compatible
with the circumstances of humanity. His young friend Crosbie, whose
acquaintance he had been delighted to make, was well known as one
of the rising pillars of the State. Whether his future career might
be parliamentary, or devoted to the permanent Civil Service of the
country, it would be alike great, noble, and prosperous. As to his
dear niece, who was now filling that position in life which was
most beautiful and glorious for a young woman,--she could not
have done better. She had preferred genius to wealth,--so said Mr.
Gresham,--and she would find her fitting reward. As to her finding
her fitting reward, whatever her preferences may have been, there Mr.
Gresham was no doubt quite right. On that head I myself have no doubt
whatever. After that Crosbie returned thanks, making a much better
speech than nine men do out of ten on such occasions, and then the
thing was over. No other speaking was allowed, and within half an
hour from that time, he and his bride were in the post-chaise, being
carried away to the Folkestone railway station; for that place had
been chosen as the scene of their honeymoon. It had been at one time
intended that the journey to Folkestone should be made simply as the
first stage to Paris, but Paris and all foreign travelling had been
given up by degrees.

"I don't care a bit about France,--we have been there so often,"
Alexandrina said.

She had wished to be taken to Naples, but Crosbie had made her
understand at the first whispering of the word, that Naples was quite
out of the question. He must look now in all things to money. From
the very first outset of his career he must save a shilling wherever
a shilling could be saved. To this view of life no opposition was
made by the De Courcy interest. Lady Amelia had explained to her
sister that they ought so to do their honeymooning that it should not
cost more than if they began keeping house at once. Certain things
must be done which, no doubt, were costly in their nature. The bride
must take with her a well-dressed lady's-maid. The rooms at the
Folkestone hotel must be large, and on the first floor. A carriage
must be hired for her use while she remained; but every shilling must
be saved the spending of which would not make itself apparent to the
outer world. Oh, deliver us from the poverty of those who, with small
means, affect a show of wealth! There is no whitening equal to that
of sepulchres whited as they are whited!

By the proper administration of a slight bribe Crosbie secured
for himself and his wife a compartment in the railway carriage to
themselves. And as he seated himself opposite to Alexandrina, having
properly tucked her up with all her bright- trappings, he
remembered that he had never in truth been alone with her before.
He had danced with her frequently, and been left with her for a few
minutes between the figures. He had flirted with her in crowded
drawing-rooms, and had once found a moment at Courcy Castle to tell
her that he was willing to marry her in spite of his engagement with
Lilian Dale. But he had never walked with her for hours together as
he had walked with Lily. He had never talked to her about government,
and politics, and books, nor had she talked to him of poetry, of
religion, and of the little duties and comforts of life. He had known
the Lady Alexandrina for the last six or seven years; but he had
never known her,--perhaps never would know her,--as he had learned to
know Lily Dale within the space of two months.

And now that she was his wife, what was he to say to her? They
two had commenced a partnership which was to make of them for the
remaining term of their lives one body and one flesh. They were to
be all-in-all to each other. But how was he to begin this all-in-all
partnership? Had the priest, with his blessing, done it so
sufficiently that no other doing on Crosbie's own part was necessary?
There she was, opposite to him, his very actual wife,--bone of his
bone; and what was he to say to her? As he settled himself on his
seat, taking over his own knees a part of a fine fur rug trimmed with
scarlet, with which he had covered her other mufflings, he bethought
himself how much easier it would have been to talk to Lily. And Lily
would have been ready with all her ears, and all her mind, and all
her wit, to enter quickly upon whatever thoughts had occurred to him.
In that respect Lily would have been a wife indeed,--a wife that
would have transferred herself with quick mental activity into her
husband's mental sphere. Had he begun about his office Lily would
have been ready for him, but Alexandrina had never yet asked him a
single question about his official life. Had he been prepared with a
plan for to-morrow's happiness Lily would have taken it up eagerly,
but Alexandrina never cared for such trifles.

"Are you quite comfortable?" he said, at last.

"Oh, yes, quite, thank you. By-the-by, what did you do with my
dressing-case?"

And that question she did ask with some energy.

"It is under you. You can have it as foot-stool if you like it."

"Oh, no; I should scratch it. I was afraid that if Hannah had it,
it might be lost." Then again there was silence, and Crosbie again
considered as to what he would next say to his wife.

We all know the advice given us of old as to what we should do
under such circumstances; and who can be so thoroughly justified in
following that advice as a newly-married husband? So he put out his
hand for hers and drew her closer to him.

"Take care of my bonnet," she said, as she felt the motion of the
railway carriage when he kissed her. I don't think he kissed her
again till he had landed her and her bonnet safely at Folkestone. How
often would he have kissed Lily, and how pretty would her bonnet have
been when she reached the end of her journey, and how delightfully
happy would she have looked when she scolded him for bending it! But
Alexandrina was quite in earnest about her bonnet; by far too much in
earnest for any appearance of happiness.

So he sat without speaking, till the train came to the tunnel.

"I do so hate tunnels," said Alexandrina.

He had half intended to put out his hand again, under some mistaken
idea that the tunnel afforded him an opportunity. The whole journey
was one long opportunity, had he desired it; but his wife hated
tunnels, and so he drew his hand back again. Lily's little fingers
would have been ready for his touch. He thought of this, and could
not help thinking of it.

He had _The Times_ newspaper in his dressing-bag. She also had a
novel with her. Would she be offended if he took out the paper and
read it? The miles seemed to pass by very slowly, and there was still
another hour down to Folkestone. He longed for his _Times_, but
resolved at last that he would not read unless she read first. She
also had remembered her novel; but by nature she was more patient
than he, and she thought that on such a journey any reading might
perhaps be almost improper. So she sat tranquilly, with her eyes
fixed on the netting over her husband's head.

At last he could stand it no longer, and he dashed off into a
conversation, intended to be most affectionate and serious.

"Alexandrina," he said, and his voice was well-tuned for the tender
serious manner, had her ears been alive to such tuning. "Alexandrina,
this is a very important step that you and I have taken to-day."

"Yes; it is, indeed," said she.

"I trust we shall succeed in making each other happy."

"Yes; I hope we shall."

"If we both think seriously of it, and remember that that is our
chief duty, we shall do so."

"Yes, I suppose we shall. I only hope we shan't find the house very
cold. It is so new, and I am so subject to colds in my head. Amelia
says we shall find it very cold; but then she was always against our
going there."

"The house will do very well," said Crosbie. And Alexandrina could
perceive that there was something of the master in his tone as he
spoke.

"I am only telling you what Amelia said," she replied.

Had Lily been his bride, and had he spoken to her of their future
life and mutual duties, how she would have kindled to the theme!
She would have knelt at his feet on the floor of the carriage,
and, looking up into his face, would have promised him to do her
best,--her best,--her very best. And with what an eagerness of inward
resolution would she have determined to keep her promise. He thought
of all this now, but he knew that he ought not to think of it. Then,
for some quarter of an hour, he did take out his newspaper, and she,
when she saw him do so, did take out her novel.

He took out his newspaper, but he could not fix his mind upon the
politics of the day. Had he not made a terrible mistake? Of what
use to him in life would be that thing of a woman that sat opposite
to him? Had not a great punishment come upon him, and had he not
deserved the punishment? In truth, a great punishment had come
upon him. It was not only that he had married a woman incapable of
understanding the higher duties of married life, but that he himself
would have been capable of appreciating the value of a woman who
did understand them. He would have been happy with Lily Dale; and
therefore we may surmise that his unhappiness with Lady Alexandrina
would be the greater. There are men who, in marrying such as Lady
Alexandrina De Courcy, would get the article best suited to them,
as Mortimer Gazebee had done in marrying her sister. Miss Griselda
Grantly, who had become Lady Dumbello, though somewhat colder and
somewhat cleverer than Lady Alexandrina, had been of the same sort.
But in marrying her, Lord Dumbello had got the article best suited
to him;--if only the ill-natured world would allow him to keep
the article. It was in this that Crosbie's failure had been so
grievous,--that he had seen and approved the better course, but had
chosen for himself to walk in that which was worse. During that week
at Courcy Castle,--the week which he passed there immediately after
his second visit to Allington,--he had deliberately made up his mind
that he was more fit for the bad course than for the good one. The
course was now before him, and he had no choice but to walk in it.

It was very cold when they got to Folkestone, and Lady Alexandrina
shivered as she stepped into the private-looking carriage which had
been sent to the station for her use.

"We shall find a good fire in the parlour at the hotel," said
Crosbie.

"Oh, I hope so," said Alexandrina, "and in the bedroom too."

The young husband felt himself to be offended, but he hardly knew
why. He felt himself to be offended, and with difficulty induced
himself to go through all those little ceremonies the absence
of which would have been remarked by everybody. He did his work,
however, seeing to all her shawls and wrappings, speaking with
good-nature to Hannah, and paying special attention to the
dressing-case.

"What time would you like to dine?" he asked, as he prepared to leave
her alone with Hannah in the bedroom.

"Whenever you please; only I should like some tea and
bread-and-butter presently."

Crosbie went into the sitting-room, ordered the tea and
bread-and-butter, ordered also the dinner, and then stood himself up
with his back to the fire, in order that he might think a little of
his future career.

He was a man who had long since resolved that his life should be a
success. It would seem that all men would so resolve, if the matter
were simply one of resolution. But the majority of men, as I take it,
make no such resolution, and very many men resolve that they will
be unsuccessful. Crosbie, however, had resolved on success, and had
done much towards carrying out his purpose. He had made a name for
himself, and had acquired a certain fame. That, however, was, as he
acknowledged to himself, departing from him. He looked the matter
straight in the face, and told himself that his fashion must be
abandoned; but the office remained to him. He might still rule over
Mr. Optimist, and make a subservient slave of Butterwell. That must
be his line in life now, and to that line he would endeavour to
be true. As to his wife and his home,--he would look to them for
his breakfast, and perhaps his dinner. He would have a comfortable
arm-chair, and if Alexandrina should become a mother, he would
endeavour to love his children; but above all things he would never
think of Lily. After that he stood and thought of her for half an
hour.

"If you please, sir, my lady wants to know at what time you have
ordered dinner."

"At seven, Hannah."

"My lady says she is very tired, and will lie down till dinner-time."

"Very well, Hannah. I will go into her room when it is time to dress.
I hope they are making you comfortable downstairs?"

Then Crosbie strolled out on the pier in the dusk of the cold winter
evening.




CHAPTER XLVI.

JOHN EAMES AT HIS OFFICE.


[ILLUSTRATION: (untitled)]

Mr. Crosbie and his wife went upon their honeymoon tour to Folkestone
in the middle of February, and returned to London about the end
of March. Nothing of special moment to the interests of our story
occurred during those six weeks, unless the proceedings of the
young married couple by the sea-side may be thought to have any
special interest. With regard to those proceedings I can only say
that Crosbie was very glad when they were brought to a close. All
holiday-making is hard work, but holiday-making with nothing to do is
the hardest work of all. At the end of March they went into their new
house, and we will hope that Lady Alexandrina did not find it very
cold.

During this time Lily's recovery from her illness was being
completed. She had no relapse, nor did anything occur to create a new
fear on her account. But, nevertheless, Dr. Crofts gave it as his
opinion that it would be inexpedient to move her into a fresh house
at Lady-day. March is not a kindly month for invalids; and therefore
with some regret on the part of Mrs. Dale, with much impatience on
that of Bell, and with considerable outspoken remonstrance from Lily
herself, the squire was requested to let them remain through the
month of April. How the squire received this request, and in what way
he assented to the doctor's reasoning, will be told in the course of
a chapter or two.

In the meantime John Eames had continued his career in London without
much immediate satisfaction to himself, or to the lady who boasted to
be his heart's chosen queen. Miss Amelia Roper, indeed, was becoming
very cross, and in her ill-temper was playing a game that was tending
to create a frightful amount of hot water in Burton Crescent. She was
devoting herself to a flirtation with Mr. Cradell, not only under the
immediate eyes of Johnny Eames, but also under those of Mrs. Lupex.
John Eames, the blockhead, did not like it. He was above all things
anxious to get rid of Amelia and her claims; so anxious, that on
certain moody occasions he would threaten himself with diverse
tragical terminations to his career in London. He would enlist. He
would go to Australia. He would blow out his brains. He would have
"an explanation" with Amelia, tell her that she was a vixen, and
proclaim his hatred. He would rush down to Allington and throw
himself in despair at Lily's feet. Amelia was the bugbear of his
life. Nevertheless, when she flirted with Cradell, he did not like
it, and was ass enough to speak to Cradell about it.

"Of course I don't care," he said, "only it seems to me that you are
making a fool of yourself."

"I thought you wanted to get rid of her."

"She's nothing on earth to me; only it does, you know--"

"Does do what?" asked Cradell.

"Why, if I was to be fal-lalling with that married woman, you
wouldn't like it. That's all about it. Do you mean to marry her?"

"What!--Amelia?"

"Yes; Amelia."

"Not if I know it."

"Then if I were you I would leave her alone. She's only making a fool
of you."

Eames's advice may have been good, and the view taken by him of
Amelia's proceedings may have been correct; but as regarded his own
part in the affair, he was not wise. Miss Roper, no doubt, wished to
make him jealous; and she succeeded in the teeth of his aversion to
her and of his love elsewhere. He had no desire to say soft things
to Miss Roper. Miss Roper, with all her skill, could not extract a
word pleasantly soft from him once a week. But, nevertheless, soft
words to her and from her in another quarter made him uneasy. Such
being the case, must we not acknowledge that John Eames was still
floundering in the ignorance of his hobbledehoyhood?

The Lupexes at this time still held their ground in the Crescent,
although repeated warnings to go had been given them. Mrs. Roper,
though she constantly spoke of sacrificing all that they owed her,
still hankered, with a natural hankering, after her money. And as
each warning was accompanied by a demand for payment, and usually
produced some slight subsidy on account, the thing went on from week
to week; and at the beginning of April Mr. and Mrs. Lupex were still
boarders at Mrs. Roper's house.

Eames had heard nothing from Allington since the time of his
Christmas visit, and his subsequent correspondence with Lord De
Guest. In his letters from his mother he was told that game came
frequently from Guestwick Manor, and in this way he knew that he
was not forgotten by the earl. But of Lily he had heard not a
word,--except, indeed, the rumour, which had now become general, that
the Dales from the Small House were about to move themselves into
Guestwick. When first he learned this he construed the tidings as
favourable to himself, thinking that Lily, removed from the grandeur
of Allington, might possibly be more easily within his reach; but,
latterly, he had given up any such hope as that, and was telling
himself that his friend at the Manor had abandoned all idea of making
up the marriage. Three months had already elapsed since his visit.
Five months had passed since Crosbie had surrendered his claim.
Surely such a knave as Crosbie might be forgotten in five months!
If any steps could have been taken through the squire, surely three
months would have sufficed for them! It was very manifest to him
that there was no ground of hope for him at Allington, and it would
certainly be well for him to go off to Australia. He would go to
Australia, but he would thrash Cradell first for having dared to
interfere with Amelia Roper. That, generally, was the state of his
mind during the first week in April.

Then there came to him a letter from the earl which instantly
effected a great change in all his feelings; which taught him to
regard Australia as a dream, and almost put him into a good humour
with Cradell. The earl had by no means lost sight of his friend's
interests at Allington; and, moreover, those interests were now
backed by an ally who in this matter must be regarded as much more
powerful than the earl. The squire had given in his consent to the
Eames alliance.

The earl's letter was as follows:--


   Guestwick Manor, April 7, 18--.

   MY DEAR JOHN,

   I told you to write to me again, and you haven't done it.
   I saw your mother the other day, or else you might have
   been dead for anything I knew. A young man always ought to
   write letters when he is told to do so.

Eames, when he had got so far, felt himself rather aggrieved by this
rebuke, knowing that he had abstained from writing to his patron
simply from an unwillingness to intrude upon him with his letters.
"By Jove, I'll write to him every week of his life, till he's sick of
me," Johnny said to himself when he found himself thus instructed as
to a young man's duties.

   And now I have got to tell you a long story, and I should
   like it much better if you were down here, so that I
   might save myself the trouble; but you would think me
   ill-natured if I were to keep you waiting. I happened to
   meet Mr. Dale the other day, and he said that he should be
   very glad if a certain young lady would make up her mind
   to listen to a certain young friend of mine. So I asked
   him what he meant to do about the young lady's fortune,
   and he declared himself willing to give her a hundred a
   year during his life, and to settle four thousand pounds
   upon her after his death. I said that I would do as much
   on my part by the young man; but as two hundred a year,
   with your salary, would hardly give you enough to begin
   with, I'll make mine a hundred and fifty. You'll be
   getting up in your office soon, and with five hundred a
   year you ought to be able to get along; especially as you
   need not insure your life. I should live somewhere near
   Bloomsbury Square at first, because I'm told you can get
   a house for nothing. After all, what's fashion worth? You
   can bring your wife down here in the autumn, and have some
   shooting. She won't let you go to sleep under the trees,
   I'll be bound.

   But you must look after the young lady. You will
   understand that no one has said a word to her about it;
   or, if they have, I don't know it. You'll find the squire
   on your side, that's all. Couldn't you manage to come down
   this Easter? Tell old Buffle, with my compliments, that I
   want you. I'll write to him if you like it. I did know him
   at one time, though I can't say I was ever very fond of
   him. It stands to reason that you can't get on with Miss
   Lily without seeing her; unless, indeed, you like better
   to write to her, which always seems to me to be very poor
   sort of fun. You'd much better come down, and go a-wooing
   in the regular old-fashioned way. I need not tell you
   that Lady Julia will be delighted to see you. You are a
   prime favourite with her since that affair at the railway
   station. She thinks a great deal more about that than she
   does about the bull.

   Now, my dear fellow, you know all about it, and I shall
   take it very much amiss of you if you don't answer my
   letter soon.

   Your very sincere friend,

   DE GUEST.


When Eames had finished this letter, sitting at his office-desk, his
surprise and elation were so great that he hardly knew where he was
or what he ought to do. Could it be the truth that Lily's uncle had
not only consented that the match should be made, but that he had
also promised to give his niece a considerable fortune? For a few
minutes it seemed to Johnny as though all obstacles to his happiness
were removed, and that there was no impediment between him and an
amount of bliss of which he had hitherto hardly dared to dream. Then,
when he considered the earl's munificence, he almost cried. He found
that he could not compose his mind to think, or even his hand to
write. He did not know whether it would be right in him to accept
such pecuniary liberality from any living man, and almost thought
that he should feel himself bound to reject the earl's offer. As to
the squire's money, that he knew he might accept. All that comes in
the shape of a young woman's fortune may be taken by any man.

He would certainly answer the earl's letter, and that at once. He
would not leave the office till he had done so. His friend should
have cause to bring no further charge against him of that kind. And
then again he reverted to the injustice which had been done to him in
the matter of letter-writing--as if that consideration were of moment
in such a state of circumstances as was now existing. But at last
his thoughts brought themselves to the real question at issue. Would
Lily Dale accept him? After all, the realization of his good fortune
depended altogether upon her feelings; and, as he remembered this,
his mind misgave him sorely. It was filled not only with a young
lover's ordinary doubts,--with the fear and trembling incidental to
the bashfulness of hobbledehoyhood--but with an idea that that affair
with Crosbie would still stand in his way. He did not, perhaps,
rightly understand all that Lily had suffered, but he conceived it
to be probable that there had been wounds which even the last five
months might not yet have cured. Could it be that she would allow him
to cure these wounds? As he thought of this he felt almost crushed
to the earth by an indomitable bashfulness and conviction of his own
unworthiness. What had he to offer worthy of the acceptance of such a
girl as Lilian Dale?

I fear that the Crown did not get out of John Eames an adequate
return for his salary on that day. So adequate, however, had been the
return given by him for some time past, that promotion was supposed
throughout the Income-tax Office to be coming in his way, much to
the jealousy of Cradell, Fisher, and others, his immediate compeers
and cronies. And the place assigned to him by rumour was one which
was generally regarded as a perfect Elysium upon earth in the Civil
Service world. He was, so rumour said, to become private secretary to
the First Commissioner. He would be removed by such a change as this
from the large uncarpeted room in which he at present sat; occupying
the same desk with another man to whom he had felt himself to be
ignominiously bound, as dogs must feel when they are coupled. This
room had been the bear-garden of the office. Twelve or fourteen
men sat in it. Large pewter pots were brought into it daily at one
o'clock, giving it an air that was not aristocratic. The senior
of the room, one Mr. Love, who was presumed to have it under his
immediate dominion, was a clerk of the ancient stamp, dull, heavy,
unambitious, living out on the farther side of Islington, and unknown
beyond the limits of his office to any of his younger brethren.
He was generally regarded as having given a bad tone to the room.
And then the clerks in this room would not unfrequently be blown
up,--with very palpable blowings up,--by an official swell, a certain
chief clerk, named Kissing, much higher in standing though younger in
age than the gentleman of whom we have before spoken. He would hurry
in, out of his own neighbouring chamber, with quick step and nose in
the air, shuffling in his office slippers, looking on each occasion
as though there were some cause to fear that the whole Civil Service
were coming to an abrupt termination, and would lay about him with
hard words, which some of those in the big room did not find it very
easy to bear. His hair was always brushed straight up, his eyes were
always very wide open,--and he usually carried a big letter-book with
him, keeping in it a certain place with his finger. This book was
almost too much for his strength, and he would flop it down, now on
this man's desk and now on that man's, and in a long career of such
floppings had made himself to be very much hated. On the score of
some old grudge he and Mr. Love did not speak to each other; and for
this reason, on all occasions of fault-finding, the blown-up young
man would refer Mr. Kissing to his enemy.

"I know nothing about it," Mr. Love would say, not lifting his face
from his desk for a moment.

"I shall certainly lay the matter before the Board," Mr. Kissing
would reply, and would then shuffle out of the room with the big
book.

Sometimes Mr. Kissing would lay the matter before the Board, and
then he, and Mr. Love, and two or three delinquent clerks would be
summoned thither. It seldom led to much. The delinquent clerks would
be cautioned. One Commissioner would say a word in private to Mr.
Love, and another a word in private to Mr. Kissing. Then, when left
alone, the Commissioners would have their little jokes, saying that
Kissing, they feared, went by favour; and that Love should still be
lord of all. But these things were done in the mild days, before Sir
Raffle Buffle came to the Board.

There had been some fun in this at first; but of late John Eames had
become tired of it. He disliked Mr. Kissing, and the big book out
of which Mr. Kissing was always endeavouring to convict him of some
official sin, and had got tired of that joke of setting Kissing
and Love by the ears together. When the Assistant Secretary first
suggested to him that Sir Raffle had an idea of selecting him as
private secretary, and when he remembered the cosy little room, all
carpeted, with a leathern arm-chair and a separate washing-stand,
which in such case would be devoted to his use, and remembered
also that he would be put into receipt of an additional hundred a
year, and would stand in the way of still better promotion, he was
overjoyed. But there were certain drawbacks. The present private
secretary,--who had been private secretary also to the late First
Commissioner,--was giving up his Elysium because he could not endure
the tones of Sir Raffle's voice. It was understood that Sir Raffle
required rather more of a private secretary, in the way of obsequious
attendance, than was desirable, and Eames almost doubted his own
fitness for the place.

"And why should he choose me?" he had asked the Assistant Secretary.

"Well, we have talked it over together, and I think that he prefers
you to any other that has been named."

"But he was so very hard upon me about the affair at the railway
station."

"I think he has heard more about that since; I think that some
message has reached him from your friend, Earl De Guest."

"Oh, indeed!" said Johnny, beginning to comprehend what it was to
have an earl for his friend. Since his acquaintance with the nobleman
had commenced, he had studiously avoided all mention of the earl's
name at his office; and yet he received almost daily intimation that
the fact was well known there, and not a little considered.

"But he is so very rough," said Johnny.

"You can put up with that," said his friend the Assistant Secretary.
"His bark is worse than his bite, as you know; and then a hundred a
year is worth having." Eames was at that moment inclined to take a
gloomy view of life in general, and was disposed to refuse the place,
should it be offered to him. He had not then received the earl's
letter; but now, as he sat with that letter open before him, lying
in the drawer beneath his desk so that he could still read it as he
leaned back in his chair, he was enabled to look at things in general
through a different atmosphere. In the first place, Lilian Dale's
husband ought to have a room to himself, with a carpet and an
arm-chair; and then that additional hundred a year would raise his
income at once to the sum as to which the earl had made some sort of
stipulation. But could he get that leave of absence at Easter? If he
consented to be Sir Raffle's private secretary, he would make that a
part of the bargain.

At this moment the door of the big room was opened, and Mr. Kissing
shuffled in with very quick little steps. He shuffled in, and coming
direct up to John's desk, flopped his ledger down upon it before its
owner had had time to close the drawer which contained the precious
letter.

"What have you got in that drawer, Mr. Eames?"

"A private letter, Mr. Kissing."

"Oh;--a private letter!" said Mr. Kissing, feeling strongly convinced
there was a novel hidden there, but not daring to express his belief.
"I have been half the morning, Mr. Eames, looking for this letter
to the Admiralty, and you've put it under S!" A bystander listening
to Mr. Kissing's tone would have been led to believe that the whole
Income-tax Office was jeopardized by the terrible iniquity thus
disclosed.

"Somerset House," pleaded Johnny.

"Psha;--Somerset House! Half the offices in London--"

"You'd better ask Mr. Love," said Eames. "It's all done under his
special instructions." Mr. Kissing looked at Mr. Love, and Mr.
Love looked steadfastly at his desk. "Mr. Love knows all about the
indexing," continued Johnny. "He's index master general to the
department."

"No, I'm not, Mr. Eames," said Mr. Love, who rather liked John Eames,
and hated Mr. Kissing with his whole heart. "But I believe the
indexes, on the whole, are very well done in this room. Some people
don't know how to find letters."

"Mr. Eames," began Mr. Kissing, still pointing with a finger of
bitter reproach to the misused S, and beginning an oration which was
intended for the benefit of the whole room, and for the annihilation
of old Mr. Love, "if you have yet to learn that the word Admiralty
begins with A and not with S, you have much to learn which should
have been acquired before you first came into this office. Somerset
House is not a department." Then he turned round to the room at
large, and repeated the last words, as though they might become very
useful if taken well to heart--"Is not a department. The Treasury is
a department; the Home Office is a department; the India Board is a
department--"

"No, Mr. Kissing, it isn't," said a young clerk from the other end of
the room.

"You know very well what I mean, sir. The India Office is a
department."

"There's no Board, sir."

"Never mind; but how any gentleman who has been in the service three
months,--not to say three years,--can suppose Somerset House to be a
department, is beyond my comprehension. If you have been improperly
instructed--"

"We shall know all about it another time," said Eames. "Mr. Love will
make a memorandum of it."

"I shan't do anything of the kind," said Mr. Love.

"If you have been wrongly instructed,--" Mr. Kissing began again,
stealing a glance at Mr. Love as he did so; but at this moment
the door was again opened, and a messenger summoned Johnny to the
presence of the really great man. "Mr. Eames, to wait upon Sir
Raffle." Upon hearing this Johnny immediately started, and left Mr.
Kissing and the big book in possession of his desk. How the battle
was waged, and how it raged in the large room, we cannot stop to
hear, as it is necessary that we should follow our hero into the
presence of Sir Raffle Buffle.

"Ah, Eames,--yes," said Sir Raffle, looking up from his desk when
the young man entered; "just wait half a minute, will you?" And
the knight went to work at his papers, as though fearing that any
delay in what he was doing might be very prejudicial to the nation
at large. "Ah, Eames,--well,--yes," he said again, as he pushed
away from him, almost with a jerk, the papers on which he had been
writing. "They tell me that you know the business of this office
pretty well."

"Some of it, sir," said Eames.

"Well, yes; some of it. But you'll have to understand the whole of it
if you come to me. And you must be very sharp about it too. You know
that FitzHoward is leaving me?"

"I have heard of it, sir."

"A very excellent young man, though perhaps not-- But we won't mind
that. The work is a little too much for him, and he's going back into
the office. I believe Lord De Guest is a friend of yours; isn't he?"

"Yes; he is a friend of mine, certainly. He's been very kind to me."

"Ah, well. I've known the earl for many years,--for very many years;
and intimately at one time. Perhaps you may have heard him mention my
name?"

"Yes, I have, Sir Raffle."

"We were intimate once, but those things go off, you know. He's been
the country mouse and I've been the town mouse. Ha, ha, ha! You may
tell him that I say so. He won't mind that coming from me."

"Oh, no; not at all," said Eames.

"Mind you tell him when you see him. The earl is a man for whom I've
always had a great respect,--a very great respect,--I may say regard.
And now, Eames, what do you say to taking FitzHoward's place? The
work is hard. It is fair that I should tell you that. The work will,
no doubt, be very hard. I take a greater share of what's going than
my predecessors have done; and I don't mind telling you that I have
been sent here, because a man was wanted who would do that." The
voice of Sir Raffle, as he continued, became more and more harsh, and
Eames began to think how wise FitzHoward had been. "I mean to do my
duty, and I shall expect that my private secretary will do his. But,
Mr. Eames, I never forget a man. Whether he be good or bad, I never
forget a man. You don't dislike late hours, I suppose."

"Coming late to the office, you mean? Oh, no, not in the least."

"Staying late,--staying late. Six or seven o'clock if
necessary,--putting your shoulder to the wheel when the coach gets
into the mud. That's what I've been doing all my life. They've known
what I am very well. They've always kept me for the heavy roads. If
they paid, in the Civil Service, by the hour, I believe I should have
drawn a larger income than any man in it. If you take the vacant
chair in the next room you'll find it's no joke. It's only fair that
I should tell you that."

"I can work as hard as any man," said Eames.

"That's right. That's right. Stick to that and I'll stick to you.
It will be a great gratification to me to have by me a friend of
my old friend De Guest. Tell him I say so. And now you may as well
get into harness at once. FitzHoward is there. You can go in to him,
and at half-past four exactly I'll see you both. I'm very exact,
mind,--very;--and therefore you must be exact." Then Sir Raffle
looked as though he desired to be left alone.

"Sir Raffle, there's one favour I want to ask of you," said Johnny.

"And what's that?"

"I am most anxious to be absent for a fortnight or three weeks, just
at Easter. I shall want to go in about ten days."

"Absent for three weeks at Easter, when the parliamentary work is
beginning! That won't do for a private secretary."

"But it's very important, Sir Raffle."

"Out of the question, Eames; quite out of the question."

"It's almost life and death to me."

"Almost life and death. Why, what are you going to do?" With all his
grandeur and national importance, Sir Raffle would be very curious as
to little people.

"Well, I can't exactly tell you, and I'm not quite sure myself."

"Then don't talk nonsense. It's impossible that I should spare my
private secretary just at that time of the year. I couldn't do it.
The service won't admit of it. You're not entitled to leave at that
season. Private secretaries always take their leave in the autumn."

"I should like to be absent in the autumn too, but--"

"It's out of the question, Mr. Eames."

Then John Eames reflected that it behoved him in such an emergency to
fire off his big gun. He had a great dislike to firing this big gun,
but, as he said to himself, there are occasions which make a big
gun very necessary. "I got a letter from Lord De Guest this morning,
pressing me very much to go to him at Easter. It's about business,"
added Johnny. "If there was any difficulty, he said, he should write
to you."

"Write to me," said Sir Raffle, who did not like to be approached too
familiarly in his office, even by an earl.

"Of course I shouldn't tell him to do that. But, Sir Raffle, if I
remained out there, in the office," and Johnny pointed towards the
big room with his head, "I could choose April for my month. And as
the matter is so important to me, and to the earl--"

"What can it be?" said Sir Raffle.

"It's quite private," said John Eames.

Hereupon Sir Raffle became very petulant, feeling that a bargain was
being made with him. This young man would only consent to become his
private secretary upon certain terms! "Well, go in to FitzHoward now.
I can't lose all my day in this way."

"But I shall be able to get away at Easter?"

"I don't know. We shall see about it. But don't stand talking there
now." Then John Eames went into FitzHoward's room, and received that
gentleman's congratulations on his appointment. "I hope you like
being rung for, like a servant, every minute, for he's always ringing
that bell. And he'll roar at you till you're deaf. You must give up
all dinner engagements, for though there is not much to do, he'll
never let you go. I don't think anybody ever asks him out to dinner,
for he likes being here till seven. And you'll have to write all
manner of lies about big people. And, sometimes, when he has sent
Rafferty out about his private business, he'll ask you to bring him
his shoes." Now Rafferty was the First Commissioner's messenger.

It must be remembered, however, that this little account was given by
an outgoing and discomfited private secretary. "A man is not asked to
bring another man his shoes," said Eames to himself, "until he shows
himself fit for that sort of business." Then he made within his own
breast a little resolution about Sir Raffle's shoes.




CHAPTER XLVII.

THE NEW PRIVATE SECRETARY.


   Income-tax Office, April 8, 18--.

   MY DEAR LORD DE GUEST,

   I hardly know how to answer your letter, it is so very
   kind--more than kind. And about not writing before,--I
   must explain that I have not liked to trouble you with
   letters. I should have seemed to be encroaching if I had
   written much. Indeed it didn't come from not thinking
   about you. And first of all, about the money,--as to your
   offer, I mean. I really feel that I do not know what I
   ought to say to you about it, without appearing to be a
   simpleton. The truth is, I don't know what I ought to do,
   and can only trust to you not to put me wrong. I have an
   idea that a man ought not to accept a present of money,
   unless from his father, or somebody like that. And the sum
   you mention is so very large that it makes me wish you had
   not named it. If you choose to be so generous, would it
   not be better that you should leave it me in your will?


"So that he might always want me to be dying," said Lord De Guest, as
he read the letter out loud to his sister.

"I'm sure he wouldn't want that," said Lady Julia. "But you may live
for twenty-five years, you know."

"Say fifty," said the earl. And then he continued the reading of his
letter.


   But all that depends so much upon another person, that it
   is hardly worth while talking about it. Of course I am
   very much obliged to Mr. Dale,--very much indeed,--and I
   think that he is behaving very handsomely to his niece.
   But whether it will do me any good, that is quite another
   thing. However, I shall certainly accept your kind
   invitation for Easter, and find out whether I have a
   chance or not. I must tell you that Sir Raffle Buffle has
   made me his private secretary, by which I get a hundred
   a year. He says he was a great crony of yours many years
   ago, and seems to like talking about you very much. You
   will understand what all that means. He has sent you ever
   so many messages, but I don't suppose you will care to get
   them. I am to go to him to-morrow, and from all I hear I
   shall have a hard time of it.


"By George, he will," said the earl. "Poor fellow!"

"But I thought a private secretary never had anything to do," said
Lady Julia.

"I shouldn't like to be private secretary to Sir Raffle, myself. But
he's young, and a hundred a year is a great thing. How we all of us
used to hate that man. His voice sounded like a bell with a crack in
it. We always used to be asking for some one to muffle the Buffle.
They call him Huffle Scuffle at his office. Poor Johnny!" Then he
finished the letter:--


   I told him that I must have leave of absence at Easter,
   and he at first declared that it was impossible. But I
   shall carry my point about that. I would not stay away to
   be made private secretary to the Prime Minister; and yet
   I almost feel that I might as well stay away for any good
   that I shall do.

   Give my kind regards to Lady Julia, and tell her how very
   much obliged to her I am. I cannot express the gratitude
   which I owe to you. But pray believe me, my dear Lord De
   Guest, always very faithfully yours,

   JOHN EAMES.


It was late before Eames had finished his letter. He had been making
himself ready for his exodus from the big room, and preparing his
desk and papers for his successor. About half-past five Cradell came
up to him, and suggested that they should walk home together.

"What! you here still?" said Eames. "I thought you always went at
four." Cradell had remained, hanging about the office, in order that
he might walk home with the new private secretary. But Eames did not
desire this. He had much of which he desired to think alone, and
would fain have been allowed to walk by himself.

"Yes; I had things to do. I say, Johnny, I congratulate you most
heartily; I do, indeed."

"Thank you, old fellow!"

"It is such a grand thing, you know. A hundred a year and all at
once! And then such a snug room to yourself,--and that fellow,
Kissing, never can come near you. He has been making himself such
a beast all day. But, Johnny, I always knew you'd come to something
more than common. I always said so."

"There's nothing uncommon about this; except that Fitz says that old
Huffle Scuffle makes himself uncommon nasty."

"Never mind what Fitz says. It's all jealousy. You'll have it all
your own way, if you look sharp. I think you always do have it all
your own way. Are you nearly ready?"

"Well,--not quite. Don't wait for me, Caudle."

"Oh, I'll wait. I don't mind waiting. They'll keep dinner for us if
we both stay. Besides, what matters? I'd do more than that for you."

"I have some idea of working on till eight, and having a chop sent
in," said Johnny. "Besides--I've got somewhere to call, by myself."

Then Cradell almost cried. He remained silent for two or three
minutes, striving to master his emotion; and at last, when he did
speak, had hardly succeeded in doing so. "Oh, Johnny," he said, "I
know what that means. You are going to throw me over because you
are getting up in the world. I have always stuck to you, through
everything; haven't I?"

"Don't make yourself a fool, Caudle."

"Well; so I have. And if they had made me private secretary, I should
have been just the same to you as ever. You'd have found no change in
me."

"What a goose you are. Do you say I'm changed, because I want to dine
in the city?"

"It's all because you don't want to walk home with me, as we used to
do. I'm not such a goose but what I can see. But, Johnny-- I suppose
I mustn't call you Johnny, now."

"Don't be such a--con-founded--" Then Eames got up, and walked about
the room. "Come along," said he, "I don't care about staying, and
don't mind where I dine." And he bustled away with his hat and
gloves, hardly giving Cradell time to catch him before he got out
into the streets. "I tell you what it is, Caudle," said he, "all that
kind of thing is disgusting."

"But how would you feel," whimpered Cradell, who had never succeeded
in putting himself quite on a par with his friend, even in his own
estimation, since that glorious victory at the railway station. If
he could only have thrashed Lupex as Johnny had thrashed Crosbie;
then indeed they might have been equal,--a pair of heroes. But he had
not done so. He had never told himself that he was a coward, but he
considered that circumstances had been specially unkind to him. "But
how would you feel," he whimpered, "if the friend whom you liked
better than anybody else in the world, turned his back upon you?"

"I haven't turned my back upon you; except that I can't get you to
walk fast enough. Come along, old fellow, and don't talk confounded
nonsense. I hate all that kind of thing. You never ought to suppose
that a man will give himself airs, but wait till he does. I don't
believe I shall remain with old Scuffles above a month or two. From
all that I can hear that's as much as any one can bear."

Then Cradell by degrees became happy and cordial, and during the
whole walk flattered Eames with all the flattery of which he was
master. And Johnny, though he did profess himself to be averse to
"all that kind of thing," was nevertheless open to flattery. When
Cradell told him that though FitzHoward could not manage the Tartar
knight, he might probably do so; he was inclined to believe what
Cradell said. "And as to getting him his shoes," said Cradell,
"I don't suppose he'd ever think of asking you to do such a thing,
unless he was in a very great hurry, or something of that kind."

"Look here, Johnny," said Cradell, as they got into one of the
streets bordering on Burton Crescent, "you know the last thing in the
world I should like to do would be to offend you."

"All right, Caudle," said Eames, going on, whereas his companion had
shown a tendency towards stopping.

"Look here, now; if I have vexed you about Amelia Roper, I'll make
you a promise never to speak to her again."

"D---- Amelia Roper," said Eames, suddenly stopping himself and
stopping Cradell as well. The exclamation was made in a deep angry
voice which attracted the notice of one or two who were passing.
Johnny was very wrong,--wrong to utter any curse;--very wrong to
ejaculate that curse against a human being; and especially wrong to
fulminate it against a woman--a woman whom he had professed to love!
But he did do so, and I cannot tell my story thoroughly without
repeating the wicked word.

Cradell looked up at him and stared. "I only meant to say," said
Cradell, "I'll do anything you like in the matter."

"Then never mention her name to me again. And as to talking to her,
you may talk to her till you're both blue in the face, if you
please."

"Oh;--I didn't know. You didn't seem to like it the other day."

"I was a fool the other day,--a confounded fool. And so I have been
all my life. Amelia Roper! Look here, Caudle; if she makes up to you
this evening, as I've no doubt she will, for she seems to be playing
that game constantly now, just let her have her fling. Never mind me;
I'll amuse myself with Mrs. Lupex, or Miss Spruce."

"But there'll be the deuce to pay with Mrs. Lupex. She's as cross as
possible already whenever Amelia speaks to me. You don't know what a
jealous woman is, Johnny." Cradell had got upon what he considered
to be his high ground. And on that he felt himself equal to any man.
It was no doubt true that Eames had thrashed a man, and that he had
not; it was true also that Eames had risen to very high place in the
social world, having become a private secretary; but for a dangerous,
mysterious, overwhelming, life-enveloping intrigue--was not he the
acknowledged hero of such an affair? He had paid very dearly, both in
pocket and in comfort, for the blessing of Mrs. Lupex's society; but
he hardly considered that he had paid too dearly. There are certain
luxuries which a man will find to be expensive; but, for all that,
they may be worth their price. Nevertheless as he went up the steps
of Mrs. Roper's house he made up his mind that he would oblige his
friend. The intrigue might in that way become more mysterious, and
more life-enveloping; whereas it would not become more dangerous,
seeing that Mr. Lupex could hardly find himself to be aggrieved by
such a proceeding.

The whole number of Mrs. Roper's boarders were assembled at dinner
that day. Mr. Lupex seldom joined that festive board, but on this
occasion he was present, appearing from his voice and manner to be
in high good-humour. Cradell had communicated to the company in the
drawing-room the great good fortune which had fallen upon his friend,
and Johnny had thereby become the mark of a certain amount of
hero-worship.

"Oh, indeed!" said Mrs. Roper. "An 'appy woman your mother will be
when she hears it. But I always said you'd come down right side
uppermost."

"Handsome is as handsome does," said Miss Spruce.

"Oh, Mr. Eames!" exclaimed Mrs. Lupex, with graceful enthusiasm, "I
wish you joy from the very depth of my heart. It is such an elegant
appointment."

"Accept the hand of a true and disinterested friend," said Lupex. And
Johnny did accept the hand, though it was very dirty and stained all
over with paint.

Amelia stood apart and conveyed her congratulations by a glance,--or,
I might better say, by a series of glances. "And now,--now will you
not be mine," the glances said; "now that you are rolling in wealth
and prosperity?" And then before they went downstairs she did whisper
one word to him. "Oh, I am so happy, John;--so very happy."

"Bother!" said Johnny, in a tone quite loud enough to reach the
lady's ear. Then making his way round the room, he gave his arm to
Miss Spruce. Amelia, as she walked downstairs alone, declared to
herself that she would wring his heart. She had been employed in
wringing it for some days past, and had been astonished at her own
success. It had been clear enough to her that Eames had been piqued
by her overtures to Cradell, and she had therefore to play out that
game.

"Oh, Mr. Cradell," she said, as she took her seat next to him. "The
friends I like are the friends that remain always the same. I hate
your sudden rises. They do so often make a man upsetting."

"I should like to try, myself, all the same," said Cradell.

"Well, I don't think it would make any difference in you; I don't
indeed. And of course your time will come too. It's that earl as has
done it,--he that was worried by the bull. Since we have known an
earl we have been so mighty fine." And Amelia gave her head a little
toss, and then smiled archly, in a manner which, to Cradell's eyes,
was really very becoming. But he saw that Mrs. Lupex was looking at
him from the other side of the table, and he could not quite enjoy
the goods which the gods had provided for him.

When the ladies left the dining-room Lupex and the two young men drew
their chairs near the fire, and each prepared for himself a moderate
potation. Eames made a little attempt at leaving the room, but he
was implored by Lupex with such earnest protestations of friendship
to remain, and was so weakly fearful of being charged with giving
himself airs, that he did as he was desired.

"And here, Mr. Eames, is to your very good health," said Lupex,
raising to his mouth a steaming goblet of gin-and-water, "and wishing
you many years to enjoy your official prosperity."

"Thank ye," said Eames. "I don't know much about the prosperity, but
I'm just as much obliged."

"Yes, sir; when I see a young man of your age beginning to rise
in the world, I know he'll go on. Now look at me, Mr. Eames. Mr.
Cradell, here's your very good health, and may all unkindness be
drowned in the flowing bowl-- Look at me, Mr. Eames. I've never
risen in the world; I've never done any good in the world, and never
shall."

"Oh, Mr. Lupex, don't say that."

"Ah, but I do say it. I've always been pulling the devil by the tail,
and never yet got as much as a good hold on to that. And I'll tell
you why; I never got a chance when I was young. If I could have got
any big fellow, a star, you know, to let me paint his portrait when I
was your age,--such a one, let us say, as your friend Sir Raffle--"

"What a star!" said Cradell.

"Well, I suppose he's pretty much known in the world, isn't he? Or
Lord Derby, or Mr. Spurgeon. You know what I mean. If I'd got such a
chance as that when I was young, I should never have been doing jobs
of scene-painting at the minor theatres at so much a square yard.
You've got the chance now, but I never had it."

Whereupon Mr. Lupex finished his first measure of gin-and-water.

"It's a very queer thing,--life is," continued Lupex; and, though
he did not at once go to work boldly at the mixing of another glass
of toddy, he began gradually, and as if by instinct, to finger the
things which would be necessary for that operation. "A very queer
thing. Now, remember, young gentlemen, I'm not denying that success
in life will depend upon good conduct;--of course it does; but, then,
how often good conduct comes from success! Should I have been what I
am now, do you suppose, if some big fellow had taken me by the hand
when I was struggling to make an artist of myself? I could have drunk
claret and champagne just as well as gin-and-water, and worn ruffles
to my shirt as gracefully as many a fellow who used to be very fond
of me, and now won't speak to me if he meets me in the streets. I
never got a chance,--never."

"But it's not too late yet, Mr. Lupex," said Eames.

"Yes, it is, Eames,--yes, it is." And now Mr. Lupex had grasped the
gin-bottle. "It's too late now. The game's over, and the match is
lost. The talent is here. I'm as sure of that now as ever I was. I've
never doubted my own ability,--never for a moment. There are men this
very day making a thousand a year off their easels who haven't so
good and true an eye in drawing as I have, or so good a feeling in
colours. I could name them; only I won't."

"And why shouldn't you try again?" said Eames.

"If I were to paint the finest piece that ever delighted the eye of
man, who would come and look at it? Who would have enough belief in
me to come as far as this place and see if it were true? No, Eames;
I know my own position and my own ways, and I know my own weakness.
I couldn't do a day's work now, unless I were certain of getting a
certain number of shillings at the end of it. That's what a man comes
to when things have gone against him."

"But I thought men got lots of money by scene-painting?"

"I don't know what you may call lots, Mr. Cradell; I don't call it
lots. But I'm not complaining. I know who I have to thank; and if
ever I blow my own brains out I shan't be putting the blame on the
wrong shoulders. If you'll take my advice,"--and now he turned round
to Eames,--"you'll beware of marrying too soon in life."

"I think a man should marry early, if he marries well," said Eames.

"Don't misunderstand me," continued Lupex. "It isn't about Mrs. L.
I'm speaking. I've always regarded my wife as a very fascinating
woman."

"Hear, hear, hear!" said Cradell, thumping the table.

"Indeed she is," said Eames.

"And when I caution you against marrying, don't you misunderstand me.
I've never said a word against her to any man, and never will. If a
man don't stand by his wife, whom will he stand by? I blame no one
but myself. But I do say this; I never had a chance;--I never had a
chance;--never had a chance." And as he repeated the words for the
third time, his lips were already fixed to the rim of his tumbler.

At this moment the door of the dining-room was opened, and Mrs. Lupex
put in her head.

"Lupex," she said, "what are you doing?"

"Yes, my dear. I can't say I'm doing anything at the present moment.
I was giving a little advice to these young gentlemen."

"Mr. Cradell, I wonder at you. And, Mr. Eames, I wonder at you,
too,--in your position! Lupex, come upstairs at once." She then
stepped into the room and secured the gin-bottle.

"Oh, Mr. Cradell, do come here," said Amelia, in her liveliest tone,
as soon as the men made their appearance above. "I've been waiting
for you this half-hour. I've got such a puzzle for you." And she
made way for him to a chair which was between herself and the wall.
Cradell looked half afraid of his fortunes as he took the proffered
seat; but he did take it, and was soon secured from any positive
physical attack by the strength and breadth of Miss Roper's
crinoline.

"Dear me! Here's a change," said Mrs. Lupex, out loud.

Johnny Eames was standing close, and whispered into her ear, "Changes
are so pleasant sometimes! Don't you think so? I do."




CHAPTER XLVIII.

NEMESIS.


Crosbie had now settled down to the calm realities of married life,
and was beginning to think that the odium was dying away which for
a week or two had attached itself to him, partly on account of his
usage of Miss Dale, but more strongly in consequence of the thrashing
which he had received from John Eames. Not that he had in any way
recovered his former tone of life, or that he ever hoped to do so.
But he was able to go in and out of his club without embarrassment.
He could talk with his wonted voice, and act with his wonted
authority at his office. He could tell his friends, with some little
degree of pleasure in the sound, that Lady Alexandrina would be very
happy to see them. And he could make himself comfortable in his own
chair after dinner, with his slippers and his newspaper. He could
make himself comfortable, or at any rate could tell his wife that he
did so.

It was very dull. He was obliged to acknowledge to himself, when he
thought over the subject, that the life which he was leading was
dull. Though he could go into his club without annoyance, nobody
there ever thought of asking him to join them at dinner. It was taken
for granted that he was going to dine at home; and in the absence of
any provocation to the contrary, he always did dine at home. He had
now been in his house for three weeks, and had been asked with his
wife to a few bridal dinner-parties, given chiefly by friends of the
De Courcy family. Except on such occasions he never passed an evening
out of his own house, and had not yet, since his marriage, dined once
away from his wife. He told himself that his good conduct in this
respect was the result of his own resolution; but, nevertheless, he
felt that there was nothing else left for him to do. Nobody asked
him to go to the theatre. Nobody begged him to drop in of an evening.
Men never asked him why he did not play a rubber. He would generally
saunter into Sebright's after he left his office, and lounge about
the room for half an hour, talking to a few men. Nobody was uncivil
to him. But he knew that the whole thing was changed, and he
resolved, with some wisdom, to accommodate himself to his altered
circumstances.

Lady Alexandrina also found her new life rather dull, and was
sometimes inclined to be a little querulous. She would tell her
husband that she never got out, and would declare, when he offered to
walk with her, that she did not care for walking in the streets. "I
don't exactly see, then, where you are to walk," he once replied. She
did not tell him that she was fond of riding, and that the Park was
a very fitting place for such exercise; but she looked it, and he
understood her. "I'll do all I can for her," he said to himself; "but
I'll not ruin myself." "Amelia is coming to take me for a drive," she
said another time. "Ah, that'll be very nice," he answered. "No; it
won't be very nice," said Alexandrina. "Amelia is always shopping and
bargaining with the tradespeople. But it will be better than being
kept in the house without ever stirring out."

They breakfasted nominally at half-past nine; in truth, it was always
nearly ten, as Lady Alexandrina found it difficult to get herself
out of her room. At half-past ten punctually he left his house for
his office. He usually got home by six, and then spent the greatest
part of the hour before dinner in the ceremony of dressing. He went,
at least, into his dressing-room, after speaking a few words to his
wife, and there remained, pulling things about, clipping his nails,
looking over any paper that came in his way, and killing the time. He
expected his dinner punctually at seven, and began to feel a little
cross if he were kept waiting. After dinner, he drank one glass of
wine in company with his wife, and one other by himself, during which
latter ceremony he would stare at the hot coals, and think of the
thing he had done. Then he would go upstairs, and have, first a cup
of coffee, and then a cup of tea. He would read his newspaper, open
a book or two, hide his face when he yawned, and try to make believe
that he liked it. She had no signs or words of love for him. She
never sat on his knee, or caressed him. She never showed him that any
happiness had come to her in being allowed to live close to him. They
thought that they loved each other:--each thought so; but there was
no love, no sympathy, no warmth. The very atmosphere was cold;--so
cold that no fire could remove the chill.

In what way would it have been different had Lily Dale sat opposite
to him there as his wife, instead of Lady Alexandrina? He told
himself frequently that either with one or with the other life would
have been the same; that he had made himself for a while unfit for
domestic life, and that he must cure himself of that unfitness.
But though he declared this to himself in one set of half-spoken
thoughts, he would also declare to himself in another set, that Lily
would have made the whole house bright with her brightness; that
had he brought her home to his hearth, there would have been a sun
shining on him every morning and every evening. But, nevertheless, he
strove to do his duty, and remembered that the excitement of official
life was still open to him. From eleven in the morning till five in
the afternoon he could still hold a position which made it necessary
that men should regard him with respect, and speak to him with
deference. In this respect he was better off than his wife, for she
had no office to which she could betake herself.

"Yes," she said to Amelia, "it is all very nice, and I don't mind the
house being damp; but I get so tired of being alone."

"That must be the case with women who are married to men of
business."

"Oh, I don't complain. Of course I knew what I was about. I suppose
it won't be so very dull when everybody is up in London."

"I don't find the season makes much difference to us after
Christmas," said Amelia; "but no doubt London is gayer in May. You'll
find you'll like it better next year; and perhaps you'll have a baby,
you know."

"Psha!" ejaculated Lady Alexandrina; "I don't want a baby, and don't
suppose I shall have one."

"It's always something to do, you know."

Lady Alexandrina, though she was not of an energetic temperament,
could not but confess to herself that she had made a mistake. She had
been tempted to marry Crosbie because Crosbie was a man of fashion,
and now she was told that the London season would make no difference
to her;--the London season which had hitherto always brought to her
the excitement of parties, if it had not given her the satisfaction
of amusement. She had been tempted to marry because it appeared to
her that a married woman could enjoy society with less restraint than
a girl who was subject to her mother or her chaperon; that she would
have more freedom of action as a married woman; and now she was told
that she must wait for a baby before she could have anything to do.
Courcy Castle was sometimes dull, but Courcy Castle would have been
better than this.

When Crosbie returned home after this little conversation about
the baby, he was told by his wife that they were to dine with the
Gazebees on the next Sunday. On hearing this he shook his head with
vexation. He knew, however, that he had no right to make complaint,
as he had been only taken to St. John's Wood once since they had come
home from their marriage trip. There was, however, one point as to
which he could grumble. "Why, on earth, on Sunday?"


[ILLUSTRATION: "Why, on earth, on Sunday?"]


"Because Amelia asked me for Sunday. If you are asked for Sunday, you
cannot say you'll go on Monday."

"It is so terrible on a Sunday afternoon. At what hour?"

"She said half-past five."

"Heavens and earth! What are we to do all the evening?"

"It is not kind of you, Adolphus, to speak in that way of my
relations."

"Come, my love, that's a joke; as if I hadn't heard you say the same
thing twenty times. You've complained of having to go up there much
more bitterly than I ever did. You know I like your sister, and,
in his way, Gazebee is a very good fellow; but after three or four
hours, one begins to have had enough of him."

"It can't be much duller than it is--;" but Lady Alexandrina stopped
herself before she finished her speech.

"One can always read at home, at any rate," said Crosbie.

"One can't always be reading. However, I have said you would go. If
you choose to refuse, you must write and explain."

When the Sunday came the Crosbies of course did go to St. John's
Wood, arriving punctually at that door which he so hated at half-past
five. One of the earliest resolutions which he made when he first
contemplated the De Courcy match, was altogether hostile to the
Gazebees. He would see but very little of them. He would shake
himself free of that connexion. It was not with that branch of the
family that he desired an alliance. But now, as things had gone, that
was the only branch of the family with which he seemed to be allied.
He was always hearing of the Gazebees. Amelia and Alexandrina were
constantly together. He was now dragged there to a Sunday dinner;
and he knew that he should often be dragged there,--that he could
not avoid such draggings. He already owed money to Mortimer Gazebee,
and was aware that his affairs had been allowed to fall into that
lawyer's hands in such a way that he could not take them out again.
His house was very thoroughly furnished, and he knew that the bills
had been paid; but he had not paid them; every shilling had been paid
through Mortimer Gazebee.

"Go with your mother and aunt, De Courcy," the attorney said to the
lingering child after dinner; and then Crosbie was left alone with
his wife's brother-in-law. This was the period of the St. John's
Wood purgatory which was so dreadful to him. With his sister-in-law
he could talk, remembering perhaps always that she was an earl's
daughter. But with Gazebee he had nothing in common. And he felt
that Gazebee, who had once treated him with great deference, had now
lost all such feeling. Crosbie had once been a man of fashion in
the estimation of the attorney, but that was all over. Crosbie, in
the attorney's estimation, was now simply the secretary of a public
office,--a man who owed him money. The two had married sisters, and
there was no reason why the light of the prosperous attorney should
pale before that of the civil servant, who was not very prosperous.
All this was understood thoroughly by both the men.

"There's terrible bad news from Courcy," said the attorney, as soon
as the boy was gone.

"Why; what's the matter?"

"Porlock has married--that woman, you know."

"Nonsense."

"He has. The old lady has been obliged to tell me, and she's nearly
broken-hearted about it. But that's not the worst of it to my mind.
All the world knows that Porlock had gone to the mischief. But he is
going to bring an action against his father for some arrears of his
allowance, and he threatens to have everything out in court, if he
doesn't get his money."

"But is there money due to him?"

"Yes, there is. A couple of thousand pounds or so. I suppose I shall
have to find it. But, upon my honour, I don't know where it's to come
from; I don't, indeed. In one way or another, I've paid over fourteen
hundred pounds for you."

"Fourteen hundred pounds!"

"Yes, indeed;--what with the insurance and the furniture, and the
bill from our house for the settlements. That's not paid yet, but
it's the same thing. A man doesn't get married for nothing, I can
tell you."

"But you've got security."

"Oh, yes; I've got security. But the thing is the ready money. Our
house has advanced so much on the Courcy property, that they don't
like going any further; and therefore it is that I have to do this
myself. They'll all have to go abroad,--that'll be the end of it.
There's been such a scene between the earl and George. George lost
his temper and told the earl that Porlock's marriage was his fault.
It has ended in George with his wife being turned out."

"He has money of his own."

"Yes, but he won't spend it. He's coming up here, and we shall find
him hanging about us. I don't mean to give him a bed here, and I
advise you not to do so either. You'll not get rid of him if you do."

"I have the greatest possible dislike to him."

"Yes; he's a bad fellow. So is John. Porlock was the best, but he's
gone altogether to ruin. They've made a nice mess of it between them;
haven't they?"

This was the family for whose sake Crosbie had jilted Lily Dale!
His single and simple ambition had been that of being an earl's
son-in-law. To achieve that it had been necessary that he should
make himself a villain. In achieving it he had gone through all
manner of dirt and disgrace. He had married a woman whom he knew he
did not love. He was thinking almost hourly of a girl whom he had
loved, whom he did love, but whom he had so injured, that, under
no circumstances, could he be allowed to speak to her again. The
attorney there--who sat opposite to him, talking about his thousands
of pounds with that disgusting assumed solicitude which such men put
on, when they know very well what they are doing--had made a similar
marriage. But he had known what he was about. He had got from his
marriage all that he had expected. But what had Crosbie got?

"They're a bad set,--a bad set," said he in his bitterness.

"The men are," said Gazebee, very comfortably.

"H--m," said Crosbie. It was manifest to Gazebee that his friend was
expressing a feeling that the women, also, were not all that they
should be, but he took no offence, though some portion of the censure
might thereby be supposed to attach to his own wife.

"The countess means well," said Gazebee. "But she's had a hard life
of it,--a very hard life. I've heard him call her names that would
frighten a coal-heaver. I have, indeed. But he'll die soon, and then
she'll be comfortable. She has three thousand a year jointure."

He'll die soon, and then she'll be comfortable! That was one phase of
married life. As Crosbie's mind dwelt upon the words, he remembered
Lily's promise made in the fields, that she would do everything for
him. He remembered her kisses; the touch of her fingers; the low
silvery laughing voice; the feel of her dress as she would press
close to him. After that he reflected whether it would not be well
that he too should die, so that Alexandrina might be comfortable. She
and her mother might be very comfortable together, with plenty of
money, at Baden-Baden!

The squire at Allington, and Mrs. Dale, and Lady Julia De Guest, had
been, and still were, uneasy in their minds because no punishment had
fallen upon Crosbie,--no vengeance had overtaken him in consequence
of his great sin. How little did they know about it! Could he have
been prosecuted and put into prison, with hard labour, for twelve
months, the punishment would not have been heavier. He would, in that
case, at any rate, have been saved from Lady Alexandrina.

"George and his wife are coming up to town; couldn't we ask them to
come to us for a week or so?" said his wife to him, as soon as they
were in the fly together, going home.

"No," shouted Crosbie; "we will do no such thing." There was not
another word said on the subject,--nor on any other subject till they
got home. When they reached their house Alexandrina had a headache,
and went up to her room immediately. Crosbie threw himself into a
chair before the remains of a fire in the dining-room, and resolved
that he would cut the whole De Courcy family altogether. His wife, as
his wife, should obey him. She should obey him--or else leave him and
go her way by herself, leaving him to go his way. There was an income
of twelve hundred a year. Would it not be a fine thing for him if he
could keep six hundred for himself and return to his old manner of
life. All his old comforts of course he would not have,--nor the old
esteem and regard of men. But the luxury of a club dinner he might
enjoy. Unembarrassed evenings might be his,--with liberty to him to
pass them as he pleased. He knew many men who were separated from
their wives, and who seemed to be as happy as their neighbours.
And then he remembered how ugly Alexandrina had been this evening,
wearing a great tinsel coronet full of false stones, with a cold in
her head which had reddened her nose. There had, too, fallen upon
her in these her married days a certain fixed dreary dowdiness.
She certainly was very plain! So he said to himself, and then he
went to bed. I myself am inclined to think that his punishment was
sufficiently severe.

The next morning his wife still complained of headache, so that he
breakfasted alone. Since that positive refusal which he had given to
her proposition for inviting her brother, there had not been much
conversation between them. "My head is splitting, and Sarah shall
bring some tea and toast up to me, if you will not mind it."

He did not mind it in the least, and ate his breakfast by himself,
with more enjoyment than usually attended that meal.

It was clear to him that all the present satisfaction of his life
must come to him from his office work. There are men who find it
difficult to live without some source of daily comfort, and he was
such a man. He could hardly endure his life unless there were some
page in it on which he could look with gratified eyes. He had always
liked his work, and he now determined that he would like it better
than ever. But in order that he might do so it was necessary that
he should have much of his own way. According to the theory of his
office, it was incumbent on him as Secretary simply to take the
orders of the Commissioners, and see that they were executed; and to
such work as this his predecessor had strictly confined himself. But
he had already done more than this, and had conceived the ambition
of holding the Board almost under his thumb. He flattered himself
that he knew his own work and theirs better than they knew either,
and that by a little management he might be their master. It is not
impossible that such might have been the case had there been no
fracas at the Paddington station; but, as we all know, the dominant
cock of the farmyard must be ever dominant. When he shall once have
had his wings so smeared with mud as to give him even the appearance
of adversity, no other cock will ever respect him again. Mr. Optimist
and Mr. Butterwell knew very well that their secretary had been
cudgelled, and they could not submit themselves to a secretary who
had been so treated.

"Oh, by-the-by, Crosbie," said Butterwell, coming into his room,
soon after his arrival at his office on that day of his solitary
breakfast, "I want to say just a few words to you." And Butterwell
turned round and closed the door, the lock of which had not
previously been fastened. Crosbie, without much thinking, immediately
foretold himself the nature of the coming conversation.

"Do you know--" said Butterwell, beginning.

"Sit down, won't you?" said Crosbie, seating himself as he spoke. If
there was to be a contest, he would make the best fight he could.
He would show a better spirit here than he had done on the railway
platform. Butterwell did sit down, and felt as he did so, that the
very motion of sitting took away some of his power. He ought to
have sent for Crosbie into his own room. A man, when he wishes
to reprimand another, should always have the benefit of his own
atmosphere.

"I don't want to find any fault," Butterwell began.

"I hope you have not any cause," said Crosbie.

"No, no; I don't say that I have. But we think at the Board--"

"Stop, stop, Butterwell. If anything unpleasant is coming, it had
better come from the Board. I should take it in better spirit; I
should, indeed."

"What takes place at the Board must be official."

"I shall not mind that in the least. I should rather like it than
otherwise."

"It simply amounts to this,--that we think you are taking a little
too much on yourself. No doubt, it's a fault on the right side, and
arises from your wishing to have the work well done."

"And if I don't do it, who will?" asked Crosbie.

"The Board is very well able to get through all that appertains to
it. Come, Crosbie, you and I have known each other a great many
years, and it would be a pity that we should have any words. I have
come to you in this way because it would be disagreeable to you to
have any question raised officially. Optimist isn't given to being
very angry, but he was downright angry yesterday. You had better take
what I say in good part, and go along a little quieter."

But Crosbie was not in a humour to take anything quietly. He was sore
all over, and prone to hit out at everybody that he met. "I have done
my duty to the best of my ability, Mr. Butterwell," he said, "and I
believe I have done it well. I believe I know my duty here as well
as any one can teach me. If I have done more than my share of work,
it is because other people have done less than theirs." As he spoke,
there was a black cloud upon his brow, and the Commissioner could
perceive that the Secretary was very wrathful.

"Oh! very well," said Butterwell, rising from his chair. "I can only,
under such circumstances, speak to the Chairman, and he will tell you
what he thinks at the Board. I think you're foolish; I do, indeed. As
for myself, I have only meant to act kindly by you." After that, Mr.
Butterwell took himself off.

On the same afternoon, Crosbie was summoned into the Board-room in
the usual way, between two and three. This was a daily occurrence,
as he always sat for about an hour with two out of the three
Commissioners, after they had fortified themselves with a biscuit
and a glass of sherry. On the present occasion, the usual amount of
business was transacted, but it was done in a manner which made
Crosbie feel that they did not all stand together on their usual
footing. The three Commissioners were all there. The Chairman gave
his directions in a solemn, pompous voice, which was by no means
usual to him when he was in good humour. The Major said little
or nothing; but there was a gleam of satisfied sarcasm in his
eye. Things were going wrong at the Board, and he was pleased. Mr.
Butterwell was exceedingly civil in his demeanour, and rather more
than ordinarily brisk. As soon as the regular work of the day was
over, Mr. Optimist shuffled about on his chair, rising from his seat,
and then sitting down again. He looked through a lot of papers close
to his hand, peering at them over his spectacles. Then he selected
one, took off his spectacles, leaned back in his chair, and began his
little speech.

"Mr. Crosbie," he said, "we are all very much gratified,--very much
gratified, indeed,--by your zeal and energy in the service."

"Thank you, sir," said Crosbie; "I am fond of the service."

"Exactly, exactly; we all feel that. But we think that you,--if I
were to say take too much upon yourself, I should say, perhaps, more
than we mean."

"Don't say more than you mean, Mr. Optimist." Crosbie's eyes, as he
spoke, gleamed slightly with his momentary triumph; as did also those
of Major Fiasco.

"No, no, no," said Mr. Optimist; "I would say rather less than more
to so very good a public servant as yourself. But you, doubtless,
understand me?"

"I don't think I do quite, sir. If I have not taken too much on me,
what is it that I have done that I ought not to have done?"

"You have given directions in many cases for which you ought first to
have received authority. Here is an instance," and the selected paper
was at once brought out.

It was a matter in which the Secretary had been manifestly wrong
according to written law, and he could not defend it on its own
merits.

"If you wish me," said he, "to confine myself exactly to the positive
instructions of the office, I will do so; but I think you will find
it inconvenient."

"It will be far the best," said Mr. Optimist.

"Very well," said Mr. Crosbie, "it shall be done." And he at once
determined to make himself as unpleasant to the three gentlemen in
the room as he might find it within his power to do. He could make
himself very unpleasant, but the unpleasantness would be as much to
him as to them.

Nothing would now go right with him. He could look in no direction
for satisfaction. He sauntered into Sebright's, as he went home, but
he could not find words to speak to any one about the little matters
of the day. He went home, and his wife, though she was up, complained
still of her headache.

"I haven't been out of the house all day," she said, "and that has
made it worse."

"I don't know how you are to get out if you won't walk," he answered.

Then there was no more said between them till they sat down to their
meal.

Had the squire at Allington known all, he might, I think, have been
satisfied with the punishment which Crosbie had encountered.




CHAPTER XLIX.

PREPARATIONS FOR GOING.


[ILLUSTRATION: (untitled)]

"Mamma, read that letter."

It was Mrs. Dale's eldest daughter who spoke to her, and they were
alone together in the parlour at the Small House. Mrs. Dale took the
letter and read it very carefully. She then put it back into its
envelope and returned it to Bell.

"It is, at any rate, a good letter, and, as I believe, tells the
truth."

"I think it tells a little more than the truth, mamma. As you say,
it is a well-written letter. He always writes well when he is in
earnest. But yet--"

"Yet what, my dear?"

"There is more head than heart in it."

"If so, he will suffer the less; that is, if you are quite resolved
in the matter."

"I am quite resolved, and I do not think he will suffer much. He
would not, I suppose, have taken the trouble to write like that, if
he did not wish this thing."

"I am quite sure that he does wish it, most earnestly; and that he
will be greatly disappointed."

"As he would be if any other scheme did not turn out to his
satisfaction; that is all."

The letter, of course, was from Bell's cousin Bernard, and containing
the strongest plea he was able to make in favour of his suit for her
hand. Bernard Dale was better able to press such a plea by letter
than by spoken words. He was a man capable of doing anything well in
the doing of which a little time for consideration might be given to
him; but he had not in him that power of passion which will force
a man to eloquence in asking for that which he desires to obtain.
His letter on this occasion was long, and well argued. If there was
little in it of passionate love, there was much of pleasant flattery.
He told Bell how advantageous to both their families their marriage
would be; he declared to her that his own feeling in the matter had
been rendered stronger by absence; he alluded without boasting to his
past career of life as her best guarantee for his future conduct; he
explained to her that if this marriage could be arranged there need
then, at any rate, be no further question as to his aunt removing
with Lily from the Small House; and then he told her that his
affection for herself was the absorbing passion of his existence.
Had the letter been written with the view of obtaining from a third
person a favourable verdict as to his suit, it would have been a very
good letter indeed; but there was not a word in it that could stir
the heart of such a girl as Bell Dale.

"Answer him kindly," Mrs. Dale said.

"As kindly as I know how," said Bell. "I wish you would write the
letter, mamma."

"I fear that would not do. What I should say would only tempt him to
try again."

Mrs. Dale knew very well,--had known for some months past,--that
Bernard's suit was hopeless. She felt certain, although the matter
had not been discussed between them, that whenever Dr. Crofts might
choose to come again and ask for her daughter's hand he would not be
refused. Of the two men she probably liked Dr. Crofts the best; but
she liked them both, and she could not but remember that the one,
in a worldly point of view, would be a very poor match, whereas the
other would, in all respects, be excellent. She would not, on any
account, say a word to influence her daughter, and knew, moreover,
that no word which she could say would influence her; but she could
not divest herself of some regret that it should be so.

"I know what you would wish, mamma," said Bell.

"I have but one wish, dearest, and that is for your happiness. May
God preserve you from any such fate as Lily's. When I tell you to
write kindly to your cousin, I simply mean that I think him to have
deserved a kind reply by his honesty."

"It shall be as kind as I can make it, mamma; but you know what the
lady says in the play,--how hard it is to take the sting from that
word 'no.'" Then Bell walked out alone for a while, and on her return
got her desk and wrote her letter. It was very firm and decisive.
As for that wit which should pluck the sting "from such a sharp and
waspish word as 'no,'" I fear she had it not. "It will be better
to make him understand that I, also, am in earnest," she said to
herself; and in this frame of mind she wrote her letter. "Pray do
not allow yourself to think that what I have said is unfriendly,"
she added, in a postscript. "I know how good you are, and I know the
great value of what I refuse; but in this matter it must be my duty
to tell you the simple truth."

It had been decided between the squire and Mrs. Dale that the removal
from the Small House to Guestwick was not to take place till the
first of May. When he had been made to understand that Dr. Crofts had
thought it injudicious that Lily should be taken out of their present
house in March, he had used all the eloquence of which he was master
to induce Mrs. Dale to consent to abandon her project. He had told
her that he had always considered that house as belonging, of right,
to some other of the family than himself; that it had always been so
inhabited, and that no squire of Allington had for years past taken
rent for it. "There is no favour conferred,--none at all," he had
said; but speaking nevertheless in his usual sharp, ungenial tone.

"There is a favour, a great favour, and great generosity," Mrs. Dale
had replied. "And I have never been too proud to accept it; but when
I tell you that we think we shall be happier at Guestwick, you will
not refuse to let us go. Lily has had a great blow in that house,
and Bell feels that she is running counter to your wishes on her
behalf,--wishes that are so very kind!"

"No more need be said about that. All that may come right yet, if you
will remain where you are."

But Mrs. Dale knew that "all that" could never come right, and
persisted. Indeed, she would hardly have dared to tell her girls
that she had yielded to the squire's entreaties. It was just then, at
that very time, that the squire was, as it were, in treaty with the
earl about Lily's fortune; and he did feel it hard that he should be
opposed in such a way by his own relatives at the moment when he was
behaving towards them with so much generosity. But in his arguments
about the house he said nothing of Lily, or her future prospects.

They were to move on the first of May, and one week of April was
already past. The squire had said nothing further on the matter after
the interview with Mrs. Dale to which allusion has just been made. He
was vexed and sore at the separation, thinking that he was ill-used
by the feeling which was displayed by this refusal. He had done his
duty by them, as he thought; indeed more than his duty, and now they
told him that they were leaving him because they could no longer bear
the weight of an obligation conferred by his hands. But in truth he
did not understand them; nor did they understand him. He had been
hard in his manner, and had occasionally domineered, not feeling that
his position, though it gave him all the privileges of a near and a
dear friend, did not give him the authority of a father or a husband.
In that matter of Bernard's proposed marriage he had spoken as though
Bell should have considered his wishes before she refused her cousin.
He had taken upon himself to scold Mrs. Dale, and had thereby given
offence to the girls, which they at the time had found it utterly
impossible to forgive.

But they were hardly better satisfied in the matter than was he; and
now that the time had come, though they could not bring themselves to
go back from their demand, almost felt that they were treating the
squire with cruelty. When their decision had been made,--while it
had been making,--he had been stern and hard to them. Since that he
had been softened by Lily's misfortune, and softened also by the
anticipated loneliness which would come upon him when they should be
gone from his side. It was hard upon him that they should so treat
him when he was doing his best for them all! And they also felt this,
though they did not know the extent to which he was anxious to go in
serving them. When they had sat round the fire planning the scheme of
their removal, their hearts had been hardened against him, and they
had resolved to assert their independence. But now, when the time
for action had come, they felt that their grievances against him had
already been in a great measure assuaged. This tinged all that they
did with a certain sadness; but still they continued their work.

Who does not know how terrible are those preparations for
house-moving;--how infinite in number are the articles which must be
packed, how inexpressibly uncomfortable is the period of packing, and
how poor and tawdry is the aspect of one's belongings while they are
thus in a state of dislocation? Now-a-days people who understand the
world, and have money commensurate with their understanding, have
learned the way of shunning all these disasters, and of leaving the
work to the hands of persons paid for doing it. The crockery is left
in the cupboards, the books on the shelves, the wine in the bins, the
curtains on their poles, and the family that is understanding goes
for a fortnight to Brighton. At the end of that time the crockery is
comfortably settled in other cupboards, the books on other shelves,
the wine in other bins, the curtains are hung on other poles, and
all is arranged. But Mrs. Dale and her daughters understood nothing
of such a method of moving as this. The assistance of the village
carpenter in filling certain cases that he had made was all that
they knew how to obtain beyond that of their own two servants. Every
article had to pass through the hands of some one of the family;
and as they felt almost overwhelmed by the extent of the work to be
done, they began it much sooner than was necessary, so that it became
evident as they advanced in their work, that they would have to pass
a dreadfully dull, stupid, uncomfortable week at last, among their
boxes and cases, in all the confusion of dismantled furniture.

At first an edict had gone forth that Lily was to do nothing. She was
an invalid, and was to be petted and kept quiet. But this edict soon
fell to the ground, and Lily worked harder than either her mother or
her sister. In truth she was hardly an invalid any longer, and would
not submit to an invalid's treatment. She felt herself that for the
present constant occupation could alone save her from the misery of
looking back,--and she had conceived an idea that the harder that
occupation was, the better it would be for her. While pulling down
the books, and folding the linen, and turning out from their old
hiding-places the small long-forgotten properties of the household,
she would be as gay as ever she had been in old times. She would talk
over her work, standing with flushed cheek and laughing eyes among
the dusty ruins around her, till for a moment her mother would think
that all was well within her. But then at other moments, when the
reaction came, it would seem as though nothing were well. She could
not sit quietly over the fire, with quiet rational work in her
hands, and chat in a rational quiet way. Not as yet could she do
so. Nevertheless it was well with her,--within her own bosom. She
had declared to herself that she would conquer her misery,--as she
had also declared to herself during her illness that her misfortune
should not kill her,--and she was in the way to conquer it. She told
herself that the world was not over for her because her sweet hopes
had been frustrated. The wound had been deep and very sore, but the
flesh of the patient had been sound and healthy, and her blood pure.
A physician having knowledge in such cases would have declared, after
long watching of her symptoms, that a cure was probable. Her mother
was the physician who watched her with the closest eyes; and she,
though she was sometimes driven to doubt, did hope, with stronger
hope from day to day, that her child might live to remember the story
of her love without abiding agony.

That nobody should talk to her about it,--that had been the one
stipulation which she had seemed to make, not sending forth a request
to that effect among her friends in so many words, but showing by
certain signs that such was her stipulation. A word to that effect
she had spoken to her uncle,--as may be remembered, which word had
been regarded with the closest obedience. She had gone out into
her little world very soon after the news of Crosbie's falsehood
had reached her,--first to church and then among the people of the
village, resolving to carry herself as though no crushing weight had
fallen upon her. The village people had understood it all, listening
to her and answering her without the proffer of any outspoken parley.

"Lord bless 'ee," said Mrs. Crump, the postmistress,--and Mrs. Crump
was supposed to have the sourest temper in Allington,--"whenever I
look at thee, Miss Lily, I thinks that surely thee is the
beautifulest young 'ooman in all these parts."

"And you are the crossest old woman," said Lily, laughing, and giving
her hand to the postmistress.

"So I be," said Mrs. Crump. "So I be." Then Lily sat down in the
cottage and asked after her ailments. With Mrs. Hearn it was the
same. Mrs. Hearn, after that first meeting which has been already
mentioned, petted and caressed her, but spoke no further word of her
misfortune. When Lily called a second time upon Mrs. Boyce, which
she did boldly by herself, that lady did begin one other word of
commiseration. "My dearest Lily, we have all been made so unhappy--"
So far Mrs. Boyce got, sitting close to Lily and striving to look
into her face; but Lily, with a slightly heightened colour, turned
sharp round upon one of the Boyce girls, tearing Mrs. Boyce's
commiseration into the smallest shreds. "Minnie," she said, speaking
quite loud, almost with girlish ecstasy, "what do you think Tartar
did yesterday? I never laughed so much in my life." Then she told
a ludicrous story about a very ugly terrier which belonged to the
squire. After that even Mrs. Boyce made no further attempt. Mrs. Dale
and Bell both understood that such was to be the rule--the rule even
to them. Lily would speak to them occasionally on the matter,--to
one of them at a time, beginning with some almost single word of
melancholy resignation, and then would go on till she opened her very
bosom before them; but no such conversation was ever begun by them.
But now, in these busy days of the packing, that topic seemed to have
been banished altogether.

"Mamma," she said, standing on the top rung of a house-ladder, from
which position she was handing down glass out of a cupboard, "are you
sure that these things are ours? I think some of them belong to the
house."

"I'm sure about that bowl at any rate, because it was my mother's
before I was married."

"Oh, dear, what should I do if I were to break it? Whenever I handle
anything very precious I always feel inclined to throw it down and
smash it. Oh! it was as nearly gone as possible, mamma; but that was
your fault."

"If you don't take care you'll be nearly gone yourself. Do take hold
of something."

"Oh, Bell, here's the inkstand for which you've been moaning for
three years."


[ILLUSTRATION: "Bell, here's the inkstand."]


"I haven't been moaning for three years; but who could have put it up
there?"

"Catch it," said Lily; and she threw the bottle down on to a pile of
carpets.

At this moment a step was heard in the hall, and the squire entered
through the open door of the room. "So you're all at work," said he.

"Yes, we're at work," said Mrs. Dale, almost with a tone of shame.
"If it is to be done it is as well that it should be got over."

"It makes me wretched enough," said the squire. "But I didn't come
to talk about that. I've brought you a note from Lady Julia De Guest,
and I've had one from the earl. They want us all to go there and stay
the week after Easter."

Mrs. Dale and the girls, when this very sudden proposition was made
to them, all remained fixed in their places, and, for a moment, were
speechless. Go and stay a week at Guestwick Manor! The whole family!
Hitherto the intercourse between the Manor and the Small House had
been confined to morning calls, very far between. Mrs. Dale had
never dined there, and had latterly even deputed the calling to her
daughters. Once Bell had dined there with her uncle, the squire, and
once Lily had gone over with her uncle Orlando. Even this had been
long ago, before they were quite brought out, and they had regarded
the occasion with the solemn awe of children. Now, at this time of
their flitting into some small mean dwelling at Guestwick, they had
previously settled among themselves that that affair of calling at
the Manor might be allowed to drop. Mrs. Eames never called, and they
were descending to the level of Mrs. Eames. "Perhaps we shall get
game sent to us, and that will be better," Lily had said. And now, at
this very moment of their descent in life, they were all asked to go
and stay a week at the Manor! Stay a week with Lady Julia! Had the
Queen sent the Lord Chamberlain down to bid them all go to Windsor
Castle it could hardly have startled them more at the first blow.
Bell had been seated on the folded carpet when her uncle had entered,
and now had again sat herself in the same place. Lily was still
standing at the top of the ladder, and Mrs. Dale was at the foot
with one hand on Lily's dress. The squire had told his story very
abruptly, but he was a man who, having a story to tell, knew nothing
better than to tell it out abruptly, letting out everything at the
first moment.

"Wants us all!" said Mrs. Dale. "How many does the all mean?" Then
she opened Lady Julia's note and read it, not moving from her
position at the foot of the ladder.

"Do let me see, mamma," said Lily; and then the note was handed up
to her. Had Mrs. Dale well considered the matter she might probably
have kept the note to herself for a while, but the whole thing was so
sudden that she had not considered the matter well.


   MY DEAR MRS. DALE [the letter ran],

   I send this inside a note from my brother to Mr. Dale. We
   particularly want you and your two girls to come to us for
   a week from the seventeenth of this month. Considering our
   near connection we ought to have seen more of each other
   than we have done for years past, and of course it has
   been our fault. But it is never too late to amend one's
   ways; and I hope you will receive my confession in the
   true spirit of affection in which it is intended, and that
   you will show your goodness by coming to us. I will do all
   I can to make the house pleasant to your girls, for both
   of whom I have much real regard.

   I should tell you that John Eames will be here for the
   same week. My brother is very fond of him, and thinks him
   the best young man of the day. He is one of my heroes,
   too, I must confess.

   Very sincerely yours,

   JULIA DE GUEST.


Lily, standing on the ladder, read the letter very attentively.
The squire meanwhile stood below speaking a word or two to his
sister-in-law and niece. No one could see Lily's face, as it was
turned away towards the window, and it was still averted when she
spoke. "It is out of the question that we should go, mamma;--that is,
all of us."

"Why out of the question?" said the squire.

"A whole family!" said Mrs. Dale.

"That is just what they want," said the squire.

"I should like of all things to be left alone for a week," said Lily,
"if mamma and Bell would go."

"That wouldn't do at all," said the squire. "Lady Julia specially
wants you to be one of the party."

The thing had been badly managed altogether. The reference in Lady
Julia's note to John Eames had explained to Lily the whole scheme at
once, and had so opened her eyes that all the combined influence of
the Dale and De Guest families could not have dragged her over to the
Manor.

"Why not do?" said Lily. "It would be out of the question a whole
family going in that way, but it would be very nice for Bell."

"No, it would not," said Bell.

"Don't be ungenerous about it, my dear," said the squire, turning to
Bell; "Lady Julia means to be kind. But, my darling," and the squire
turned again towards Lily, addressing her, as was his wont in these
days, with an affection that was almost vexatious to her; "but, my
darling, why should you not go? A change of scene like that will do
you all the good in the world, just when you are getting well. Mary,
tell the girls that they ought to go."

Mrs. Dale stood silent, again reading the note, and Lily came down
from the ladder. When she reached the floor she went directly up to
her uncle, and taking his hand turned him round with herself towards
one of the windows, so that they stood with their backs to the room.
"Uncle," she said, "do not be angry with me. I can't go;" and then
she put up her face to kiss him.

He stooped and kissed her and still held her hand. He looked into her
face and read it all. He knew well, now, why she could not go; or,
rather, why she herself thought that she could not go. "Cannot you,
my darling?" he said.

"No, uncle. It is very kind,--very kind; but I cannot go. I am not
fit to go anywhere."

"But you should get over that feeling. You should make a struggle."

"I am struggling, and I shall succeed; but I cannot do it all at
once. At any rate I could not go there. You must give my love to Lady
Julia, and not let her think me cross. Perhaps Bell will go."

What would be the good of Bell's going--or the good of his putting
himself out of the way, by a visit which would of itself be so
tiresome to him, if the one object of the visit could not be carried
out? The earl and his sister had planned the invitation with the
express intention of bringing Lily and Eames together. It seemed
that Lily was firm in her determination to resist this intention;
and, if so, it would be better that the whole thing should fall to
the ground. He was very vexed, and yet he was not angry with her.
Everybody lately had opposed him in everything. All his intended
family arrangements had gone wrong. But yet he was seldom angry
respecting them. He was so accustomed to be thwarted that he hardly
expected success. In this matter of providing Lily with a second
lover, he had not come forward of his own accord. He had been
appealed to by his neighbour the earl, and had certainly answered the
appeal with much generosity. He had been induced to make the attempt
with eagerness, and a true desire for its accomplishment; but in
this, as in all his own schemes, he was met at once by opposition and
failure.

"I will leave you to talk it over among yourselves," he said. "But,
Mary, you had better see me before you send your answer. If you will
come up by-and-by, Ralph shall take the two notes over together in
the afternoon." So saying, he left the Small House, and went back to
his own solitary home.

"Lily, dear," said Mrs. Dale, as soon as the front door had been
closed, "this is meant for kindness to you,--for most affectionate
kindness."

"I know it, mamma; and you must go to Lady Julia, and must tell her
that I know it. You must give her my love. And, indeed, I do love her
now. But--"

"You won't go, Lily?" said Mrs. Dale, beseechingly.

"No, mamma; certainly I will not go." Then she escaped out of the
room by herself, and for the next hour neither of them dared to go to
her.




CHAPTER L.

MRS. DALE IS THANKFUL FOR A GOOD THING.


On that day they dined early at the Small House, as they had been in
the habit of doing since the packing had commenced. And after dinner
Mrs. Dale went through the gardens, up to the other house, with a
written note in her hand. In that note she had told Lady Julia, with
many protestations of gratitude, that Lily was unable to go out so
soon after her illness, and that she herself was obliged to stay with
Lily. She explained also, that the business of moving was in hand,
and that, therefore, she could not herself accept the invitation. But
her other daughter, she said, would be very happy to accompany her
uncle to Guestwick Manor. Then, without closing her letter, she took
it up to the squire in order that it might be decided whether it
would or would not suit his views. It might well be that he would not
care to go to Lord De Guest's with Bell alone.

"Leave it with me," he said; "that is, if you do not object."

"Oh dear, no!"

"I'll tell you the plain truth at once, Mary. I shall go over myself
with it, and see the earl. Then I will decline it or not, according
to what passes between me and him. I wish Lily would have gone."

"Ah! she could not."

"I wish she could. I wish she could. I wish she could." As he
repeated the words over and over again, there was an eagerness in his
voice that filled Mrs. Dale's heart with tenderness towards him.

"The truth is," said Mrs. Dale, "she could not go there to meet John
Eames."

"Oh, I know," said the squire: "I understand it. But that is just
what we want her to do. Why should she not spend a week in the same
house with an honest young man whom we all like."

"There are reasons why she would not wish it."

"Ah, exactly; the very reasons which should make us induce her to go
there if we can. Perhaps I had better tell you all. Lord De Guest has
taken him by the hand, and wishes him to marry. He has promised to
settle on him an income which will make him comfortable for life."

"That is very generous; and I am delighted to hear it,--for John's
sake."

"And they have promoted him at his office."

"Ah! then he will do well."

"He will do very well. He is private secretary now to their head man.
And, Mary, so that she, Lily, should not be empty-handed if this
marriage can be arranged, I have undertaken to settle a hundred a
year on her,--on her and her children, if she will accept him. Now
you know it all. I did not mean to tell you; but it is as well that
you should have the means of judging. That other man was a villain.
This man is honest. Would it not be well that she should learn to
like him? She always did like him, I thought, before that other
fellow came down here among us."

"She has always liked him--as a friend."

"She will never get a better lover."

Mrs. Dale sat silent, thinking over it all. Every word that the
squire said was true. It would be a healing of wounds most desirable
and salutary; an arrangement advantageous to them all; a destiny for
Lily most devoutly to be desired,--if only it were possible. Mrs.
Dale firmly believed that if her daughter could be made to accept
John Eames as her second lover in a year or two all would be well.
Crosbie would then be forgotten or thought of without regret, and
Lily would become the mistress of a happy home. But there are
positions which cannot be reached, though there be no physical or
material objection in the way. It is the view which the mind takes of
a thing which creates the sorrow that arises from it. If the heart
were always malleable and the feelings could be controlled, who would
permit himself to be tormented by any of the reverses which affection
meets? Death would create no sorrow; ingratitude would lose its
sting; and the betrayal of love would do no injury beyond that which
it might entail upon worldly circumstances. But the heart is not
malleable; nor will the feelings admit of such control.

"It is not possible for her," said Mrs. Dale. "I fear it is not
possible. It is too soon."

"Six months," pleaded the squire.

"It will take years,--not months," said Mrs. Dale.

"And she will lose all her youth."

"Yes; he has done all that by his treachery. But it is done, and we
cannot now go back. She loves him yet as dearly as she ever loved
him."

Then the squire muttered certain words below his
breath,--ejaculations against Crosbie, which were hardly voluntary;
but even as involuntary ejaculations were very improper. Mrs. Dale
heard them, and was not offended either by their impropriety or their
warmth. "But you can understand," she said, "that she cannot bring
herself to go there." The squire struck the table with his fist,
and repeated his ejaculations. If he could only have known how very
disagreeable Lady Alexandrina was making herself, his spirit might,
perhaps, have been less vehemently disturbed. If, also, he could have
perceived and understood the light in which an alliance with the De
Courcy family was now regarded by Crosbie, I think that he would have
received some consolation from that consideration. Those who offend
us are generally punished for the offence they give; but we so
frequently miss the satisfaction of knowing that we are avenged! It
is arranged, apparently, that the injurer shall be punished, but that
the person injured shall not gratify his desire for vengeance.

"And will you go to Guestwick yourself?" asked Mrs. Dale.

"I will take the note," said the squire, "and will let you know
to-morrow. The earl has behaved so kindly that every possible
consideration is due to him. I had better tell him the whole truth,
and go or stay, as he may wish. I don't see the good of going. What
am I to do at Guestwick Manor? I did think that if we had all been
there it might have cured some difficulties."

Mrs. Dale got up to leave him, but she could not go without saying
some word of gratitude for all that he had attempted to do for
them. She well knew what he meant by the curing of difficulties.
He had intended to signify that had they lived together for a week
at Guestwick the idea of flitting from Allington might possibly
have been abandoned. It seemed now to Mrs. Dale as though her
brother-in-law were heaping coals of fire on her head in return
for that intention. She felt half-ashamed of what she was doing,
almost acknowledging to herself that she should have borne with his
sternness in return for the benefits he had done to her daughters.
Had she not feared their reproaches she would, even now, have given
way.

"I do not know what I ought to say to you for your kindness."

"Say nothing,--either for my kindness or unkindness; but stay where
you are, and let us live like Christians together, striving to
think good and not evil." These were kind, loving words, showing in
themselves a spirit of love and forbearance; but they were spoken in
a harsh, unsympathizing voice, and the speaker, as he uttered them,
looked gloomily at the fire. In truth the squire, as he spoke, was
half-ashamed of the warmth of what he said.

"At any rate I will not think evil," Mrs. Dale answered, giving him
her hand. After that she left him, and returned home. It was too late
for her to abandon her project of moving and remain at the Small
House; but as she went across the garden she almost confessed to
herself that she repented of what she was doing.

In these days of the cold early spring, the way from the lawn into
the house, through the drawing-room window, was not as yet open, and
it was necessary to go round by the kitchen-garden on to the road,
and thence in by the front door; or else to pass through the back
door, and into the house by the kitchen. This latter mode of entrance
Mrs. Dale now adopted; and as she made her way into the hall Lily
came upon her, with very silent steps, out from the parlour, and
arrested her progress. There was a smile upon Lily's face as she
lifted up her finger as if in caution, and no one looking at her
would have supposed that she was herself in trouble. "Mamma," she
said, pointing to the drawing-room door, and speaking almost in a
whisper, "you must not go in there; come into the parlour."

"Who's there? Where's Bell?" and Mrs. Dale went into the parlour as
she was bidden. "But who is there?" she repeated.

"He's there!"

"Who is he?"

"Oh, mamma, don't be a goose! Dr. Crofts is there, of course. He's
been nearly an hour. I wonder how he is managing, for there is
nothing on earth to sit upon but the old lump of a carpet. The room
is strewed about with crockery, and Bell is such a figure! She has
got on your old checked apron, and when he came in she was rolling up
the fire-irons in brown paper. I don't suppose she was ever in such a
mess before. There's one thing certain,--he can't kiss her hand."

"It's you are the goose, Lily."

"But he's in there certainly, unless he has gone out through the
window, or up the chimney."

"What made you leave them?"

"He met me here, in the passage, and spoke to me ever so seriously.
'Come in,' I said, 'and see Bell packing the pokers and tongs.' 'I
will go in,' he said, 'but don't come with me.' He was ever so
serious, and I'm sure he had been thinking of it all the way along."

"And why should he not be serious?"

"Oh, no, of course he ought to be serious; but are you not glad,
mamma? I am so glad. We shall live alone together, you and I; but she
will be so close to us! My belief is that he'll stay there for ever
unless somebody does something. I have been so tired of waiting and
looking out for you. Perhaps he's helping her to pack the things.
Don't you think we might go in; or would it be ill-natured?"

"Lily, don't be in too great a hurry to say anything. You may be
mistaken, you know; and there's many a slip between the cup and the
lip."

"Yes, mamma, there is," said Lily, putting her hand inside her
mother's arm, "that's true enough."

"Oh, my darling, forgive me," said the mother, suddenly remembering
that the use of the old proverb at the present moment had been almost
cruel.

"Do not mind it," said Lily, "it does not hurt me, it does me good;
that is to say, when there is nobody by except yourself. But, with
God's help, there shall be no slip here, and she shall be happy. It
is all the difference between one thing done in a hurry, and another
done with much thinking. But they'll remain there for ever if we
don't go in. Come, mamma, you open the door."

Then Mrs. Dale did open the door, giving some little premonitory
notice with the handle, so that the couple inside might be warned of
approaching footsteps. Crofts had not escaped, either through the
window or up the chimney, but was seated in the middle of the room
on an empty box, just opposite to Bell, who was seated upon the
lump of carpeting. Bell still wore the checked apron as described
by her sister. What might have been the state of her hands I will
not pretend to say; but I do not believe that her lover had found
anything amiss with them. "How do you do, doctor?" said Mrs. Dale,
striving to use her accustomed voice, and to look as though there
were nothing of special importance in his visit. "I have just come
down from the Great House."

"Mamma," said Bell, jumping up, "you must not call him doctor any
more."

"Must I not? Has any one undoctored him?"

"Oh, mamma, you understand," said Bell.

"I understand," said Lily, going up to the doctor, and giving him her
cheek to kiss, "he is to be my brother, and I mean to claim him as
such from this moment. I expect him to do everything for us, and not
to call a moment of his time his own."

"Mrs. Dale," said the doctor, "Bell has consented that it shall be
so, if you will consent."

"There is but little doubt of that," said Mrs. Dale.

"We shall not be rich--" began the doctor.

"I hate to be rich," said Bell. "I hate even to talk about it. I
don't think it quite manly even to think about it; and I'm sure it
isn't womanly."

"Bell was always a fanatic in praise of poverty," said Mrs. Dale.

"No; I'm no fanatic. I'm very fond of money earned. I would like to
earn some myself if I knew how."

"Let her go out and visit the lady patients," said Lily. "They do in
America."

Then they all went into the parlour and sat round the fire talking as
though they were already one family. The proceeding, considering the
nature of it,--that a young lady, acknowledged to be of great beauty
and known to be of good birth, had on the occasion been asked and
given in marriage,--was carried on after a somewhat humdrum fashion,
and in a manner that must be called commonplace. How different had
it been when Crosbie had made his offer! Lily for the time had been
raised to a pinnacle,--a pinnacle which might be dangerous, but which
was, at any rate, lofty. With what a pretty speech had Crosbie been
greeted! How it had been felt by all concerned that the fortunes
of the Small House were in the ascendant,--felt, indeed, with some
trepidation, but still with much inward triumph. How great had been
the occasion, forcing Lily almost to lose herself in wonderment
at what had occurred! There was no great occasion now, and no
wonderment. No one, unless it was Crofts, felt very triumphant. But
they were all very happy, and were sure that there was safety in
their happiness. It was but the other day that one of them had been
thrown rudely to the ground through the treachery of a lover, but yet
none of them feared treachery from this lover. Bell was as sure of
her lot in life as though she were already being taken home to her
modest house in Guestwick. Mrs. Dale already looked upon the man as
her son, and the party of four as they sat round the fire grouped
themselves as though they already formed one family.

But Bell was not seated next to her lover. Lily, when she had once
accepted Crosbie, seemed to think that she could never be too near
to him. She had been in no wise ashamed of her love, and had shown
it constantly by some little caressing motion of her hand, leaning
on his arm, looking into his face, as though she were continually
desirous of some palpable assurance of his presence. It was not so at
all with Bell. She was happy in loving and in being loved, but she
required no overt testimonies of affection. I do not think it would
have made her unhappy if some sudden need had required that Crofts
should go to India and back before they were married. The thing was
settled, and that was enough for her. But, on the other hand, when
he spoke of the expediency of an immediate marriage, she raised no
difficulty. As her mother was about to go into a new residence, it
might be as well that that residence should be fitted to the wants of
two persons instead of three. So they talked about chairs and tables,
carpets and kitchens, in a most unromantic, homely, useful manner!
A considerable portion of the furniture in the house they were now
about to leave belonged to the squire,--or to the house rather,
as they were in the habit of saying. The older and more solid
things,--articles of household stuff that stand the wear of half a
century,--had been in the Small House when they came to it. There
was, therefore, a question of buying new furniture for a house in
Guestwick,--a question not devoid of importance to the possessor of
so moderate an income as that owned by Mrs. Dale. In the first month
or two they were to live in lodgings, and their goods were to be
stored in some friendly warehouse. Under such circumstances would
it not be well that Bell's marriage should be so arranged that the
lodging question might not be in any degree complicated by her
necessities? This was the last suggestion made by Dr. Crofts, induced
no doubt by the great encouragement he had received.

"That would be hardly possible," said Mrs. Dale. "It only wants three
weeks;--and with the house in such a condition!"

"James is joking," said Bell.

"I was not joking at all," said the doctor.

"Why not send for Mr. Boyce, and carry her off at once on a pillion
behind you?" said Lily. "It's just the sort of thing for primitive
people to do, like you and Bell. All the same, Bell, I do wish you
could have been married from this house."

"I don't think it will make much difference," said Bell.

"Only if you would have waited till summer we would have had such
a nice party on the lawn. It sounds so ugly, being married from
lodgings; doesn't it, mamma?"

"It doesn't sound at all ugly to me," said Bell.

"I shall always call you Dame Commonplace when you're married," said
Lily.

Then they had tea, and after tea Dr. Crofts got on his horse and rode
back to Guestwick.

"Now may I talk about him?" said Lily, as soon as the door was closed
behind his back.

"No; you may not."

"As if I hadn't known it all along! And wasn't it hard to bear that
you should have scolded me with such pertinacious austerity, and that
I wasn't to say a word in answer!"

"I don't remember the austerity," said Mrs. Dale.

"Nor yet Lily's silence," said Bell.

"But it's all settled now," said Lily, "and I'm downright happy. I
never felt more satisfaction,--never, Bell!"

"Nor did I," said her mother; "I may truly say that I thank God for
this good thing."




CHAPTER LI.

JOHN EAMES DOES THINGS WHICH HE OUGHT NOT TO HAVE DONE.


John Eames succeeded in making his bargain with Sir Raffle Buffle. He
accepted the private secretaryship on the plainly expressed condition
that he was to have leave of absence for a fortnight towards the end
of April. Having arranged this he took an affectionate leave of Mr.
Love, who was really much affected at parting with him, discussed
valedictory pots of porter in the big room, over which many wishes
were expressed that he might be enabled to compass the length and
breadth of old Huffle's feet, uttered a last cutting joke at Mr.
Kissing as he met that gentleman hurrying through the passages with
an enormous ledger in his hands, and then took his place in the
comfortable arm-chair which FitzHoward had been forced to relinquish.

"Don't tell any of the fellows," said Fitz, "but I'm going to cut
the concern altogether. My governor wouldn't let me stop here in any
other place than that of private secretary."

"Ah, your governor is a swell," said Eames.

"I don't know about that," said FitzHoward. "Of course he has a good
deal of family interest. My cousin is to come in for St. Bungay at
the next election, and then I can do better than remain here."

"That's a matter of course," said Eames. "If my cousin were Member
for St. Bungay, I'd never stand anything east of Whitehall."

"And I don't mean," said FitzHoward. "This room, you know, is all
very nice; but it is a bore coming into the City every day. And then
one doesn't like to be rung for like a servant. Not that I mean to
put you out of conceit with it."

"It will do very well for me," said Eames. "I never was very
particular." And so they parted, Eames assuming the beautiful
arm-chair and the peril of being asked to carry Sir Raffle's shoes,
while FitzHoward took the vacant desk in the big room till such time
as some member of his family should come into Parliament for the
borough of St. Bungay.

But Eames, though he drank the porter, and quizzed FitzHoward, and
gibed at Kissing, did not seat himself in his new arm-chair without
some serious thoughts. He was aware that his career in London had not
hitherto been one on which he could look back with self-respect. He
had lived with friends whom he did not esteem; he had been idle, and
sometimes worse than idle; and he had allowed himself to be hampered
by the pretended love of a woman for whom he had never felt any true
affection, and by whom he had been cozened out of various foolish
promises which even yet were hanging over his head. As he sat with
Sir Raffle's notes before him, he thought almost with horror of
the men and women in Burton Crescent. It was now about three years
since he had first known Cradell, and he shuddered as he remembered
how very poor a creature was he whom he had chosen for his bosom
friend. He could not make for himself those excuses which we can
make for him. He could not tell himself that he had been driven by
circumstances to choose a friend, before he had learned to know what
were the requisites for which he should look. He had lived on terms
of closest intimacy with this man for three years, and now his eyes
were opening themselves to the nature of his friend's character.
Cradell was in age three years his senior. "I won't drop him," he
said to himself; "but he is a poor creature." He thought, too, of the
Lupexes, of Miss Spruce, and of Mrs. Roper, and tried to imagine what
Lily Dale would do if she found herself among such people. It would
be impossible that she should ever so find herself. He might as well
ask her to drink at the bar of a gin-shop as to sit down in Mrs.
Roper's drawing-room. If destiny had in store for him such good
fortune as that of calling Lily his own, it was necessary that he
should altogether alter his mode of life.

In truth his hobbledehoyhood was dropping off from him, as its old
skin drops from a snake. Much of the feeling and something of the
knowledge of manhood was coming on him, and he was beginning to
recognize to himself that the future manner of his life must be to
him a matter of very serious concern. No such thought had come near
him when he first established himself in London. It seems to me that
in this respect the fathers and mothers of the present generation
understand but little of the inward nature of the young men for whom
they are so anxious. They give them credit for so much that it is
impossible they should have, and then deny them credit for so much
that they possess! They expect from them when boys the discretion
of men,--that discretion which comes from thinking; but will not
give them credit for any of that power of thought which alone
can ultimately produce good conduct. Young men are generally
thoughtful,--more thoughtful than their seniors; but the fruit of
their thought is not as yet there. And then so little is done for the
amusement of lads who are turned loose into London at nineteen or
twenty. Can it be that any mother really expects her son to sit alone
evening after evening in a dingy room drinking bad tea, and reading
good books? And yet it seems that mothers do so expect,--the very
mothers who talk about the thoughtlessness of youth! O ye mothers who
from year to year see your sons launched forth upon the perils of
the world, and who are so careful with your good advice, with under
flannel shirting, with books of devotion and tooth-powder, does it
never occur to you that provision should be made for amusement, for
dancing, for parties, for the excitement and comfort of women's
society? That excitement your sons will have, and if it be not
provided by you of one kind, will certainly be provided by themselves
of another kind. If I were a mother sending lads out into the world,
the matter most in my mind would be this,--to what houses full of
nicest girls could I get them admission, so that they might do their
flirting in good company.

Poor John Eames had been so placed that he had been driven to do his
flirting in very bad company, and he was now fully aware that it had
been so. It wanted but two days to his departure for Guestwick Manor,
and as he sat breathing a while after the manufacture of a large
batch of Sir Raffle's notes, he made up his mind that he would give
Mrs. Roper notice before he started, that on his return to London he
would be seen no more in Burton Crescent. He would break his bonds
altogether asunder, and if there should be any penalty for such
breaking he would pay it in what best manner he might be able. He
acknowledged to himself that he had been behaving badly to Amelia,
confessing, indeed, more sin in that respect than he had in truth
committed; but this, at any rate, was clear to him, that he must put
himself on a proper footing in that quarter before he could venture
to speak to Lily Dale.

As he came to a definite conclusion on this subject the little
handbell which always stood on Sir Raffle's table was sounded, and
Eames was called into the presence of the great man. "Ah," said Sir
Raffle, leaning back in his arm-chair, and stretching himself after
the great exertions which he had been making--"Ah, let me see! You
are going out of town the day after to-morrow."

"Yes, Sir Raffle, the day after to-morrow."

"Ah! it's a great annoyance,--a very great annoyance. But on such
occasions I never think of myself. I never have done so, and don't
suppose I ever shall. So you're going down to my old friend De
Guest?"

Eames was always angered when his new patron Sir Raffle talked of his
old friendship with the earl, and never gave the Commissioner any
encouragement. "I am going down to Guestwick," said he.

"Ah! yes; to Guestwick Manor? I don't remember that I was ever there.
I daresay I may have been, but one forgets those things."

"I never heard Lord De Guest speak of it."

"Oh, dear, no. Why should his memory be better than mine? Tell him,
will you, how very glad I shall be to renew our old intimacy. I
should think nothing of running down to him for a day or two in the
dull time of the year,--say in September or October. It's rather a
coincidence our both being interested about you,--isn't it?"

"I'll be sure to tell him."

"Mind you do. He's one of our most thoroughly independent noblemen,
and I respect him very highly. Let me see; didn't I ring my bell?
What was it I wanted? I think I rang my bell."

"You did ring your bell."

"Ah, yes; I know. I am going away, and I wanted my--would you tell
Rafferty to bring me--my boots?" Whereupon Johnny rang the bell--not
the little handbell, but the other bell. "And I shan't be here
to-morrow," continued Sir Raffle. "I'll thank you to send my
letters up to the square; and if they should send down from the
Treasury;--but the Chancellor would write, and in that case you'll
send up his letter at once by a special messenger, of course."

"Here's Rafferty," said Eames, determined that he would not even
sully his lips with speaking of Sir Raffle's boots.

"Oh, ah, yes; Rafferty, bring me my boots."

"Anything else to say?" asked Eames.

"No, nothing else. Of course you'll be careful to leave everything
straight behind you."

"Oh, yes; I'll leave it all straight." Then Eames withdrew, so that
he might not be present at the interview between Sir Raffle and his
boots. "He'll not do," said Sir Raffle to himself. "He'll never do.
He's not quick enough,--has no go in him. He's not man enough for the
place. I wonder why the earl has taken him by the hand in that way."

Soon after the little episode of the boots Eames left his office, and
walked home alone to Burton Crescent. He felt that he had gained a
victory in Sir Raffle's room, but the victory there had been easy.
Now he had another battle on his hands, in which, as he believed, the
achievement of victory would be much more difficult. Amelia Roper was
a person much more to be feared than the Chief Commissioner. He had
one strong arrow in his quiver on which he would depend, if there
should come to him the necessity of giving his enemy a death-wound.
During the last week she had been making powerful love to Cradell,
so as to justify the punishment of desertion from a former lover. He
would not throw Cradell in her teeth if he could help it; but it was
incumbent on him to gain a victory, and if the worst should come to
the worst, he must use such weapons as destiny and the chance of war
had given him.

He found Mrs. Roper in the dining-room as he entered, and immediately
began his work. "Mrs. Roper," he said, "I'm going out of town the day
after to-morrow."

"Oh, yes, Mr. Eames, we know that. You're going as a visitor to the
noble mansion of the Earl De Guest."

"I don't know about the mansion being very noble, but I'm going down
into the country for a fortnight. When I come back--"

"When you come back, Mr. Eames, I hope you'll find your room a deal
more comfortable. I know it isn't quite what it should be for a
gentleman like you, and I've been thinking for some time past--"

"But, Mrs. Roper, I don't mean to come back here any more. It's just
that that I want to say to you."

"Not come back to the crescent!"

"No, Mrs. Roper. A fellow must move sometimes, you know; and I'm sure
I've been very constant to you for a long time."

"But where are you going, Mr. Eames?"

"Well; I haven't just made up my mind as yet. That is, it will depend
on what I may do,--on what friends of mine may say down in the
country. You'll not think I'm quarrelling with you, Mrs. Roper."

"It's them Lupexes as have done it," said Mrs. Roper, in her deep
distress.

"No, indeed, Mrs. Roper, nobody has done it."

"Yes, it is; and I'm not going to blame you, Mr. Eames. They've made
the house unfit for any decent young gentleman like you. I've been
feeling that all along; but it's hard upon a lone woman like me,
isn't it, Mr. Eames?"

"But, Mrs. Roper, the Lupexes have had nothing to do with my going."

"Oh, yes, they have; I understand it all. But what could I do, Mr.
Eames? I've been giving them warning every week for the last six
months; but the more I give them warning, the more they won't go.
Unless I were to send for a policeman, and have a row in the house--"

"But I haven't complained of the Lupexes, Mrs. Roper."

"You wouldn't be quitting without any reason, Mr. Eames. You are not
going to be married in earnest, are you, Mr. Eames?"

"Not that I know of."

"You may tell me; you may, indeed. I won't say a word,--not to
anybody. It hasn't been my fault about Amelia. It hasn't really."

"Who says there's been any fault?"

"I can see, Mr. Eames. Of course it didn't do for me to interfere.
And if you had liked her, I will say I believe she'd have made as
good a wife as any young man ever took; and she can make a few pounds
go farther than most girls. You can understand a mother's feelings;
and if there was to be anything, I couldn't spoil it; could I, now?"

"But there isn't to be anything."

"So I've told her for months past. I'm not going to say anything to
blame you; but young men ought to be very particular; indeed they
ought." Johnny did not choose to hint to the disconsolate mother that
it also behoved young women to be very particular, but he thought it.
"I've wished many a time, Mr. Eames, that she had never come here;
indeed I have. But what's a mother to do? I couldn't put her outside
the door." Then Mrs. Roper raised her apron up to her eyes, and began
to sob.

"I'm very sorry if I've made any mischief," said Johnny.

"It hasn't been your fault," continued the poor woman, from whom, as
her tears became uncontrollable, her true feelings forced themselves
and the real outpouring of her feminine nature. "Nor it hasn't been
my fault. But I knew what it would come to when I saw how she was
going on; and I told her so. I knew you wouldn't put up with the
likes of her."

"Indeed, Mrs. Roper, I've always had a great regard for her, and for
you too."

"But you weren't going to marry her. I've told her so all along,
and I've begged her not to do it,--almost on my knees I have; but
she wouldn't be said by me. She never would. She's always been
that wilful that I'd sooner have her away from me than with me.
Though she's a good young woman in the house,--she is, indeed, Mr.
Eames;--and there isn't a pair of hands in it that works so hard; but
it was no use my talking."

"I don't think any harm has been done."

"Yes, there has; great harm. It has made the place not respectable.
It's the Lupexes is the worst. There's Miss Spruce, who has been
with me for nine years,--ever since I've had the house,--she's been
telling me this morning that she means to go into the country. It's
all the same thing. I understand it. I can see it. The house isn't
respectable, as it should be; and your mamma, if she were to know
all, would have a right to be angry with me. I did mean to be
respectable, Mr. Eames; I did indeed."

"Miss Spruce will think better of it."

"You don't know what I've had to go through. There's none of them
pays, not regular,--only she and you. She's been like the Bank of
England, has Miss Spruce."

"I'm afraid I've not been very regular, Mrs. Roper."

"Oh, yes, you have. I don't think of a pound or two more or less
at the end of a quarter, if I'm sure to have it some day. The
butcher,--he understands one's lodgers just as well as I do,--if the
money's really coming, he'll wait; but he won't wait for such as
them Lupexes, whose money's nowhere. And there's Cradell; would you
believe it, that fellow owes me eight and twenty pounds!"

"Eight and twenty pounds!"

"Yes, Mr. Eames, eight and twenty pounds! He's a fool. It's them
Lupexes as have had his money. I know it. He don't talk of paying,
and going away. I shall be just left with him and the Lupexes on my
hands; and then the bailiffs may come and sell every stick about the
place. I won't say nay to them." Then she threw herself into the old
horsehair arm-chair, and gave way to her womanly sorrow.

"I think I'll go upstairs, and get ready for dinner," said Eames.

"And you must go away when you come back?" said Mrs. Roper.

"Well, yes, I'm afraid I must. I meant you to have a month's warning
from to-day. Of course I shall pay for the month."

"I don't want to take any advantage; indeed, I don't. But I do hope
you'll leave your things. You can have them whenever you like. If
Chumpend knows that you and Miss Spruce are both going, of course
he'll be down upon me for his money." Chumpend was the butcher. But
Eames made no answer to this piteous plea. Whether or no he could
allow his old boots to remain in Burton Crescent for the next week
or two, must depend on the manner in which he might be received by
Amelia Roper this evening.

When he came down to the drawing-room, there was no one there but
Miss Spruce. "A fine day, Miss Spruce," said he.

"Yes, Mr. Eames, it is a fine day for London; but don't you think the
country air is very nice?"

"Give me the town," said Johnny, wishing to say a good word for poor
Mrs. Roper, if it were possible.

"You're a young man, Mr. Eames; but I'm only an old woman. That makes
a difference," said Miss Spruce.

"Not much," said Johnny, meaning to be civil. "You don't like to be
dull any more than I do."

"I like to be respectable, Mr. Eames. I always have been respectable,
Mr. Eames." This the old woman said almost in a whisper, looking
anxiously to see that the door had not been opened to other listening
ears.

"I'm sure Mrs. Roper is very respectable."

"Yes; Mrs. Roper is respectable, Mr. Eames; but there are some here
that-- Hush-sh-sh!" And the old lady put her finger up to her lips.
The door opened and Mrs. Lupex swam into the room.

"How d'ye do, Miss Spruce? I declare you're always first. It's to get
a chance of having one of the young gentlemen to yourself, I believe.
What's the news in the city to-day, Mr. Eames? In your position now
of course you hear all the news."

"Sir Raffle Buffle has got a new pair of shoes. I don't know that for
certain, but I guess it from the time it took him to put them on."

"Ah! now you're quizzing. That's always the way with you gentlemen
when you get a little up in the world. You don't think women are
worth talking to then, unless just for a joke or so."

"I'd a great deal sooner talk to you, Mrs. Lupex, than I would to Sir
Raffle Buffle."

"It's all very well for you to say that. But we women know what
such compliments as those mean;--don't we, Miss Spruce? A woman
that's been married five years as I have--or I may say six,--doesn't
expect much attention from young men. And though I was young when I
married--young in years, that is,--I'd seen too much and gone through
too much to be young in heart." This she said almost in a whisper;
but Miss Spruce heard it, and was confirmed in her belief that Burton
Crescent was no longer respectable.

"I don't know what you were then, Mrs. Lupex," said Eames; "but
you're young enough now for anything."

"Mr. Eames, I'd sell all that remains of my youth at a cheap
rate,--at a very cheap rate, if I could only be sure of--"

"Sure of what, Mrs. Lupex?"

"The undivided affection of the one person that I loved. That is all
that is necessary to a woman's happiness."

"And isn't Lupex--"

"Lupex! But, hush, never mind. I should not have allowed myself to
be betrayed into an expression of feeling. Here's your friend Mr.
Cradell. Do you know I sometimes wonder what you find in that man to
be so fond of him." Miss Spruce saw it all, and heard it all, and
positively resolved upon moving herself to those two small rooms at
Dulwich.

Hardly a word was exchanged between Amelia and Eames before dinner.
Amelia still devoted herself to Cradell, and Johnny saw that that
arrow, if it should be needed, would be a strong weapon. Mrs. Roper
they found seated at her place at the dining-table, and Eames could
perceive the traces of her tears. Poor woman! Few positions in life
could be harder to bear than hers! To be ever tugging at others for
money that they could not pay; to be ever tugged at for money which
she could not pay; to desire respectability for its own sake, but to
be driven to confess that it was a luxury beyond her means; to put
up with disreputable belongings for the sake of lucre, and then not
to get the lucre, but be driven to feel that she was ruined by the
attempt! How many Mrs. Ropers there are who from year to year sink
down and fall away, and no one knows whither they betake themselves!
One fancies that one sees them from time to time at the corners of
the streets in battered bonnets and thin gowns, with the tattered
remnants of old shawls upon their shoulders, still looking as
though they had within them a faint remembrance of long-distant
respectability. With anxious eyes they peer about, as though
searching in the streets for other lodgers. Where do they get their
daily morsels of bread, and their poor cups of thin tea,--their
cups of thin tea, with perhaps a pennyworth of gin added to it, if
Providence be good! Of this state of things Mrs. Roper had a lively
appreciation, and now, poor woman, she feared that she was reaching
it, by the aid of the Lupexes. On the present occasion she carved her
joint of meat in silence, and sent out her slices to the good guests
that would leave her, and to the bad guests that would remain, with
apathetic impartiality. What was the use now of doing favour to one
lodger or disfavour to another? Let them take their mutton,--they
who would pay for it and they who would not. She would not have the
carving of many more joints in that house if Chumpend acted up to all
the threats which he had uttered to her that morning.

The reader may, perhaps, remember the little back room behind the
dining parlour. A description was given in some former pages of an
interview which was held between Amelia and her lover. It was in
that room that all the interviews of Mrs. Roper's establishment had
their existence. A special room for interviews is necessary in all
households of a mixed nature. If a man lives alone with his wife,
he can have his interviews where he pleases. Sons and daughters,
even when they are grown up, hardly create the necessity of an
interview-chamber, though some such need may be felt if the daughters
are marriageable and independent in their natures. But when the
family becomes more complicated than this, if an extra young man be
introduced, or an aunt comes into residence, or grown up children
by a former wife interfere with the domestic simplicity, then such
accommodation becomes quite indispensable. No woman would think of
taking in lodgers without such a room; and this room there was at
Mrs. Roper's, very small and dingy, but still sufficient,--just
behind the dining parlour and opposite to the kitchen stairs. Hither,
after dinner, Amelia was summoned. She had just seated herself
between Mrs. Lupex and Miss Spruce, ready to do battle with the
former because she would stay, and with the latter because she would
go, when she was called out by the servant girl.

"Miss Mealyer, Miss Mealyer,--sh--sh--sh!" And Amelia, looking round,
saw a large red hand beckoning to her. "He's down there," said
Jemima, as soon as her young mistress had joined her, "and wants to
see you most partic'lar."

"Which of 'em?" asked Amelia, in a whisper.

"Why, Mr. Heames, to be sure. Don't you go and have anythink to say
to the other one, Miss Mealyer, pray don't; he ain't no good; he
ain't indeed."

Amelia stood still for a moment on the landing, calculating whether
it would be well for her to have the interview, or well to decline
it. Her objects were two;--or, rather, her object was in its
nature twofold. She was, naturally, anxious to drive John Eames to
desperation; and anxious also, by some slight added artifice, to make
sure of Cradell if Eames's desperation did not have a very speedy
effect. She agreed with Jemima's criticism in the main, but she did
not go quite so far as to think that Cradell was no good at all. Let
it be Eames, if Eames were possible; but let the other string be kept
for use if Eames were not possible. Poor girl! in coming to this
resolve she had not done so without agony. She had a heart, and with
such power as it gave her, she loved John Eames. But the world had
been hard to her; knocking her about hither and thither unmercifully;
threatening, as it now threatened, to take from her what few good
things she enjoyed. When a girl is so circumstanced she cannot afford
to attend to her heart. She almost resolved not to see Eames on the
present occasion, thinking that he might be made the more desperate
by such refusal, and remembering also that Cradell was in the house
and would know of it.

"He's there a-waiting, Miss Mealyer. Why don't yer come down?" and
Jemima plucked her young mistress by the arm.

"I am coming," said Amelia. And with dignified steps she descended to
the interview.

"Here she is, Mr. Heames," said the girl. And then Johnny found
himself alone with his lady-love.

"You have sent for me, Mr. Eames," she said, giving her head a little
toss, and turning her face away from him. "I was engaged upstairs,
but I thought it uncivil not to come down to you as you sent for me
so special."

"Yes, Miss Roper, I did want to see you very particularly."

"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, and he understood fully that the
exclamation referred to his having omitted the customary use of her
Christian name.

"I saw your mother before dinner, and I told her that I am going away
the day after to-morrow."

"We all know about that;--to the earl's, of course!" And then there
was another chuck of her head.

"And I told her also that I had made up my mind not to come back to
Burton Crescent."

"What! leave the house altogether!"

"Well; yes. A fellow must make a change sometimes, you know."

"And where are you going, John?"

"That I don't know as yet."

"Tell me the truth, John; are you going to be married? Are
you--going--to marry--that young woman,--Mr. Crosbie's leavings?
I demand to have an answer at once. Are you going to marry her?"

He had determined very resolutely that nothing she might say should
make him angry, but when she thus questioned him about "Crosbie's
leavings" he found it very difficult to keep his temper. "I have not
come," said he, "to speak to you about any one but ourselves."

"That put-off won't do with me, sir. You are not to treat any girl
you may please in that sort of way;--oh, John!" Then she looked at
him as though she did not know whether to fly at him and cover him
with kisses, or to fly at him and tear his hair.

"I know I haven't behaved quite as I should have done," he began.

"Oh, John!" and she shook her head. "You mean, then, to tell me that
you are going to marry her?"

"I mean to say nothing of the kind. I only mean to say that I am
going away from Burton Crescent."

"John Eames, I wonder what you think will come to you! Will you
answer me this; have I had a promise from you,--a distinct promise,
over and over again, or have I not?"

"I don't know about a distinct promise--"

"Well, well! I did think that you was a gentleman that would not go
back from your word. I did think that. I did think that you would
never put a young lady to the necessity of bringing forward her own
letters to prove that she is not expecting more than she has a right!
You don't know! And that, after all that has been between us! John
Eames!" And again it seemed to him as though she were about to fly.

"I tell you that I know I haven't behaved well. What more can I say?"

"What more can you say? Oh, John! to ask me such a question! If you
were a man you would know very well what more to say. But all you
private secretaries are given to deceit, as the sparks fly upwards.
However, I despise you,--I do, indeed. I despise you."

"If you despise me, we might as well shake hands and part at once.
I daresay that will be best. One doesn't like to be despised, of
course; but sometimes one can't help it." And then he put out his
hand to her.

"And is this to be the end of all?" she said, taking it.

"Well, yes; I suppose so. You say I'm despised."

"You shouldn't take up a poor girl in that way for a sharp word,--not
when she is suffering as I am made to suffer. If you only think of
it,--think what I have been expecting!" And now Amelia began to cry,
and to look as though she were going to fall into his arms.

"It is better to tell the truth," he said; "isn't it?"

"But it shouldn't be the truth."

"But it is the truth. I couldn't do it. I should ruin myself and you
too, and we should never be happy."

"I should be happy,--very happy indeed." At this moment the poor
girl's tears were unaffected, and her words were not artful. For a
minute or two her heart,--her actual heart,--was allowed to prevail.

"It cannot be, Amelia. Will you not say good-by?"

"Good-by," she said, leaning against him as she spoke.

"I do so hope you will be happy," he said. And then, putting his arm
round her waist, he kissed her; which he certainly ought not to have
done.

When the interview was over, he escaped out into the crescent, and
as he walked down through the squares,--Woburn Square, and Russell
Square, and Bedford Square,--towards the heart of London, he felt
himself elated almost to a state of triumph. He had got himself well
out of his difficulties, and now he would be ready for his love-tale
to Lily.




CHAPTER LII.

THE FIRST VISIT TO THE GUESTWICK BRIDGE.


[ILLUSTRATION: (untitled)]

When John Eames arrived at Guestwick Manor, he was first welcomed by
Lady Julia. "My dear Mr. Eames," she said, "I cannot tell you how
glad we are to see you." After that she always called him John, and
treated him throughout his visit with wonderful kindness. No doubt
that affair of the bull had in some measure produced this feeling;
no doubt, also, she was well disposed to the man who she hoped might
be accepted as a lover by Lily Dale. But I am inclined to think that
the fact of his having beaten Crosbie had been the most potential
cause of this affection for our hero on the part of Lady Julia.
Ladies,--especially discreet old ladies, such as Lady Julia De
Guest,--are bound to entertain pacific theories, and to condemn
all manner of violence. Lady Julia would have blamed any one who
might have advised Eames to commit an assault upon Crosbie. But,
nevertheless, deeds of prowess are still dear to the female heart,
and a woman, be she ever so old and discreet, understands and
appreciates the summary justice which may be done by means of a
thrashing. Lady Julia, had she been called upon to talk of it, would
undoubtedly have told Eames that he had committed a fault in striking
Mr. Crosbie; but the deed had been done, and Lady Julia became very
fond of John Eames.

"Vickers shall show you your room, if you like to go upstairs; but
you'll find my brother close about the house if you choose to go
out; I saw him not half an hour since." But John seemed to be well
satisfied to sit in the arm-chair over the fire, and talk to his
hostess; so neither of them moved.

"And now that you're a private secretary, how do you like it?"

"I like the work well enough; only I don't like the man, Lady Julia.
But I shouldn't say so, because he is such an intimate friend of your
brother's."

"An intimate friend of Theodore's!--Sir Raffle Buffle!" Lady Julia
stiffened her back and put on a serious face, not being exactly
pleased at being told that the Earl De Guest had any such intimate
friend.

"At any rate he tells me so about four times a day, Lady Julia. And
he particularly wants to come down here next September."

"Did he tell you that, too?"

"Indeed he did. You can't believe what a goose he is! Then his voice
sounds like a cracked bell; it's the most disagreeable voice you ever
heard in your life. And one has always to be on one's guard lest he
should make one do something that is--is--that isn't quite the thing
for a gentleman. You understand;--what the messenger ought to do."

"You shouldn't be too much afraid of your own dignity."

"No, I'm not. If Lord De Guest were to ask me to fetch him his shoes,
I'd run to Guestwick and back for them and think nothing of it,--just
because I know he's my friend. He'd have a right to send me. But I'm
not going to do such things as that for Sir Raffle Buffle."

"Fetch him his shoes!"

"That's what FitzHoward had to do, and he didn't like it."

"Isn't Mr. FitzHoward nephew to the Duchess of St. Bungay?"

"Nephew, or cousin, or something."

"Dear me!" said Lady Julia, "what a horrible man!" And in this way
John Eames and her ladyship became very intimate.

There was no one at dinner at the Manor that day but the earl and his
sister and their single guest. The earl when he came in was very warm
in his welcome, slapping his young friend on the back, and poking
jokes at him with a good-humoured if not brilliant pleasantry.

"Thrashed anybody lately, John?"

"Nobody to speak of," said Johnny.

"Brought your nightcap down for your out-o'-doors nap?"

"No; but I've got a grand stick for the bull," said Johnny.

"Ah! that's no joke now, I can tell you," said the earl. "We had to
sell him, and it half broke my heart. We don't know what had come to
him, but he became quite unruly after that;--knocked Darvell down
in the straw-yard! It was a very bad business,--a very bad business,
indeed! Come, go and dress. Do you remember how you came down to
dinner that day? I shall never forget how Crofts stared at you. Come,
you've only got twenty minutes, and you London fellows always want an
hour."

"He's entitled to some consideration now he's a private secretary,"
said Lady Julia.

"Bless us all! yes; I forgot that. Come, Mr. Private Secretary, don't
stand on the grandeur of your neck-tie to-day, as there's nobody here
but ourselves. You shall have an opportunity to-morrow."

Then Johnny was handed over to the groom of the chambers, and exactly
in twenty minutes he re-appeared in the drawing-room.

As soon as Lady Julia had left them after dinner, the earl began to
explain his plan for the coming campaign. "I'll tell you now what I
have arranged," said he. "The squire is to be here to-morrow with his
eldest niece,--your Miss Lily's sister, you know."

"What, Bell?"

"Yes, with Bell, if her name is Bell. She's a very pretty girl, too.
I don't know whether she's not the prettiest of the two, after all."

"That's a matter of opinion."

"Just so, Johnny; and do you stick to your own. They're coming here
for three or four days. Lady Julia did ask Mrs. Dale and Lily. I
wonder whether you'll let me call her Lily?"

"Oh, dear! I wish I might have the power of letting you."

"That's just the battle that you've got to fight. But the mother
and the younger sister wouldn't come. Lady Julia says it's all
right;--that, as a matter of course, she wouldn't come when she heard
you were to be here. I don't quite understand it. In my days the
young girls were ready enough to go where they knew they'd meet their
lovers, and I never thought any the worse of them for it."

"It wasn't because of that," said Eames.

"That's what Lady Julia says, and I always find her to be right in
things of that sort. And she says you'll have a better chance in
going over there than you would here, if she were in the same house
with you. If I was going to make love to a girl, of course I'd sooner
have her close to me,--staying in the same house. I should think it
the best fun in the world. And we might have had a dance, and all
that kind of thing. But I couldn't make her come, you know."

"Oh, no; of course not."

"And Lady Julia thinks that it's best as it is. You must go over, you
know, and get the mother on your side, if you can. I take it, the
truth is this;--you mustn't be angry with me, you know, for saying
it."

"You may be sure of that."

"I suppose she was fond of that fellow, Crosbie. She can't be very
fond of him now, I should think, after the way he has treated her;
but she'll find a difficulty in making her confession that she really
likes you better than she ever liked him. Of course that's what
you'll want her to say."

"I want her to say that she'll be my wife,--some day."

"And when she has agreed to the some day, then you'll begin to press
her to agree to your day;--eh, sir? My belief is you'll bring her
round. Poor girl! why should she break her heart when a decent fellow
like you will only be too glad to make her a happy woman?" And in
this way the earl talked to Eames till the latter almost believed
that the difficulties were vanishing from out of his path. "Could
it be possible," he asked himself, as he went to bed, "that in a
fortnight's time Lily Dale should have accepted him as her future
husband?" Then he remembered that day on which Crosbie, with the
two girls, had called at his mother's house, when in the bitterness
of his heart, he had sworn to himself that he would always regard
Crosbie as his enemy. Since then the world had gone well with him;
and he had no longer any very bitter feeling against Crosbie. That
matter had been arranged on the platform of the Paddington Station.
He felt that if Lily would now accept him he could almost shake hands
with Crosbie. The episode in his life and in Lily's would have been
painful; but he would learn to look back upon that without regret, if
Lily could be taught to believe that a kind fate had at last given
her to the better of her two lovers. "I'm afraid she won't bring
herself to forget him," he had said to the earl. "She'll only be too
happy to forget him," the earl had answered, "if you can induce her
to begin the attempt. Of course it is very bitter at first;--all the
world knew about it; but, poor girl, she is not to be wretched for
ever, because of that. Do you go about your work with some little
confidence, and I doubt not but what you'll have your way. You have
everybody in your favour,--the squire, her mother, and all." While
such words as these were in his ears how could he fail to hope and to
be confident? While he was sitting cozily over his bedroom fire he
resolved that it should be as the earl had said. But when he got up
on the following morning, and stood shivering as he came out of his
bath, he could not feel the same confidence. "Of course I shall go
to her," he said to himself, "and make a plain story of it. But I
know what her answer will be. She will tell me that she cannot forget
him." Then his feelings towards Crosbie were not so friendly as they
had been on the previous evening.

He did not visit the Small House on that, his first day. It had been
thought better that he should first meet the squire and Bell at
Guestwick Manor, so he postponed his visit to Mrs. Dale till the next
morning.

"Go when you like," said the earl. "There's the brown cob for you to
do what you like with him while you are here."

"I'll go and see my mother," said John; "but I won't take the cob
to-day. If you'll let me have him to-morrow, I'll ride to Allington."
So he walked off to Guestwick by himself.

He knew well every yard of the ground over which he went, remembering
every gate and stile and greensward from the time of his early
boyhood. And now as he went along through his old haunts, he could
not but look back and think of the thoughts which had filled his mind
in his earlier wanderings. As I have said before, in some of these
pages, no walks taken by the man are so crowded with thought as those
taken by the boy. He had been early taught to understand that the
world to him would be very hard; that he had nothing to look to but
his own exertions, and that those exertions would not, unfortunately,
be backed by any great cleverness of his own. I do not know that
anybody had told him that he was a fool; but he had come to
understand, partly through his own modesty, and partly, no doubt,
through the somewhat obtrusive diffidence of his mother, that he was
less sharp than other lads. It is probably true that he had come to
his sharpness later in life than is the case with many young men. He
had not grown on the sunny side of the wall. Before that situation
in the Income-tax Office had fallen in his way, very humble modes of
life had offered themselves,--or, rather, had not offered themselves
for his acceptance. He had endeavoured to become an usher at a
commercial seminary, not supposed to be in a very thriving condition;
but he had been, luckily, found deficient in his arithmetic. There
had been some chance of his going into the leather-warehouse of
Messrs. Basil and Pigskin, but those gentlemen had required a
premium, and any payment of that kind had been quite out of his
mother's power. A country attorney, who had known the family for
years, had been humbly solicited, the widow almost kneeling before
him with tears, to take Johnny by the hand and make a clerk of him;
but the attorney had discovered that Master Johnny Eames was not
supposed to be sharp, and would have none of him. During those days,
those gawky, gainless, un-admired days, in which he had wandered
about the lanes of Guestwick as his only amusement, and had composed
hundreds of rhymes in honour of Lily Dale which no human eye but his
own had ever seen, he had come to regard himself as almost a burden
upon the earth. Nobody seemed to want him. His own mother was very
anxious; but her anxiety seemed to him to indicate a continual desire
to get rid of him. For hours upon hours he would fill his mind with
castles in the air, dreaming of wonderful successes in the midst of
which Lily Dale always reigned as a queen. He would carry on the
same story in his imagination from month to month, almost contenting
himself with such ideal happiness. Had it not been for the possession
of that power, what comfort could there have been to him in his life?
There are lads of seventeen who can find happiness in study, who can
busy themselves in books and be at their ease among the creations
of other minds. These are they who afterwards become well-informed
men. It was not so with John Eames. He had never been studious. The
perusal of a novel was to him in those days a slow affair; and of
poetry he read but little, storing up accurately in his memory all
that he did read. But he created for himself his own romance, though
to the eye a most unromantic youth; and he wandered through the
Guestwick woods with many thoughts of which they who knew him best
knew nothing. All this he thought of now as, with devious steps, he
made his way towards his old home;--with very devious steps, for he
went backwards through the woods by a narrow path which led right
away from the town down to a little water-course, over which stood a
wooden foot-bridge with a rail. He stood on the centre of the plank,
at a spot which he knew well, and rubbing his hand upon the rail,
cleansed it for the space of a few inches of the vegetable growth
produced by the spray of the water. There, rudely carved in the wood,
was still the word LILY. When he cut those letters she had been
almost a child. "I wonder whether she will come here with me and let
me show it to her," he said to himself. Then he took out his knife
and cleared the cuttings of the letters, and having done so, leaned
upon the rail, and looked down upon the running water. How well
things in the world had gone for him! How well! And yet what would
it all be if Lily would not come to him? How well the world had gone
for him! In those days when he stood there carving the girl's name
everybody had seemed to regard him as a heavy burden, and he had so
regarded himself. Now he was envied by many, respected by many, taken
by the hand as a friend by those high in the world's esteem. When
he had come near the Guestwick Mansion in his old walks,--always,
however, keeping at a great distance lest the grumpy old lord should
be down upon him and scold him,--he had little dreamed that he and
the grumpy old lord would ever be together on such familiar terms,
that he would tell to that lord more of his private thoughts than to
any other living being; yet it had come to that. The grumpy old lord
had now told him that that gift of money was to be his whether Lily
Dale accepted him or no. "Indeed, the thing's done," said the grumpy
lord, pulling out from his pocket certain papers, "and you've got
to receive the dividends as they become due." Then, when Johnny
had expostulated,--as, indeed, the circumstances had left him no
alternative but to expostulate,--the earl had roughly bade him hold
his tongue, telling him that he would have to fetch Sir Raffle's
boots directly he got back to London. So the conversation had quickly
turned itself away to Sir Raffle, whom they had both ridiculed with
much satisfaction. "If he finds his way down here in September,
Master Johnny, or in any other month either, you may fit my head
with a foolscap. Not remember, indeed! Is it not wonderful that any
man should make himself so mean a fool?" All this was thought over
again, as Eames leaned upon the bridge. He remembered every word,
and remembered many other words,--earlier words, spoken years ago,
filling him with desolation as to the prospects of his life. It had
seemed that his friends had united in prophesying that the outlook
into the world for him was hopeless, and that the earning of bread
must be for ever beyond his power. And now his lines had fallen to
him in very pleasant places, and he was among those whom the world
had determined to caress. And yet, what would it all be if Lily would
not share his happiness? When he had carved that name on the rail,
his love for Lily had been an idea. It had now become a reality which
might probably be full of pain. If it were so,--if such should be
the result of his wooing,--would not those old dreamy days have been
better than these--the days of his success?

It was one o'clock by the time that he reached his mother's house,
and he found her and his sister in a troubled and embarrassed state.
"Of course you know, John," said his mother, as soon as their first
embraces were over, "that we are going to dine at the Manor this
evening?" But he did not know it, neither the earl nor Lady Julia
having said anything on the subject. "Of course we are going," said
Mrs. Eames, "and it was so very kind. But I've never been out to such
a house for so many years, John, and I do feel in such a twitter. I
dined there once, soon after we were married; but I never have been
there since that."

"It's not the earl I mind, but Lady Julia," said Mary Eames.

"She's the most good-natured woman in the world," said Johnny.

"Oh, dear; people say she is so cross!"

"That's because people don't know her. If I was asked who is the
kindest-hearted woman I know in the world, I think I should say Lady
Julia De Guest. I think I should."

"Ah! but then they're so fond of you," said the admiring mother. "You
saved his lordship's life,--under Providence."

"That's all bosh, mother. You ask Dr. Crofts. He knows them as well
as I do."

"Dr. Crofts is going to marry Bell Dale," said Mary; and then the
conversation was turned from the subject of Lady Julia's perfections,
and the awe inspired by the earl.

"Crofts going to marry Bell!" exclaimed Eames, thinking almost with
dismay of the doctor's luck in thus getting himself accepted all at
once, while he had been suing with the constancy almost of a Jacob.

"Yes," said Mary; "and they say that she has refused her cousin
Bernard, and that, therefore, the squire is taking away the house
from them. You know they're all coming into Guestwick."

"Yes, I know they are. But I don't believe that the squire is taking
away the house."

"Why should they come then? Why should they give up such a charming
place as that?"

"Rent-free!" said Mrs. Eames.

"I don't know why they should come away, but I can't believe the
squire is turning them out; at any rate not for that reason." The
squire was prepared to advocate John's suit, and therefore John was
bound to do battle on the squire's behalf.

"He is a very stern man," said Mrs. Eames, "and they say that since
that affair of poor Lily's he has been more cross than ever with
them. As far as I know, it was not Lily's fault."

"Poor Lily!" said Mary. "I do pity her. If I was her I should hardly
know how to show my face; I shouldn't, indeed."

"And why shouldn't she show her face?" said John, in an angry tone.
"What has she done to be ashamed of? Show her face indeed! I cannot
understand the spite which one woman will sometimes have to another."

"There is no spite, John; and it's very wrong of you to say so," said
Mary, defending herself. "But it is a very unpleasant thing for a
girl to be jilted. All the world knows that she was engaged to him."

"And all the world knows--" But he would not proceed to declare that
all the world knew also that Crosbie had been well thrashed for his
baseness. It would not become him to mention that even before his
mother and sister. All the world did know it; all the world that
cared to know anything of the matter;--except Lily Dale herself.
Nobody had ever yet told Lily Dale of that occurrence at the
Paddington Railway Station, and it was well for John that her friends
and his had been so discreet.

"Oh, of course you are her champion," said Mary. "And I didn't
mean to say anything unkind. Indeed I didn't. Of course it was a
misfortune."

"I think it was the best piece of good fortune that could have
happened to her, not to marry a d---- scoundrel like--"

"Oh, John!" exclaimed Mrs. Eames.

"I beg your pardon, mother. But it isn't swearing to call such a
man as that a d---- scoundrel." And he particularly emphasized the
naughty word, thinking that thereby he would add to its import, and
take away from its naughtiness. "But we won't talk any more about
him. I hate the man's very name. I hated him the first moment that I
saw him, and knew that he was a blackguard from his look. And I don't
believe a word about the squire having been cross to them. Indeed I
know he has been the reverse of cross. So Bell is going to marry Dr.
Crofts!"

"There is no doubt on earth about that," said Mary. "And they say
that Bernard Dale is going abroad with his regiment."

Then John discussed with his mother his duties as private secretary,
and his intention of leaving Mrs. Roper's house. "I suppose it isn't
nice enough for you now, John," said his mother.

"It never was very nice, mother, to tell you the truth. There were
people there--. But you mustn't think I am turning up my nose because
I'm getting grand. I don't want to live any better than we all lived
at Mrs. Roper's; but she took in persons that were not agreeable.
There is a Mr. and Mrs. Lupex there." Then he described something
of their life in Burton Crescent, but did not say much about Amelia
Roper. Amelia Roper had not made her appearance in Guestwick, as he
had once feared that she would do; and therefore it did not need that
he should at present make known to his mother that episode in his
life.

When he got back to the Manor House he found that Mr. Dale and his
niece had arrived. They were both sitting with Lady Julia when he
went into the morning room, and Lord De Guest was standing over the
fire talking to them. Eames as he came among them felt terribly
conscious of his position, as though all there were aware that he had
been brought down from London on purpose to make a declaration of
love;--as, indeed, all of them were aware of that fact. Bell, though
no one had told her so in direct words, was as sure of it as the
others.

"Here comes the prince of matadores," said the earl.

"No, my lord; you're the prince. I'm only your first follower."
Though he could contrive that his words should be gay, his looks were
sheepish, and when he gave his hand to the squire it was only by a
struggle that he could bring himself to look straight into the old
man's face.

"I'm very glad to see you, John," said the squire, "very glad
indeed."

"And so am I," said Bell. "I have been so happy to hear that you have
been promoted at your office, and so is mamma."

"I hope Mrs. Dale is quite well," said he;--"and Lily." The word had
been pronounced, but it had been done with so manifest an effort that
all in the room were conscious of it, and paused as Bell prepared her
little answer.

"My sister has been very ill, you know,--with scarlatina. But she has
recovered with wonderful quickness, and is nearly well again now. She
will be so glad to see you if you will go over."

"Yes; I shall certainly go over," said John.

"And now shall I show you your room, Miss Dale?" said Lady Julia. And
so the party was broken up, and the ice had been broken.




CHAPTER LIII.

LOQUITUR HOPKINS.


The squire had been told that his niece Bell had accepted Dr. Crofts,
and he had signified a sort of acquiescence in the arrangement,
saying that if it were to be so, he had nothing to say against Dr.
Crofts. He spoke this in a melancholy tone of voice, wearing on his
face that look of subdued sorrow which was now almost habitual to
him. It was to Mrs. Dale that he spoke on the subject. "I could have
wished that it might have been otherwise," he said, "as you are well
aware. I had family reasons for wishing that it might be otherwise.
But I have nothing to say against it. Dr. Crofts, as her husband,
shall be welcome to my house." Mrs. Dale, who had expected much worse
than this, began to thank him for his kindness, and to say that she
also would have preferred to see her daughter married to her cousin.
"But in such a matter the decision should be left entirely to the
girl. Don't you think so?"

"I have not a word to say against her," he repeated. Then Mrs. Dale
left him, and told her daughter that her uncle's manner of receiving
the news had been, for him, very gracious. "You were his favourite,
but Lily will be so now," said Mrs. Dale.

"I don't care a bit about that;--or, rather, I do care, and think it
will be in every way better. But as I, who am the naughty one, will
go away, and as Lily, who is the good one, will remain with you,
doesn't it almost seem a pity that you should be leaving the house?"

Mrs. Dale thought it was almost a pity, but she could not say so now.
"You think Lily will remain," she said.

"Yes, mamma; I feel sure she will."

"She was always very fond of John Eames;--and he is doing so well."

"It will be of no use, mamma. She is fond of him,--very fond. In a
sort of a way she loves him--so well, that I feel sure she never
mentions his name without some inward reference to her old childish
thoughts and fancies. If he had come before Mr. Crosbie it would
have all been well with her. But she cannot do it now. Her pride
would prevent her, even if her heart permitted it. Oh! dear; it's
very wrong of me to say so, after all that I have said before; but
I almost wish you were not going. Uncle Christopher seems to be
less hard than he used to be; and as I was the sinner, and as I am
disposed of--"

"It is too late now, my dear."

"And we should neither of us have the courage to mention it to Lily,"
said Bell.

On the following morning the squire sent for his sister-in-law, as it
was his wont to do when necessity came for any discussion on matters
of business. This was perfectly understood between them, and such
sending was not taken as indicating any lack of courtesy on the part
of Mr. Dale. "Mary," he said, as soon as Mrs. Dale was seated, "I
shall do for Bell exactly what I have proposed to do for Lily. I had
intended more than that once, of course. But then it would all have
gone into Bernard's pocket; as it is, I shall make no difference
between them. They shall each have a hundred a year,--that is, when
they marry. You had better tell Crofts to speak to me."

"Mr. Dale, he doesn't expect it. He does not expect a penny."

"So much the better for him; and, indeed, so much the better for her.
He won't make her the less welcome to his home because she brings
some assistance to it."

"We have never thought of it,--any of us. The offer has come so
suddenly that I don't know what I ought to say."

"Say--nothing. If you choose to make me a return for it--; but I am
only doing what I conceive to be my duty, and have no right to ask
for a kindness in return."

"But what kindness can we show you, Mr. Dale?"

"Remain in that house." In saying these last words he spoke as though
he were again angry,--as though he were again laying down the law to
them,--as though he were telling her of a duty which was due to him
and incumbent on her. His voice was as stern and his face as acid as
ever. He said that he was asking for a kindness; but surely no man
ever asked for kindness in a voice so peremptory. "Remain in that
house." Then he turned himself in towards his table as though he had
no more to say.

But Mrs. Dale was beginning, now at last, to understand something of
his mind and real character. He could be affectionate and forbearing
in his giving; but when asking, he could not be otherwise than stern.
Indeed, he could not ask; he could only demand.

"We have done so much now," Mrs. Dale began to plead.

"Well, well, well. I did not mean to speak about that. Things are
unpacked easier than they are packed. But, however-- Never mind. Bell
is to go with me this afternoon to Guestwick Manor. Let her be up
here at two. Grimes can bring her box round, I suppose."

"Oh, yes: of course."

"And don't be talking to her about money before she starts. I had
rather you didn't;--you understand. But when you see Crofts, tell him
to come to me. Indeed, he'd better come at once, if this thing is to
go on quickly."

It may easily be understood that Mrs. Dale would disobey the
injunctions contained in the squire's last words. It was quite out
of the question that she should return to her daughters and not
tell them the result of her morning's interview with their uncle.
A hundred a year in the doctor's modest household would make all
the difference between plenty and want, between modest plenty and
endurable want. Of course she told them, giving Bell to understand
that she must dissemble so far as to pretend ignorance of the affair.

"I shall thank him at once," said Bell; "and tell him that I did not
at all expect it, but am not too proud to accept it."

"Pray don't, my dear; not just now. I am breaking a sort of promise
in telling you at all,--only I could not keep it to myself. And he
has so many things to worry him! Though he says nothing about it now,
he has half broken his heart about you and Bernard." Then, too, Mrs.
Dale told the girls what request the squire had just made, and the
manner in which he had made it. "The tone of his voice as he spoke
brought tears into my eyes. I almost wish we had not done anything."

"But, mamma," said Lily, "what difference can it make to him? You
know that our presence near him was always a trouble to him. He never
really wanted us. He liked to have Bell there when he thought that
Bell would marry his pet."

"Don't be unkind, Lily."

"I don't mean to be unkind. Why shouldn't Bernard be his pet? I
love Bernard dearly, and always thought it the best point in uncle
Christopher that he was so fond of him. I knew, you know, that it
was no use. Of course I knew it, as I understood all about--somebody
else. But Bernard is his pet."

"He's fond of you all, in his own way," said Mrs. Dale.

"But is he fond of you?--that's the question," said Lily. "We could
have forgiven him anything done to us, and have put up with any words
he might have spoken to us, because he regards us as children. His
giving a hundred a year to Bell won't make you comfortable in this
house if he still domineers over you. If a neighbour be neighbourly,
near neighbourhood is very nice. But uncle Christopher has not
been neighbourly. He has wanted to be more than an uncle to us, on
condition that he might be less than a brother to you. Bell and I
have always felt that his regard on such terms was not worth having."

"I almost feel that we have been wrong," said Mrs. Dale; "but in
truth I never thought that the matter would be to him one of so much
moment."

When Bell had gone, Mrs. Dale and Lily were not disposed to continue
with much energy the occupation on which they had all been employed
for some days past. There had been life and excitement in the work
when they had first commenced their packing, but now it was grown
wearisome, dull, and distasteful. Indeed so much of it was done that
but little was left to employ them, except those final strappings and
fastenings, and that last collection of odds and ends which could not
be accomplished till they were absolutely on the point of starting.
The squire had said that unpacking would be easier than packing, and
Mrs. Dale, as she wandered about among the hampers and cases, began
to consider whether the task of restoring all the things to their
old places would be very disagreeable. She said nothing of this to
Lily, and Lily herself, whatever might be her thoughts, made no such
suggestion to her mother.

"I think Hopkins will miss us more than any one else," she said.
"Hopkins will have no one to scold."

Just at that moment Hopkins appeared at the parlour window, and
signified his desire for a conference.

"You must come round," said Lily. "It's too cold for the window to
be opened. I always like to get him into the house, because he feels
himself a little abashed by the chairs and tables; or, perhaps, it is
the carpet that is too much for him. Out on the gravel-walks he is
such a terrible tyrant, and in the greenhouse he almost tramples upon
one!"

Hopkins, when he did appear at the parlour door, seemed by his manner
to justify Lily's discretion. He was not at all masterful in his
tone or bearing, and seemed to pay to the chairs and tables all the
deference which they could have expected.

"So you be going in earnest, ma'am," he said, looking down at Mrs.
Dale's feet.

As Mrs. Dale did not answer him at once, Lily spoke:--"Yes, Hopkins,
we are going in a very few days, now. We shall see you sometimes, I
hope, over at Guestwick."

"Humph!" said Hopkins. "So you be really going! I didn't think it'd
ever come to that, miss; I didn't indeed,--and no more it oughtn't;
but of course it isn't for me to speak."

"People must change their residence sometimes, you know," said Mrs.
Dale, using the same argument by which Eames had endeavoured to
excuse his departure to Mrs. Roper.

"Well, ma'am; it ain't for me to say anything. But this I will say,
I've lived here about t' squire's place, man and boy, jist all my
life, seeing I was born here, as you knows, Mrs. Dale; and of all
the bad things I ever see come about the place, this is a sight the
worst."

"Oh, Hopkins!"

"The worst of all, ma'am; the worst of all! It'll just kill t'
squire! There's ne'ery doubt in the world about that. It'll be the
very death of t' old man."

"That's nonsense, Hopkins," said Lily.

"Very well, miss. I don't say but what it is nonsense; only you'll
see. There's Mr. Bernard,--he's gone away; and by all accounts he
never did care very much for the place. They all say he's a-going
to the Hingies. And Miss Bell is going to be married,--which is all
proper, in course; why shouldn't she? And why shouldn't you, too,
Miss Lily?"

"Perhaps I shall, some day, Hopkins."

"There's no day like the present, Miss Lily. And I do say this, that
the man as pitched into him would be the man for my money." This,
which Hopkins spoke in the excitement of the moment, was perfectly
unintelligible to Lily, and Mrs. Dale, who shuddered as she heard
him, said not a word to call for any explanation. "But," continued
Hopkins, "that's all as it may be, Miss Lily, and you be in the hands
of Providence,--as is others."

"Exactly so, Hopkins."

"But why should your mamma be all for going away? She ain't going
to marry no one. Here's the house, and there's she, and there's t'
squire; and why should she be for going away? So much going away all
at once can't be for any good. It's just a breaking up of everything,
as though nothing wasn't good enough for nobody. I never went away,
and I can't abide it."

"Well, Hopkins; it's settled now," said Mrs. Dale, "and I'm afraid it
can't be unsettled."

"Settled;--well. Tell me this: do you expect, Mrs. Dale, that he's to
live there all alone by hisself without any one to say a cross word
to,--unless it be me or Dingles; for Jolliffe's worse than nobody,
he's so mortial cross hisself. Of course he can't stand it. If you
goes away, Mrs. Dale, Mister Bernard, he'll be squire in less than
twelve months. He'll come back from the Hingies, then, I suppose?"

"I don't think my brother-in-law will take it in that way, Hopkins."

"Ah, ma'am, you don't know him,--not as I knows him;--all the ins
and outs and crinks and crannies of him. I knows him as I does the
old apple-trees that I've been a-handling for forty year. There's a
deal of bad wood about them old cankered trees, and some folk say
they ain't worth the ground they stand on; but I know where the
sap runs, and when the fruit-blossom shows itself I know where the
fruit will be the sweetest. It don't take much to kill one of them
old trees,--but there's life in 'm yet if they be well handled."

"I'm sure I hope my brother's life may be long spared to him," said
Mrs. Dale.

"Then don't be taking yourself away, ma'am, into them gashly lodgings
at Guestwick. I says they are gashly for the likes of a Dale. It is
not for me to speak, ma'am, of course. And I only came up now just to
know what things you'd like with you out of the greenhouse."

"Oh, nothing, Hopkins, thank you," said Mrs. Dale.

"He told me to put up for you the best I could pick, and I means to
do it;" and Hopkins, as he spoke, indicated by a motion of his head
that he was making reference to the squire.

"We shan't have any place for them," said Lily.

"I must send a few, miss, just to cheer you up a bit. I fear you'll
be very dolesome there. And the doctor,--he ain't got what you can
call a regular garden, but there is a bit of a place behind."

"But we wouldn't rob the dear old place," said Lily.

"For the matter of that what does it signify? T' squire'll be that
wretched he'll turn sheep in here to destroy the place, or he'll have
the garden ploughed. You see if he don't. As for the place, the place
is clean done for, if you leave it. You don't suppose he'll go and
let the Small House to strangers. T' squire ain't one of that sort
any ways."

"Ah me!" exclaimed Mrs. Dale, as soon as Hopkins had taken himself
off.

"What is it, mamma? He's a dear old man, but surely what he says
cannot make you really unhappy."

"It is so hard to know what one ought to do. I did not mean to be
selfish, but it seems to me as though I were doing the most selfish
thing in the world."

"Nay, mamma; it has been anything but selfish. Besides, it is we that
have done it; not you."

"Do you know, Lily, that I also have that feeling as to breaking
up one's old mode of life of which Hopkins spoke. I thought that I
should be glad to escape from this place, but now that the time has
come I dread it."

"Do you mean that you repent?"

Mrs. Dale did not answer her daughter at once, fearing to commit
herself by words which could not be retracted. But at last she said,
"Yes, Lily; I think I do repent. I think that it has not been well
done."

"Then let it be undone," said Lily.

The dinner-party at Guestwick Manor on that day was not very bright,
and yet the earl had done all in his power to make his guests happy.
But gaiety did not come naturally to his house, which, as will have
been seen, was an abode very unlike in its nature to that of the
other earl at Courcy Castle. Lady De Courcy at any rate understood
how to receive and entertain a house full of people, though the
practice of doing so might give rise to difficult questions in the
privacy of her domestic relations. Lady Julia did not understand it;
but then Lady Julia was never called upon to answer for the expense
of extra servants, nor was she asked about twice a week who
the ---- was to pay the wine-merchant's bill? As regards Lord De
Guest and the Lady Julia themselves, I think they had the best of it;
but I am bound to admit, with reference to chance guests, that the
house was dull. The people who were now gathered at the earl's table
could hardly have been expected to be very sprightly when in company
with each other. The squire was not a man much given to general
society, and was unused to amuse a table full of people. On the
present occasion he sat next to Lady Julia, and from time to time
muttered a few words to her about the state of the country. Mrs.
Eames was terribly afraid of everybody there, and especially of the
earl, next to whom she sat, and whom she continually called "my
lord," showing by her voice as she did so that she was almost alarmed
by the sound of her own voice. Mr. and Mrs. Boyce were there, the
parson sitting on the other side of Lady Julia, and the parson's wife
on the other side of the earl. Mrs. Boyce was very studious to show
that she was quite at home, and talked perhaps more than any one
else; but in doing so she bored the earl most exquisitely, so that he
told John Eames the next morning that she was worse than the bull.
The parson ate his dinner, but said little or nothing between the two
graces. He was a heavy, sensible, slow man, who knew himself and his
own powers. "Uncommon good stewed beef," he said, as he went home;
"why can't we have our beef stewed like that?" "Because we don't pay
our cook sixty pounds a year," said Mrs. Boyce. "A woman with sixteen
pounds can stew beef as well as a woman with sixty," said he; "she
only wants looking after." The earl himself was possessed of a sort
of gaiety. There was about him a lightness of spirit which often made
him an agreeable companion to one single person. John Eames conceived
him to be the most sprightly old man of his day,--an old man with the
fun and frolic almost of a boy. But this spirit, though it would show
itself before John Eames, was not up to the entertainment of John
Eames's mother and sister, together with the squire, the parson, and
the parson's wife of Allington. So that the earl was overweighted and
did not shine on this occasion at his own dinner-table. Dr. Crofts,
who had also been invited, and who had secured the place which was
now peculiarly his own, next to Bell Dale, was no doubt happy enough;
as, let us hope, was the young lady also; but they added very little
to the general hilarity of the company. John Eames was seated between
his own sister and the parson, and did not at all enjoy his position.
He had a full view of the doctor's felicity, as the happy pair sat
opposite to him, and conceived himself to be hardly treated by Lily's
absence.

The party was certainly very dull, as were all such dinners at
Guestwick Manor. There are houses, which, in their every-day course,
are not conducted by any means in a sad or unsatisfactory manner,--in
which life, as a rule, runs along merrily enough; but which cannot
give a dinner-party; or, I might rather say, should never allow
themselves to be allured into the attempt. The owners of such houses
are generally themselves quite aware of the fact, and dread the
dinner which they resolved to give quite as much as it is dreaded
by their friends. They know that they prepare for their guests an
evening of misery, and for themselves certain long hours of purgatory
which are hardly to be endured. But they will do it. Why that long
table, and all those supernumerary glasses and knives and forks,
if they are never to be used? That argument produces all this
misery; that and others cognate to it. On the present occasion,
no doubt, there were excuses to be made. The squire and his niece
had been invited on special cause, and their presence would have
been well enough. The doctor added in would have done no harm. It
was good-natured, too, that invitation given to Mrs. Eames and her
daughter. The error lay in the parson and his wife. There was no
necessity for their being there, nor had they any ground on which to
stand, except the party-giving ground. Mr. and Mrs. Boyce made the
dinner-party, and destroyed the social circle. Lady Julia knew that
she had been wrong as soon as she had sent out the note.

Nothing was said on that evening which has any bearing on our story.
Nothing, indeed, was said which had any bearing on anything. The
earl's professed object had been to bring the squire and young Eames
together; but people are never brought together on such melancholy
occasions. Though they sip their port in close contiguity, they are
poles asunder in their minds and feelings. When the Guestwick fly
came for Mrs. Eames, and the parson's pony phaeton came for him and
Mrs. Boyce, a great relief was felt; but the misery of those who were
left had gone too far to allow of any reaction on that evening. The
squire yawned, and the earl yawned, and then there was an end of it
for that night.




CHAPTER LIV.

THE SECOND VISIT TO THE GUESTWICK BRIDGE.


Bell had declared that her sister would be very happy to see John
Eames if he would go over to Allington, and he had replied that of
course he would go there. So much having been, as it were, settled,
he was able to speak of his visit as a matter of course at the
breakfast-table, on the morning after the earl's dinner-party.
"I must get you to come round with me, Dale, and see what I am
doing to the land," the earl said. And then he proposed to order
saddle-horses. But the squire preferred walking, and in this way they
were disposed of soon after breakfast.

John had it in his mind to get Bell to himself for half an hour,
and hold a conference with her; but it either happened that Lady
Julia was too keen in her duties as a hostess, or else, as was more
possible, Bell avoided the meeting. No opportunity for such an
interview offered itself, though he hung about the drawing-room all
the morning. "You had better wait for luncheon, now," Lady Julia said
to him about twelve. But this he declined; and taking himself away
hid himself about the place for the next hour and a half. During this
time he considered much whether it would be better for him to ride or
walk. If she should give him any hope, he could ride back triumphant
as a field-marshal. Then the horse would be delightful to him. But
if she should give him no hope,--if it should be his destiny to be
rejected utterly on that morning,--then the horse would be terribly
in the way of his sorrow. Under such circumstances what could he do
but roam wide about across the fields, resting when he might choose
to rest, and running when it might suit him to run. "And she is not
like other girls," he thought to himself. "She won't care for my
boots being dirty." So at last he elected to walk.

"Stand up to her boldly, man," the earl had said to him. "By George,
what is there to be afraid of? It's my belief they'll give most to
those who ask for most. There's nothing sets 'em against a man like
being sheepish." How the earl knew so much, seeing that he had not
himself given signs of any success in that walk of life, I am not
prepared to say. But Eames took his advice as being in itself good,
and resolved to act upon it. "Not that any resolution will be of any
use," he said to himself, as he walked along. "When the moment comes
I know that I shall tremble before her, and I know that she'll see
it; but I don't think it will make any difference in her."

He had last seen her on the lawn behind the Small House, just at that
time when her passion for Crosbie was at the strongest. Eames had
gone thither impelled by a foolish desire to declare to her his
hopeless love, and she had answered him by telling him that she loved
Mr. Crosbie better than all the world besides. Of course she had done
so, at that time; but, nevertheless, her manner of telling him had
seemed to him to be cruel. And he also had been cruel. He had told
her that he hated Crosbie,--calling him "that man," and assuring her
that no earthly consideration should induce him to go into "that
man's house." Then he had walked away moodily wishing him all manner
of evil. Was it not singular that all the evil things which he, in
his mind, had meditated for the man, had fallen upon him. Crosbie
had lost his love! He had so proved himself to be a villain that his
name might not be so much as mentioned! He had been ignominiously
thrashed! But what good would all this be if his image were still
dear to Lily's heart? "I told her that I loved her then," he said to
himself, "though I had no right to do so. At any rate I have a right
to tell her now."

When he reached Allington he did not go in through the village and up
to the front of the Small House by the cross street, but turned by
the church gate and passed over the squire's terrace, and by the end
of the Great House through the garden. Here he encountered Hopkins.
"Why, if that b'aint Mr. Eames!" said the gardener. "Mr. John, may I
make so bold!" and Hopkins held out a very dirty hand, which Eames of
course took, unconscious of the cause of this new affection.

"I'm just going to call at the Small House, and I thought I'd come
this way."

"To be sure; this way, or that way, or any way, who's so welcome, Mr.
John? I envies you; I envies you more than I envies any man. If I
could a got him by the scuff of the neck, I'd a treated him jist like
any wermin;--I would, indeed! He was wermin! I ollays said it. I
hated him ollays; I did indeed, Mr. John, from the first moment when
he used to be nigging away at them foutry balls, knocking them in
among the rhododendrons, as though there weren't no flower blossoms
for next year. He never looked at one as though one were a Christian;
did he, Mr. John?"

"I wasn't very fond of him myself, Hopkins."

"Of course you weren't very fond of him. Who was?--only she, poor
young lady. She'll be better now, Mr. John, a deal better. He wasn't
a wholesome lover,--not like you are. Tell me, Mr. John, did you give
it him well when you got him? I heard you did;--two black eyes, and
all his face one mash of gore!" And Hopkins, who was by no means a
young man, stiffly put himself into a fighting attitude.

Eames passed on over the little bridge, which seemed to be in a state
of fast decay, unattended to by any friendly carpenter, now that the
days of its use were so nearly at an end; and on into the garden,
lingering on the spot where he had last said farewell to Lily. He
looked about as though he expected still to find her there; but there
was no one to be seen in the garden, and no sound to be heard. As
every step brought him nearer to her whom he was seeking, he became
more and more conscious of the hopelessness of his errand. Him she
had never loved, and why should he venture to hope that she would
love him now? He would have turned back had he not been aware that
his promise to others required that he should persevere. He had said
that he would do this thing, and he would be as good as his word. But
he hardly ventured to hope that he might be successful. In this frame
of mind he slowly made his way up across the lawn.

"My dear, there is John Eames," said Mrs. Dale, who had first seen
him from the parlour window.

"Don't go, mamma."

"I don't know; perhaps it will be better that I should."

"No, mamma, no; what good can it do? It can do no good. I like him as
well as I can like any one. I love him dearly. But it can do no good.
Let him come in here, and be very kind to him; but do not go away and
leave us. Of course I knew he would come, and I shall be very glad to
see him."

Then Mrs. Dale went round to the other room, and admitted her visitor
through the window of the drawing-room. "We are in terrible
confusion, John, are we not?"

"And so you are really going to live in Guestwick?"

"Well, it looks like it, does it not? But, to tell you a
secret,--only it must be a secret; you must not mention it at
Guestwick Manor; even Bell does not know;--we have half made up our
minds to unpack all our things and stay where we are."

Eames was so intent on his own purpose, and so fully occupied with
the difficulty of the task before him, that he could hardly receive
Mrs. Dale's tidings with all the interest which they deserved.
"Unpack them all again," he said. "That will be very troublesome. Is
Lily with you, Mrs. Dale?"

"Yes, she is in the parlour. Come and see her." So he followed Mrs.
Dale through the hall, and found himself in the presence of his love.

"How do you do, John?" "How do you do, Lily?" We all know the way
in which such meetings are commenced. Each longed to be tender and
affectionate to the other,--each in a different way; but neither knew
how to throw any tenderness into this first greeting. "So you're
staying at the Manor House," said Lily.

"Yes; I'm staying there. Your uncle and Bell came yesterday
afternoon."

"Have you heard about Bell?" said Mrs. Dale.

"Oh, yes; Mary told me. I'm so glad of it. I always liked Dr. Crofts
very much. I have not congratulated her, because I didn't know
whether it was a secret. But Crofts was there last night, and if it
is a secret he didn't seem to be very careful about keeping it."

"It is no secret," said Mrs. Dale. "I don't know that I am fond
of such secrets." But as she said this, she thought of Crosbie's
engagement, which had been told to every one, and of its
consequences.

"Is it to be soon?" he asked.

"Well, yes; we think so. Of course nothing is settled."

"It was such fun," said Lily. "James, who took, at any rate, a year
or two to make his proposal, wanted to be married the next day
afterwards."

"No, Lily; not quite that."

"Well, mamma, it was very nearly that. He thought it could all be
done this week. It has made us so happy, John! I don't know anybody I
should so much like for a brother. I'm very glad you like him;--very
glad. I hope you'll be friends always." There was some little
tenderness in this,--as John acknowledged to himself.

"I'm sure we shall,--if he likes it. That is, if I ever happen to see
him. I'll do anything for him I can if he ever comes up to London.
Wouldn't it be a good thing, Mrs. Dale, if he settled himself in
London?"

"No, John; it would be a very bad thing. Why should he wish to rob me
of my daughter?"

Mrs. Dale was speaking of her eldest daughter; but the very allusion
to any such robbery covered John Eames's face with a blush, made him
hot up to the roots of his hair, and for the moment silenced him.

"You think he would have a better career in London?" said Lily,
speaking under the influence of her superior presence of mind.

She had certainly shown defective judgment in desiring her mother not
to leave them alone; and of this Mrs. Dale soon felt herself aware.
The thing had to be done, and no little precautionary measure, such
as this of Mrs. Dale's enforced presence, would prevent it. Of this
Mrs. Dale was well aware; and she felt, moreover, that John was
entitled to an opportunity of pleading his own cause. It might be
that such opportunity would avail him nothing, but not the less
should he have it of right, seeing that he desired it. But yet Mrs.
Dale did not dare to get up and leave the room. Lily had asked her
not to do so, and at the present period of their lives all Lily's
requests were sacred. They continued for some time to talk of Crofts
and his marriage; and when that subject was finished, they discussed
their own probable,--or, as it seemed now, improbable,--removal to
Guestwick. "It's going too far, mamma," said Lily, "to say that you
think we shall not go. It was only last night that you suggested it.
The truth is, John, that Hopkins came in and discoursed with the
most wonderful eloquence. Nobody dared to oppose Hopkins. He made us
almost cry; he was so pathetic."

"He has just been talking to me, too," said John, "as I came through
the squire's garden."

"And what has he been saying to you?" said Mrs. Dale.

"Oh, I don't know; not much." John, however, remembered well, at this
moment, all that the gardener had said to him. Did she know of that
encounter between him and Crosbie? and if she did know of it, in what
light did she regard it?

They had sat thus for an hour together, and Eames was not as yet an
inch nearer to his object. He had sworn to himself that he would not
leave the Small House without asking Lily to be his wife. It seemed
to him as though he would be guilty of falsehood towards the earl if
he did so. Lord De Guest had opened his house to him, and had asked
all the Dales there, and had offered himself up as a sacrifice at the
cruel shrine of a serious dinner-party, to say nothing of that easier
and lighter sacrifice which he had made in a pecuniary point of view,
in order that this thing might be done. Under such circumstances
Eames was too honest a man not to do it, let the difficulties in his
way be what they might.

He had sat there for an hour, and Mrs. Dale still remained with her
daughter. Should he get up boldly and ask Lily to put on her bonnet
and come out into the garden? As the thought struck him, he rose and
grasped at his hat. "I am going to walk back to Guestwick," said he.

"It was very good of you to come so far to see us."

"I was always fond of walking," he said. "The earl wanted me to ride,
but I prefer being on foot when I know the country, as I do here."

"Have a glass of wine before you go."

"Oh, dear, no. I think I'll go back through the squire's fields, and
out on the road at the white gate. The path is quite dry now."

"I dare say it is," said Mrs. Dale.

"Lily, I wonder whether you would come as far as that with me."
As the request was made Mrs. Dale looked at her daughter almost
beseechingly. "Do, pray do," said he; "it is a beautiful day for
walking."

The path proposed lay right across the field into which Lily had
taken Crosbie when she made her offer to let him off from his
engagement. Could it be possible that she should ever walk there
again with another lover? "No, John," she said; "not to-day, I think.
I am almost tired, and I had rather not go out."

"It would do you good," said Mrs. Dale.

"I don't want to be done good to, mamma. Besides, I should have to
come back by myself."

"I'll come back with you," said Johnny.

"Oh, yes; and then I should have to go again with you. But, John,
really I don't wish to walk to-day." Whereupon John Eames again put
down his hat.

"Lily," said he; and then he stopped. Mrs. Dale walked away to the
window, turning her back upon her daughter and visitor. "Lily, I have
come over here on purpose to speak to you. Indeed, I have come down
from London only that I might see you."

"Have you, John?"

"Yes, I have. You know well all that I have got to tell you. I loved
you before he ever saw you; and now that he has gone, I love you
better than I ever did. Dear Lily!" and he put out his hand to her.

"No, John; no," she answered.

"Must it be always no?"

"Always no to that. How can it be otherwise? You would not have me
marry you while I love another!"

"But he is gone. He has taken another wife."

"I cannot change myself because he is changed. If you are kind to me
you will let that be enough."

"But you are so unkind to me!"

"No, no; oh, I would wish to be so kind to you! John, here; take my
hand. It is the hand of a friend who loves you, and will always love
you. Dear John, I will do anything,--everything for you but that."

"There is only one thing," said he, still holding her by the hand,
but with his face turned from her.

"Nay; do not say so. Are you worse off than I am? I could not have
that one thing, and I was nearer to my heart's longings than you have
ever been. I cannot have that one thing; but I know that there are
other things, and I will not allow myself to be broken-hearted."

"You are stronger than I am," he said.

"Not stronger, but more certain. Make yourself as sure as I am, and
you, too, will be strong. Is it not so, mamma?"

"I wish it could be otherwise;--I wish it could be otherwise! If you
can give him any hope--"

"Mamma!"

"Tell me that I may come again,--in a year," he pleaded.

"I cannot tell you so. You may not come again,--not in this way. Do
you remember what I told you before, in the garden; that I loved him
better than all the world besides? It is still the same. I still love
him better than all the world. How, then, can I give you any hope?"

"But it will not be so for ever, Lily."

"For ever! Why should he not be mine as well as hers when that for
ever comes? John, if you understand what it is to love, you will say
nothing more of it. I have spoken to you more openly about this than
I have ever done to anybody, even to mamma, because I have wished to
make you understand my feelings. I should be disgraced in my own eyes
if I admitted the love of another man, after--after--. It is to me
almost as though I had married him. I am not blaming him, remember.
These things are different with a man."

She had not dropped his hand, and as she made her last speech was
sitting in her old chair with her eyes fixed upon the ground. She
spoke in a low voice, slowly, almost with difficulty; but still the
words came very clearly, with a clear, distinct voice which caused
them to be remembered with accuracy, both by Eames and Mrs. Dale. To
him it seemed to be impossible that he should continue his suit after
such a declaration. To Mrs. Dale they were terrible words, speaking
of a perpetual widowhood, and telling of an amount of suffering
greater even than that which she had anticipated. It was true that
Lily had never said so much to her as she had now said to John
Eames, or had attempted to make so clear an exposition of her own
feelings. "I should be disgraced in my own eyes if I admitted the
love of another man!" They were terrible words, but very easy to be
understood. Mrs. Dale had felt, from the first, that Eames was coming
too soon, that the earl and the squire together were making an effort
to cure the wound too quickly after its infliction; that time should
have been given to her girl to recover. But now the attempt had been
made, and words had been forced from Lily's lips, the speaking of
which would never be forgotten by herself.

"I knew that it would be so," said John.

"Ah, yes; you know it, because your heart understands my heart. And
you will not be angry with me, and say naughty, cruel words, as you
did once before. We will think of each other, John, and pray for each
other; and will always love one another. When we do meet let us be
glad to see each other. No other friend shall ever be dearer to me
than you are. You are so true and honest! When you marry I will tell
your wife what an infinite blessing God has given her."

"You shall never do that."

"Yes, I will. I understand what you mean; but yet I will."

"Good-by, Mrs. Dale," he said.

"Good-by, John. If it could have been otherwise with her, you should
have had all my best wishes in the matter. I would have loved you
dearly as my son; and I will love you now." Then she put up her lips
and kissed his face.

"And so will I love you," said Lily, giving him her hand again. He
looked longingly into her face as though he had thought it possible
that she also might kiss him: then he pressed her hand to his lips,
and without speaking any further farewell, took up his hat and left
the room.

"Poor fellow!" said Mrs. Dale.

"They should not have let him come," said Lily. "But they don't
understand. They think that I have lost a toy, and they mean to be
good-natured, and to give me another." Very shortly after that Lily
went away by herself, and sat alone for hours; and when she joined
her mother again at tea-time, nothing further was said of John
Eames's visit.

He made his way out by the front door, and through the churchyard,
and in this way on to the field through which he had asked Lily to
walk with him. He hardly began to think of what had passed till he
had left the squire's house behind him. As he made his way through
the tombstones he paused and read one, as though it interested him.
He stood a moment under the tower looking up at the clock, and then
pulled out his own watch, as though to verify the one by the other.
He made, unconsciously, a struggle to drive away from his thoughts
the facts of the late scene, and for some five or ten minutes he
succeeded. He said to himself a word or two about Sir Raffle and his
letters, and laughed inwardly as he remembered the figure of Rafferty
bringing in the knight's shoes. He had gone some half mile upon his
way before he ventured to stand still and tell himself that he had
failed in the great object of his life.

Yes; he had failed: and he acknowledged to himself, with bitter
reproaches, that he had failed, now and for ever. He told himself
that he had obtruded upon her in her sorrow with an unmannerly love,
and rebuked himself as having been not only foolish but ungenerous.
His friend the earl had been wont, in his waggish way, to call him
the conquering hero, and had so talked him out of his common sense
as to have made him almost think that he would be successful in his
suit. Now, as he told himself that any such success must have been
impossible, he almost hated the earl for having brought him to this
condition. A conquering hero, indeed! How should he manage to sneak
back among them all at the Manor House, crestfallen and abject in his
misery? Everybody knew the errand on which he had gone, and everybody
must know of his failure. How could he have been such a fool as to
undertake such a task under the eyes of so many lookers-on? Was it
not the case that he had so fondly expected success, as to think only
of his triumph in returning, and not of his more probable disgrace?
He had allowed others to make a fool of him, and had so made a fool
of himself that now all hope and happiness were over for him. How
could he escape at once out of the country,--back to London? How
could he get away without saying a word further to any one? That was
the thought that at first occupied his mind.

He crossed the road at the end of the squire's property, where the
parish of Allington divides itself from that of Abbot's Guest in
which the earl's house stands, and made his way back along the copse
which skirted the field in which they had encountered the bull, into
the high woods which were at the back of the park. Ah, yes; it had
been well for him that he had not come out on horseback. That ride
home along the high road and up to the Manor House stables would,
under his present circumstances, have been almost impossible to him.
As it was, he did not think it possible that he should return to
his place in the earl's house. How could he pretend to maintain his
ordinary demeanour under the eyes of those two old men? It would be
better for him to get home to his mother,--to send a message from
thence to the Manor, and then to escape back to London. So thinking,
but with no resolution made, he went on through the woods, and down
from the hill back towards the town till he again came to the little
bridge over the brook. There he stopped and stood a while with
his broad hand spread over the letters which he had cut in those
early days, so as to hide them from his sight. "What an ass I have
been,--always and ever!" he said to himself.

It was not only of his late disappointment that he was thinking, but
of his whole past life. He was conscious of his hobbledehoyhood,--of
that backwardness on his part in assuming manhood which had rendered
him incapable of making himself acceptable to Lily before she had
fallen into the clutches of Crosbie. As he thought of this he
declared to himself that if he could meet Crosbie again he would
again thrash him,--that he would so belabour him as to send him out
of the world, if such sending might possibly be done by fair beating,
regardless whether he himself might be called upon to follow him.
Was it not hard that for the two of them,--for Lily and for him
also,--there should be such punishment because of the insincerity of
that man? When he had thus stood upon the bridge for some quarter of
an hour, he took out his knife, and, with deep, rough gashes in the
wood, cut out Lily's name from the rail.

He had hardly finished, and was still looking at the chips as they
were being carried away by the stream, when a gentle step came close
up to him, and turning round, he saw that Lady Julia was on the
bridge. She was close to him, and had already seen his handiwork.
"Has she offended you, John?" she said.

"Oh, Lady Julia!"

"Has she offended you?"

"She has refused me, and it is all over."


[ILLUSTRATION: "She has refused me, and it is all over."]


"It may be that she has refused you, and that yet it need not be all
over. I am sorry that you have cut out the name, John. Do you mean to
cut it out from your heart?"

"Never. I would if I could, but I never shall."

"Keep to it as to a great treasure. It will be a joy to you in after
years, and not a sorrow. To have loved truly, even though you shall
have loved in vain, will be a consolation when you are as old as I
am. It is something to have had a heart."

"I don't know. I wish that I had none."

"And, John;--I can understand her feeling now; and indeed, I thought
all through that you were asking her too soon; but the time may yet
come when she will think better of your wishes."

"No, no; never. I begin to know her now."

"If you can be constant in your love you may win her yet. Remember
how young she is; and how young you both are. Come again in two
years' time, and then, when you have won her, you shall tell me that
I have been a good old woman to you both."

"I shall never win her, Lady Julia." As he spoke these last words
the tears were running down his cheeks, and he was weeping openly in
presence of his companion. It was well for him that she had come upon
him in his sorrow. When he once knew that she had seen his tears, he
could pour out to her the whole story of his grief; and as he did so
she led him back quietly to the house.




CHAPTER LV.

NOT VERY FIE FIE AFTER ALL.


It will perhaps be remembered that terrible things had been foretold
as about to happen between the Hartletop and Omnium families. Lady
Dumbello had smiled whenever Mr. Plantagenet Palliser had spoken
to her. Mr. Palliser had confessed to himself that politics were
not enough for him, and that Love was necessary to make up the full
complement of his happiness. Lord Dumbello had frowned latterly when
his eyes fell on the tall figure of the duke's heir; and the duke
himself,--that potentate, generally so mighty in his silence,--the
duke himself had spoken. Lady De Courcy and Lady Clandidlem were,
both of them, absolutely certain that the thing had been fully
arranged. I am, therefore, perfectly justified in stating that
the world was talking about the loves,--the illicit loves,--of Mr.
Palliser and Lady Dumbello.

And the talking of the world found its way down to that respectable
country parsonage in which Lady Dumbello had been born, and from
which she had been taken away to those noble halls which she now
graced by her presence. The talking of the world was heard at
Plumstead Episcopi, where still lived Archdeacon Grantly, the lady's
father; and was heard also at the deanery of Barchester, where lived
the lady's aunt and grandfather. By whose ill-mannered tongue the
rumour was spread in these ecclesiastical regions it boots not now to
tell. But it may be remembered that Courcy Castle was not far from
Barchester, and that Lady De Courcy was not given to hide her lights
under a bushel.

It was a terrible rumour. To what mother must not such a rumour
respecting her daughter be very terrible? In no mother's ears
could it have sounded more frightfully than it did in those of Mrs.
Grantly. Lady Dumbello, the daughter, might be altogether worldly;
but Mrs. Grantly had never been more than half worldly. In one moiety
of her character, her habits, and her desires, she had been wedded
to things good in themselves,--to religion, to charity, and to
honest-hearted uprightness. It is true that the circumstances of
her life had induced her to serve both God and Mammon, and that,
therefore, she had gloried greatly in the marriage of her daughter
with the heir of a marquis. She had revelled in the aristocratic
elevation of her child, though she continued to dispense books and
catechisms with her own hands to the children of the labourers of
Plumstead Episcopi. When Griselda first became Lady Dumbello the
mother feared somewhat lest her child should find herself unequal to
the exigencies of her new position. But the child had proved herself
more than equal to them, and had mounted up to a dizzy height of
success, which brought to the mother great glory and great fear also.
She delighted to think that her Griselda was great even among the
daughters of marquises; but she trembled as she reflected how deadly
would be the fall from such a height--should there ever be a fall!

But she had never dreamed of such a fall as this! She would have
said,--indeed, she often had said,--to the archdeacon that Griselda's
religious principles were too firmly fixed to be moved by outward
worldly matters; signifying, it may be, her conviction that that
teaching of Plumstead Episcopi had so fastened her daughter into a
groove, that all the future teaching of Hartlebury would not suffice
to undo the fastenings. When she had thus boasted no such idea as
that of her daughter running from her husband's house had ever come
upon her; but she had alluded to vices of a nature kindred to that
vice,--to vices into which other aristocratic ladies sometimes fell,
who had been less firmly grooved; and her boastings had amounted to
this,--that she herself had so successfully served God and Mammon
together, that her child might go forth and enjoy all worldly things
without risk of damage to things heavenly. Then came upon her this
rumour. The archdeacon told her in a hoarse whisper that he had been
recommended to look to it, that it was current through the world that
Griselda was about to leave her husband.

"Nothing on earth shall make me believe it," said Mrs. Grantly. But
she sat alone in her drawing-room afterwards and trembled. Then came
her sister, Mrs. Arabin, the dean's wife, over to the parsonage, and
in half-hidden words told the same story. She had heard it from Mrs.
Proudie, the bishop's wife. "That woman is as false as the father of
falsehoods," said Mrs. Grantly. But she trembled the more; and as
she prepared her parish work, could think of nothing but her child.
What would be all her life to come, what would have been all that
was past of her life, if this thing should happen to her? She would
not believe it; but yet she trembled the more as she thought of her
daughter's exaltation, and remembered that such things had been done
in that world to which Griselda now belonged. Ah! would it not have
been better for them if they had not raised their heads so high! And
she walked out alone among the tombs of the neighbouring churchyard,
and stood over the grave in which had been laid the body of her other
daughter. Could be it that the fate of that one had been the happier.

Very few words were spoken on the subject between her and the
archdeacon, and yet it seemed agreed among them that something should
be done. He went up to London, and saw his daughter,--not daring,
however, to mention such a subject. Lord Dumbello was cross with him,
and very uncommunicative. Indeed both the archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly
had found that their daughter's house was not comfortable to them,
and as they were sufficiently proud among their own class they had
not cared to press themselves on the hospitality of their son-in-law.
But he had been able to perceive that all was not right in the house
in Carlton Gardens. Lord Dumbello was not gracious with his wife, and
there was something in the silence, rather than in the speech, of
men, which seemed to justify the report which had reached him.

"He is there oftener than he should be," said the archdeacon. "And I
am sure of this, at least, that Dumbello does not like it."

"I will write to her," said Mrs. Grantly at last. "I am still her
mother;--I will write to her. It may be that she does not know what
people say of her."

And Mrs. Grantly did write.


   Plumstead, April, 186--.

   DEAREST GRISELDA,

   It seems sometimes that you have been moved so far away
   from me that I have hardly a right to concern myself more
   in the affairs of your daily life, and I know that it
   is impossible that you should refer to me for advice or
   sympathy, as you would have done had you married some
   gentleman of our own standing. But I am quite sure that
   my child does not forget her mother, or fail to look back
   upon her mother's love; and that she will allow me to
   speak to her if she be in trouble, as I would to any other
   child whom I had loved and cherished. I pray God that I
   may be wrong in supposing that such trouble is near you.
   If I am so you will forgive me my solicitude.

   Rumours have reached us from more than one quarter
   that--Oh! Griselda, I hardly know in what words to conceal
   and yet to declare that which I have to write. They say
   that you are intimate with Mr. Palliser, the nephew of
   the duke, and that your husband is much offended. Perhaps
   I had better tell you all, openly, cautioning you not
   to suppose that I have believed it. They say that it
   is thought that you are going to put yourself under Mr.
   Palliser's protection. My dearest child, I think you can
   imagine with what an agony I write these words,--with what
   terrible grief I must have been oppressed before I could
   have allowed myself to entertain the thoughts which have
   produced them. Such things are said openly in Barchester,
   and your father, who has been in town and has seen you,
   feels himself unable to tell me that my mind may be at
   rest.

   I will not say to you a word as to the injury in a worldly
   point of view which would come to you from any rupture
   with your husband. I believe that you can see what would
   be the effect of so terrible a step quite as plainly as I
   can show it you. You would break the heart of your father,
   and send your mother to her grave;--but it is not even
   on that that I may most insist. It is this,--that you
   would offend your God by the worst sin that a woman can
   commit, and cast yourself into a depth of infamy in which
   repentance before God is almost impossible, and from which
   escape before man is not permitted.

   I do not believe it, my dearest, dearest child,--my only
   living daughter; I do not believe what they have said to
   me. But as a mother I have not dared to leave the slander
   unnoticed. If you will write to me and say that it is not
   so, you will make me happy again, even though you should
   rebuke me for my suspicion.

   Believe that at all times, and under all circumstances,
   I am still your loving mother, as I was in other days.

   SUSAN GRANTLY.


We will now go back to Mr. Palliser as he sat in his chambers at the
Albany, thinking of his love. The duke had cautioned him, and the
duke's agent had cautioned him; and he, in spite of his high feeling
of independence, had almost been made to tremble. All his thousands
a year were in the balance, and perhaps everything on which depended
his position before the world. But, nevertheless, though he did
tremble, he resolved to persevere. Statistics were becoming dry to
him, and love was very sweet. Statistics, he thought, might be made
as enchanting as ever, if only they could be mingled with love. The
mere idea of loving Lady Dumbello had seemed to give a salt to his
life of which he did not now know how to rob himself. It is true that
he had not as yet enjoyed many of the absolute blessings of love,
seeing that his conversations with Lady Dumbello had never been
warmer than those which have been repeated in these pages; but his
imagination had been at work; and now that Lady Dumbello was fully
established at her house in Carlton Gardens, he was determined to
declare his passion on the first convenient opportunity. It was
sufficiently manifest to him that the world expected him to do so,
and that the world was already a little disposed to find fault with
the slowness of his proceedings.

He had been once at Carlton Gardens since the season had commenced,
and the lady had favoured him with her sweetest smile. But he had
only been half a minute alone with her, and during that half-minute
had only time to remark that he supposed she would now remain in
London for the season.

"Oh, yes," she had answered, "we shall not leave till July."
Nor could he leave till July, because of the exigencies of his
statistics. He therefore had before him two, if not three, clear
months in which to manoeuvre, to declare his purposes, and prepare
for the future events of his life. As he resolved on a certain
morning that he would say his first tender word to Lady Dumbello that
very night, in the drawing-room of Lady De Courcy, where he knew that
he should meet her, a letter came to him by the post. He well knew
the hand and the intimation which it would contain. It was from the
duke's agent, Mr. Fothergill, and informed him that a certain sum of
money had been placed to his credit at his banker's. But the letter
went further, and informed him also that the duke had given his agent
to understand that special instructions would be necessary before the
next quarterly payment could be made. Mr. Fothergill said nothing
further, but Mr. Palliser understood it all. He felt his blood run
cold round his heart; but, nevertheless, he determined that he would
not break his word to Lady De Courcy that night.

And Lady Dumbello received her letter also on the same morning. She
was being dressed as she read it, and the maidens who attended her
found no cause to suspect that anything in the letter had excited her
ladyship. Her ladyship was not often excited, though she was vigilant
in exacting from them their utmost cares. She read her letter,
however, very carefully, and as she sat beneath the toilet implements
of her maidens thought deeply of the tidings which had been brought
to her. She was angry with no one;--she was thankful to no one. She
felt no special love for any person concerned in the matter. Her
heart did not say, "Oh, my lord and husband!" or, "Oh, my lover!" or,
"Oh, my mother, the friend of my childhood!" But she became aware
that matter for thought had been brought before her, and she did
think. "Send my love to Lord Dumbello," she said, when the operations
were nearly completed, "and tell him that I shall be so glad to see
him if he will come to me while I am at breakfast."

"Yes, my lady." And then the message came back: "His lordship would
be with her ladyship certainly."

"Gustavus," she said, as soon as she had seated herself discreetly in
her chair, "I have had a letter from my mother, which you had better
read;" and she handed to him the document. "I do not know what I
have done to deserve such suspicions from her; but she lives in the
country, and has probably been deceived by ill-natured people. At any
rate you must read it, and tell me what I should do."

We may predicate from this that Mr. Palliser's chance of being able
to shipwreck himself upon that rock was but small, and that he would,
in spite of himself, be saved from his uncle's anger. Lord Dumbello
took the letter and read it very slowly, standing, as he did so, with
his back to the fire. He read it very slowly, and his wife, though
she never turned her face directly upon his, could perceive that he
became very red, that he was fluttered and put beyond himself, and
that his answer was not ready. She was well aware that his conduct
to her during the last three months had been much altered from his
former usages; that he had been rougher with her in his speech when
alone, and less courteous in his attention when in society; but she
had made no complaint or spoken a word to show him that she had
marked the change. She had known, moreover, the cause of his altered
manner, and having considered much, had resolved that she would live
it down. She had declared to herself that she had done no deed and
spoken no word that justified suspicion, and therefore she would make
no change in her ways, or show herself to be conscious that she was
suspected. But now,--having her mother's letter in her hand,--she
could bring him to an explanation without making him aware that
she had ever thought that he had been jealous of her. To her, her
mother's letter was a great assistance. It justified a scene like
this, and enabled her to fight her battle after her own fashion. As
for eloping with any Mr. Palliser, and giving up the position which
she had won;--no, indeed! She had been fastened in her grooves
too well for that! Her mother, in entertaining any fear on such a
subject, had shown herself to be ignorant of the solidity of her
daughter's character.

"Well, Gustavus," she said at last. "You must say what answer I shall
make, or whether I shall make any answer." But he was not even yet
ready to instruct her. So he unfolded the letter and read it again,
and she poured out for herself a cup of tea.

"It's a very serious matter," said he.

"Yes, it is serious; I could not but think such a letter from my
mother to be serious. Had it come from any one else I doubt whether
I should have troubled you; unless, indeed, it had been from any as
near to you as she is to me. As it is, you cannot but feel that I am
right."

"Right! Oh, yes, you are right,--quite right to tell me; you should
tell me everything. D---- them!" But whom he meant to condemn he did
not explain.

"I am above all things averse to cause you trouble," she said. "I
have seen some little things of late--"

"Has he ever said anything to you?"

"Who,--Mr. Palliser? Never a word."

"He has hinted at nothing of this kind?"

"Never a word. Had he done so, I must have made you understand that
he could not have been allowed again into my drawing-room." Then
again he read the letter, or pretended to do so.

"Your mother means well," he said.

"Oh, yes, she means well. She has been foolish to believe the
tittle-tattle that has reached her,--very foolish to oblige me to
give you this annoyance."

"Oh, as for that, I'm not annoyed. By Jove, no. Come, Griselda, let
us have it all out; other people have said this, and I have been
unhappy. Now, you know it all."

"Have I made you unhappy?"

"Well, no; not you. Don't be hard upon me when I tell you the whole
truth. Fools and brutes have whispered things that have vexed me.
They may whisper till the devil fetches them, but they shan't annoy
me again. Give me a kiss, my girl." And he absolutely put out his
arms and embraced her. "Write a good-natured letter to your mother,
and ask her to come up for a week in May. That'll be the best thing;
and then she'll understand. By Jove, it's twelve o'clock. Good-by."

Lady Dumbello was well aware that she had triumphed, and that her
mother's letter had been invaluable to her. But it had been used, and
therefore she did not read it again. She ate her breakfast in quiet
comfort, looking over a milliner's French circular as she did so; and
then, when the time for such an operation had fully come, she got to
her writing-table and answered her mother's letter.


   DEAR MAMMA [she said],

   I thought it best to show your letter at once to Lord
   Dumbello. He said that people would be ill-natured, and
   seemed to think that the telling of such stories could
   not be helped. As regards you, he was not a bit angry,
   but said that you and papa had better come to us for a
   week about the end of next month. Do come. We are to
   have rather a large dinner-party on the 23rd. His Royal
   Highness is coming, and I think papa would like to meet
   him. Have you observed that those very high bonnets have
   all gone out: I never liked them; and as I had got a hint
   from Paris, I have been doing my best to put them down. I
   do hope nothing will prevent your coming.

   Your affectionate daughter,

   G. DUMBELLO.

   Carlton Gardens, Wednesday.


Mrs. Grantly was aware, from the moment in which she received the
letter, that she had wronged her daughter by her suspicions. It did
not occur to her to disbelieve a word that was said in the letter,
or an inference that was implied. She had been wrong, and rejoiced
that it was so. But nevertheless there was that in the letter which
annoyed and irritated her, though she could not explain to herself
the cause of her annoyance. She had thrown all her heart into that
which she had written, but in the words which her child had written
not a vestige of heart was to be found. In that reconciling of God
and Mammon which Mrs. Grantly had carried on so successfully in the
education of her daughter, the organ had not been required, and had
become withered, if not defunct, through want of use.

"We will not go there, I think," said Mrs. Grantly, speaking to her
husband.

"Oh dear, no; certainly not. If you want to go to town at all, I will
take rooms for you. And as for his Royal Highness--! I have a great
respect for his Royal Highness, but I do not in the least desire to
meet him at Dumbello's table."

And so that matter was settled, as regarded the inhabitants of
Plumstead Episcopi.

And whither did Lord Dumbello betake himself when he left his wife's
room in so great a hurry at twelve o'clock? Not to the Park, nor to
Tattersall's, nor to a Committee-room of the House of Commons, nor
yet to the bow-window of his club. But he went straight to a great
jeweller's in Ludgate-hill, and there purchased a wonderful green
necklace, very rare and curious, heavy with green sparkling drops,
with three rows of shining green stones embedded in chaste gold,--a
necklace amounting almost to a jewelled cuirass in weight and
extent. It had been in all the exhibitions, and was very costly and
magnificent. While Lady Dumbello was still dressing in the evening
this was brought to her with her lord's love, as his token of renewed
confidence; and Lady Dumbello, as she counted the sparkles, triumphed
inwardly, telling herself that she had played her cards well.

But while she counted the sparkles produced by her full
reconciliation with her lord, poor Plantagenet Palliser was still
trembling in his ignorance. If only he could have been allowed to see
Mrs. Grantly's letter, and the lady's answer, and the lord's present!
But no such seeing was vouchsafed to him, and he was carried off in
his brougham to Lady De Courcy's house, twittering with expectant
love, and trembling with expectant ruin. To this conclusion he had
come at any rate, that if anything was to be done, it should be
done now. He would speak a word of love, and prepare his future in
accordance with the acceptance it might receive.

Lady De Courcy's rooms were very crowded when he arrived there. It
was the first great crushing party of the season, and all the world
had been collected into Portman Square. Lady De Courcy was smiling as
though her lord had no teeth, as though her eldest son's condition
was quite happy, and all things were going well with the De Courcy
interests. Lady Margaretta was there behind her, bland without
and bitter within; and Lady Rosina also, at some further distance,
reconciled to this world's vanity and finery because there was to
be no dancing. And the married daughters of the house were there
also, striving to maintain their positions on the strength of their
undoubted birth, but subjected to some snubbing by the lowness
of their absolute circumstances. Gazebee was there, happy in the
absolute fact of his connection with an earl, and blessed with the
consideration that was extended to him as an earl's son-in-law. And
Crosbie, also, was in the rooms,--was present there, though he had
sworn to himself that he would no longer dance attendance on the
countess, and that he would sever himself away from the wretchedness
of the family. But if he gave up them and their ways, what else would
then be left to him? He had come, therefore, and now stood alone,
sullen, in a corner, telling himself that all was vanity. Yes; to the
vain all will be vanity; and to the poor of heart all will be poor.

Lady Dumbello was there in a small inner room, seated on a couch to
which she had been brought on her first arrival at the house, and
on which she would remain till she departed. From time to time some
very noble or very elevated personage would come before her and say
a word, and she would answer that elevated personage with another
word; but nobody had attempted with her the task of conversation. It
was understood that Lady Dumbello did not converse,--unless it were
occasionally with Mr. Palliser.

She knew well that Mr. Palliser was to meet her there. He had told
her expressly that he should do so, having inquired, with much
solicitude, whether she intended to obey the invitation of the
countess. "I shall probably be there," she had said, and now had
determined that her mother's letter and her husband's conduct to her
should not cause her to break her word. Should Mr. Palliser "forget"
himself, she would know how to say a word to him as she had known how
to say a word to her husband. Forget himself! She was very sure that
Mr. Palliser had been making up his mind to forget himself for some
months past.

He did come to her, and stood over her, looking unutterable things.
His unutterable things, however, were so looked, that they did not
absolutely demand notice from the lady. He did not sigh like a
furnace, nor open his eyes upon her as though there were two suns in
the firmament above her head, nor did he beat his breast or tear his
hair. Mr. Palliser had been brought up in a school which delights in
tranquillity, and never allows its pupils to commit themselves either
to the sublime or to the ridiculous. He did look an unutterable thing
or two; but he did it with so decorous an eye, that the lady, who was
measuring it all with great accuracy, could not, as yet, declare that
Mr. Palliser had "forgotten himself."

There was room by her on the couch, and once or twice, at Hartlebury,
he had ventured so to seat himself. On the present occasion, however,
he could not do so without placing himself manifestly on her dress.
She would have known how to fill a larger couch even than that,--as
she would have known, also, how to make room,--had it been her mind
to do so. So he stood still over her, and she smiled at him. Such
a smile! It was cold as death, flattering no one, saying nothing,
hideous in its unmeaning, unreal grace. Ah! how I hate the smile
of a woman who smiles by rote! It made Mr. Palliser feel very
uncomfortable;--but he did not analyze it, and persevered.

"Lady Dumbello," he said, and his voice was very low, "I have been
looking forward to meeting you here."

"Have you, Mr. Palliser? Yes; I remember that you asked me whether
I was coming."

"I did. Hm--Lady Dumbello!" and he almost trenched upon the outside
verge of that schooling which had taught him to avoid both the
sublime and the ridiculous. But he had not forgotten himself as yet,
and so she smiled again.

"Lady Dumbello, in this world in which we live, it is so hard to get
a moment in which we can speak." He had thought that she would move
her dress, but she did not.

"Oh, I don't know," she said; "one doesn't often want to say very
much, I think."

"Ah, no; not often, perhaps. But when one does want! How I do
hate these crowded rooms!" Yet, when he had been at Hartlebury he
had resolved that the only ground for him would be the crowded
drawing-room of some large London house. "I wonder whether you ever
desire anything beyond them?"

"Oh, yes," said she; "but I confess that I am fond of parties."

Mr. Palliser looked round and thought that he saw that he was
unobserved. He had made up his mind as to what he would do, and he
was determined to do it. He had in him none of that readiness which
enables some men to make love and carry off their Dulcineas at a
moment's notice, but he had that pluck which would have made himself
disgraceful in his own eyes if he omitted to do that as to the doing
of which he had made a solemn resolution. He would have preferred to
do it sitting, but, faute de mieux, seeing that a seat was denied to
him, he would do it standing.

"Griselda," he said,--and it must be admitted that his tone was not
bad. The word sank softly into her ear, like small rain upon moss,
and it sank into no other ear. "Griselda!"

"Mr. Palliser!" said she;--and though she made no scene, though
she merely glanced upon him once, he could see that he was wrong.

"May I not call you so?"

"Certainly not. Shall I ask you to see if my people are there?" He
stood a moment before her hesitating. "My carriage, I mean." As she
gave the command she glanced at him again, and then he obeyed her
orders.

When he returned she had left her seat; but he heard her name
announced on the stairs, and caught a glance of the back of her head
as she made her way gracefully down through the crowd. He never
attempted to make love to her again, utterly disappointing the hopes
of Lady De Courcy, Mrs. Proudie, and Lady Clandidlem.

As I would wish those who are interested in Mr. Palliser's fortunes
to know the ultimate result of this adventure, and as we shall not
have space to return to his affairs in this little history, I may,
perhaps, be allowed to press somewhat forward, and tell what Fortune
did for him before the close of that London season. Everybody knows
that in that spring Lady Glencora MacCluskie was brought out before
the world, and it is equally well known that she, as the only child
of the late Lord of the Isles, was the great heiress of the day. It
is true that the hereditary possession of Skye, Staffa, Mull, Arran,
and Bute went, with the title, to the Marquis of Auldreekie, together
with the counties of Caithness and Ross-shire. But the property in
Fife, Aberdeen, Perth, and Kincardine-shire, comprising the greater
part of those counties, and the coal-mines in Lanark, as well as the
enormous estate within the city of Glasgow, were unentailed, and went
to the Lady Glencora. She was a fair girl, with bright blue eyes
and short wavy flaxen hair, very soft to the eye. The Lady Glencora
was small in stature, and her happy round face lacked, perhaps, the
highest grace of female beauty. But there was ever a smile upon it,
at which it was very pleasant to look; and the intense interest
with which she would dance, and talk, and follow up every amusement
that was offered her, was very charming. The horse she rode was the
dearest love--oh! she loved him so dearly! And she had a little
dog that was almost as dear as the horse. The friend of her youth,
Sabrina Scott, was--oh, such a girl! And her cousin, the little Lord
of the Isles, the heir of the marquis, was so gracious and beautiful
that she was always covering him with kisses. Unfortunately he was
only six, so that there was hardly a possibility that the properties
should be brought together.

But Lady Glencora, though she was so charming, had even in this, her
first outset upon the world, given great uneasiness to her friends,
and caused the Marquis of Auldreekie to be almost wild with dismay.
There was a terribly handsome man about town, who had spent every
shilling that anybody would give him, who was very fond of brandy,
who was known, but not trusted, at Newmarket, who was said to be deep
in every vice, whose father would not speak to him;--and with him the
Lady Glencora was never tired of dancing. One morning she had told
her cousin the marquis, with a flashing eye,--for the round blue eye
could flash,--that Burgo Fitzgerald was more sinned against than
sinning. Ah me! what was a guardian marquis, anxious for the fate of
the family property, to do under such circumstances as that?

But before the end of the season the marquis and the duke were
both happy men, and we will hope that the Lady Glencora also was
satisfied. Mr. Plantagenet Palliser had danced with her twice, and
had spoken his mind. He had an interview with the marquis, which was
pre-eminently satisfactory, and everything was settled. Glencora no
doubt told him how she had accepted that plain gold ring from Burgo
Fitzgerald, and how she had restored it; but I doubt whether she ever
told him of that wavy lock of golden hair which Burgo still keeps in
his receptacle for such treasures.

"Plantagenet," said the duke, with quite unaccustomed warmth, "in
this, as in all things, you have shown yourself to be everything that
I could desire. I have told the marquis that Matching Priory, with
the whole estate, should be given over to you at once. It is the most
comfortable country-house I know. Glencora shall have The Horns as
her wedding present."

But the genial, frank delight of Mr. Fothergill pleased Mr. Palliser
the most. The heir of the Pallisers had done his duty, and Mr.
Fothergill was unfeignedly a happy man.




CHAPTER LVI.

SHOWING HOW MR. CROSBIE BECAME AGAIN A HAPPY MAN.


It has been told in the last chapter how Lady De Courcy gave a great
party in London in the latter days of April, and it may therefore be
thought that things were going well with the De Courcys; but I fear
the inference would be untrue. At any rate, things were not going
well with Lady Alexandrina, for she, on her mother's first arrival in
town, had rushed to Portman-square with a long tale of her
sufferings.

"Oh, mamma! you would not believe it; but he hardly ever speaks to
me."

"My dear, there are worse faults in a man than that."

"I am alone there all the day. I never get out. He never offers to
get me a carriage. He asked me to walk with him once last week, when
it was raining. I saw that he waited till the rain began. Only think,
I have not been out three evenings this month,--except to Amelia's;
and now he says he won't go there any more, because a fly is so
expensive. You can't believe how uncomfortable the house is."

"I thought you chose it, my dear."

"I looked at it, but, of course, I didn't know what a house ought
to be. Amelia said it wasn't nice, but he would have it. He hates
Amelia. I'm sure of that, for he says everything he can to snub her
and Mr. Gazebee. Mr. Gazebee is as good as he, at any rate. What do
you think? He has given Richard warning to go. You never saw him,
but he was a very good servant. He has given him warning, and he is
not talking of getting another man. I won't live with him without
somebody to wait upon me."

"My dearest girl, do not think of such a thing as leaving him."

"But I will think of it, mamma. You do not know what my life is in
that house. He never speaks to me,--never. He comes home before
dinner at half-past six, and when he has just shown himself he goes
to his dressing-room. He is always silent at dinner-time, and after
dinner he goes to sleep. He breakfasts always at nine, and goes away
at half-past nine, though I know he does not get to his office till
eleven. If I want anything, he says that it cannot be afforded. I
never thought before that he was stingy, but I am sure now that he
must be a miser at heart."

"It is better so than a spendthrift, Alexandrina."

"I don't know that it is better. He could not make me more unhappy
than I am. Unhappy is no word for it. What can I do, shut up in such
a house as that by myself from nine o'clock in the morning till six
in the evening? Everybody knows what he is, so that nobody will come
to see me. I tell you fairly, mamma, I will not stand it. If you
cannot help me, I will look for help elsewhere."

It may, at any rate, be said that things were not going well with
that branch of the De Courcy family. Nor, indeed, was it going well
with some other branches. Lord Porlock had married, not having
selected his partner for life from the choicest cream of the
aristocratic circles, and his mother, while endeavouring to say a
word in his favour, had been so abused by the earl that she had been
driven to declare that she could no longer endure such usage. She had
come up to London in direct opposition to his commands, while he was
fastened to his room by gout; and had given her party in defiance of
him, so that people should not say, when her back was turned, that
she had slunk away in despair.

"I have borne it," she said to Margaretta, "longer than any other
woman in England would have done. While I thought that any of you
would marry--"

"Oh, don't talk of that, mamma," said Margaretta, putting a little
scorn into her voice. She had not been quite pleased that even her
mother should intimate that all her chance was over, and yet she
herself had often told her mother that she had given up all thought
of marrying.

"Rosina will go to Amelia's," the countess continued; "Mr. Gazebee is
quite satisfied that it should be so, and he will take care that she
shall have enough to cover her own expenses. I propose that you and
I, dear, shall go to Baden-Baden."

"And about money, mamma?"

"Mr. Gazebee must manage it. In spite of all that your father says, I
know that there must be money. The expense will be much less so than
in our present way."

"And what will papa do himself?"

"I cannot help it, my dear. No one knows what I have had to bear.
Another year of it would kill me. His language has become worse and
worse, and I fear every day that he is going to strike me with his
crutch."

Under all these circumstances it cannot be said that the De Courcy
interests were prospering.

But Lady De Courcy, when she had made up her mind to go to
Baden-Baden, had by no means intended to take her youngest daughter
with her. She had endured for years, and now Alexandrina was unable
to endure for six months. Her chief grievance, moreover, was
this,--that her husband was silent. The mother felt that no woman had
a right to complain much of any such sorrow as that. If her earl had
sinned only in that way, she would have been content to have remained
by him till the last!

And yet I do not know whether Alexandrina's life was not quite as
hard as that of her mother. She barely exceeded the truth when
she said that he never spoke to her. The hours with her in her
new comfortless house were very long,--very long and very tedious.
Marriage with her had by no means been the thing that she had
expected. At home, with her mother, there had always been people
around her, but they had not always been such as she herself would
have chosen for her companions. She had thought that, when married,
she could choose and have those about her who were congenial to her;
but she found that none came to her. Her sister, who was a wiser
woman than she, had begun her married life with a definite idea, and
had carried it out; but this poor creature found herself, as it were,
stranded. When once she had conceived it in her heart to feel anger
against her husband,--and she had done so before they had been a week
together,--there was no love to bring her back to him again. She did
not know that it behoved her to look pleased when he entered the
room, and to make him at any rate think that his presence gave her
happiness. She became gloomy before she reached her new house, and
never laid her gloom aside. He would have made a struggle for some
domestic comfort, had any seemed to be within his reach. As it was,
he struggled for domestic propriety, believing that he might so best
bolster up his present lot in life. But the task became harder and
harder to him, and the gloom became denser and more dense. He did not
think of her unhappiness, but of his own; as she did not think of his
tedium, but of hers. "If this be domestic felicity!" he would say to
himself, as he sat in his arm-chair, striving to fix his attention
upon a book.

"If this be the happiness of married life!" she thought, as she
remained listless, without even the pretence of a book, behind her
teacups. In truth she would not walk with him, not caring for such
exercise round the pavement of a London square; and he had resolutely
determined that she should not run into debt for carriage hire. He
was not a curmudgeon with his money; he was no miser. But he had
found that in marrying an earl's daughter he had made himself a poor
man, and he was resolved that he would not also be an embarrassed
man.

When the bride heard that her mother and sister were about to escape
to Baden-Baden, there rushed upon her a sudden hope that she might
be able to accompany the flight. She would not be parted from her
husband, or at least not so parted that the world should suppose
that they had quarrelled. She would simply go away and make a long
visit,--a very long visit. Two years ago a sojourn with her mother
and Margaretta at Baden-Baden would not have offered to her much that
was attractive; but now, in her eyes, such a life seemed to be a life
in Paradise. In truth, the tedium of those hours in Princess Royal
Crescent had been very heavy.

But how could she contrive that it should be so? That conversation
with her mother had taken place on the day preceding the party, and
Lady De Courcy had repeated it with dismay to Margaretta.

"Of course he would allow her an income," Margaretta had coolly said.

"But, my dear, they have been married only ten weeks."

"I don't see why people are to be made absolutely wretched because
they are married," Margaretta answered. "I don't want to persuade her
to leave him, but if what she says is true, it must be very
uncomfortable."

Crosbie had consented to go to the party in Portman-square, but had
not greatly enjoyed himself on that festive occasion. He had stood
about moodily, speaking hardly a word to any one. His whole aspect of
life seemed to have been altered during the last few months. It was
here, in such spots as this that he had been used to find his glory.
On such occasions he had shone with peculiar light, making envious
the hearts of many who watched the brilliance of his career as they
stood around in dull quiescence. But now no one in those rooms had
been more dull, more silent, or less courted than he; and yet he was
established there as the son-in-law of that noble house. "Rather slow
work; isn't it?" Gazebee had said to him, having, after many efforts,
succeeded in reaching his brother-in-law in a corner. In answer to
this Crosbie had only grunted. "As for myself," continued Gazebee, "I
would a deal sooner be at home with my paper and slippers. It seems
to me these sort of gatherings don't suit married men." Crosbie had
again grunted, and had then escaped into another corner.

Crosbie and his wife went home together in a cab,--speechless both
of them. Alexandrina hated cabs,--but she had been plainly told that
in such vehicles, and in such vehicles only, could she be allowed
to travel. On the following morning he was at the breakfast-table
punctually by nine, but she did not make her appearance till after he
had gone to his office. Soon after that, however, she was away to her
mother and her sister; but she was seated grimly in her drawing-room
when he came in to see her, on his return to his house. Having said
some word which might be taken for a greeting, he was about to
retire; but she stopped him with a request that he would speak to
her.

"Certainly," said he. "I was only going to dress. It is nearly the
half-hour."

"I won't keep you very long, and if dinner is a few minutes late it
won't signify. Mamma and Margaretta are going to Baden-Baden."

"To Baden-Baden, are they?"

"Yes; and they intend to remain there--for a considerable time."
There was a little pause, and Alexandrina found it necessary to clear
her voice and to prepare herself for further speech by a little
cough. She was determined to make her proposition, but was rather
afraid of the manner in which it might be first received.

"Has anything happened at Courcy Castle?" Crosbie asked.

"No; that is, yes; there may have been some words between papa and
mamma; but I don't quite know. That, however, does not matter now.
Mamma is going, and purposes to remain there for the rest of the
year."

"And the house in town will be given up."

"I suppose so, but that will be as papa chooses. Have you any
objection to my going with mamma?"

What a question to be asked by a bride of ten weeks' standing! She
had hardly been above a month with her husband in her new house, and
she was now asking permission to leave it, and to leave him also, for
an indefinite number of months--perhaps for ever. But she showed no
excitement as she made her request. There was neither sorrow, nor
regret, nor hope in her face. She had not put on half the animation
which she had once assumed in asking for the use, twice a week,
of a carriage done up to look as though it were her own private
possession. Crosbie had then answered her with great sternness, and
she had wept when his refusal was made certain to her. But there was
to be no weeping now. She meant to go,--with his permission if he
would accord it, and without it if he should refuse it. The question
of money was no doubt important, but Gazebee should manage that,--as
he managed all those things.

"Going with them to Baden-Baden?" said Crosbie. "For how long?"

"Well; it would be no use unless it were for some time."

"For how long a time do you mean, Alexandrina? Speak out what you
really have to say. For a month?"

"Oh, more than that."

"For two months, or six, or as long as they may stay there?"

"We could settle that afterwards, when I am there." During all this
time she did not once look into his face, though he was looking hard
at her throughout.

"You mean," said he, "that you wish to go away from me."

"In one sense it would be going away, certainly."

"But in the ordinary sense? is it not so? When you talk of going to
Baden-Baden for an unlimited number of months, have you any idea of
coming back again?"

"Back to London, you mean?"

"Back to me,--to my house,--to your duties as a wife! Why cannot you
say at once what it is you want? You wish to be separated from me?"

"I am not happy here,--in this house."

"And who chose the house? Did I want to come here? But it is not
that. If you are not happy here, what could you have in any other
house to make you happy?"

"If you were left alone in this room for seven or eight hours at a
time, without a soul to come to you, you would know what I mean. And
even after that, it is not much better. You never speak to me when
you are here."

"Is it my fault that nobody comes to you? The fact is, Alexandrina,
that you will not reconcile yourself to the manner of life which
is suitable to my income. You are wretched because you cannot
have yourself driven round the Park. I cannot find you a carriage,
and will not attempt to do so. You may go to Baden-Baden, if you
please;--that is, if your mother is willing to take you."

"Of course I must pay my own expenses," said Alexandrina. But to
this he made no answer on the moment. As soon as he had given his
permission he had risen from his seat and was going, and her last
words only caught him in the doorway. After all, would not this be
the cheapest arrangement that he could make? As he went through his
calculations he stood up with his elbow on the mantel-piece in his
dressing-room. He had scolded his wife because she had been unhappy
with him; but had he not been quite as unhappy with her? Would it
not be better that they should part in this quiet, half-unnoticed
way;--that they should part and never again come together? He was
lucky in this, that hitherto had come upon them no prospect of any
little Crosbie to mar the advantages of such an arrangement. If he
gave her four hundred a year, and allowed Gazebee two more towards
the paying off of encumbrances, he would still have six on which to
enjoy himself in London. Of course he could not live as he had lived
in those happy days before his marriage, nor, independently of the
cost, would such a mode of life be within his reach. But he might go
to his club for his dinners; he might smoke his cigar in luxury; he
would not be bound to that wooden home which, in spite of all his
resolutions, had become almost unendurable to him. So he made his
calculations, and found that it would be well that his bride should
go. He would give over his house and furniture to Gazebee, allowing
Gazebee to do as he would about that. To be once more a bachelor, in
lodgings, with six hundred a year to spend on himself, seemed to him
now such a prospect of happiness that he almost became light-hearted
as he dressed himself. He would let her go to Baden-Baden.

There was nothing said about it at dinner, nor did he mention the
subject again till the servant had left the tea-things on the
drawing-room table. "You can go with your mother if you like it," he
then said.

"I think it will be best," she answered.

"Perhaps it will. At any rate you shall suit yourself."

"And about money?"

"You had better leave me to speak to Gazebee about that."

"Very well. Will you have some tea?" And then the whole thing was
finished.

On the next day she went after lunch to her mother's house, and never
came back again to Princess Royal Crescent. During that morning she
packed up those things which she cared to pack herself, and sent her
sisters there, with an old family servant, to bring away whatever
else might be supposed to belong to her. "Dear, dear," said Amelia,
"what trouble I had in getting these things together for them, and
only the other day. I can't but think she's wrong to go away."

"I don't know," said Margaretta. "She has not been so lucky as you
have in the man she has married. I always felt that she would find it
difficult to manage him."

"But, my dear, she has not tried. She has given up at once. It isn't
management that was wanting. The fact is that when Alexandrina began
she didn't make up her mind to the kind of thing she was coming to.
I did. I knew it wasn't to be all party-going and that sort of thing.
But I must own that Crosbie isn't the same sort of man as Mortimer.
I don't think I could have gone on with him. You might as well have
those small books put up; he won't care about them." And in this way
Crosbie's house was dismantled.

She saw him no more, for he made no farewell visit to the house in
Portman Square. A note had been brought to him at his office: "I
am here with mamma, and may as well say good-by now. We start on
Tuesday. If you wish to write, you can send your letters to the
housekeeper here. I hope you will make yourself comfortable, and that
you will be well. Yours affectionately, A. C." He made no answer to
it, but went that day and dined at his club.

"I haven't seen you this age," said Montgomerie Dobbs.

"No. My wife is going abroad with her mother, and while she is away I
shall come back here again."

There was nothing more said to him, and no one ever made any inquiry
about his domestic affairs. It seemed to him now as though he had no
friend sufficiently intimate with him to ask him after his wife or
family. She was gone, and in a month's time he found himself again in
Mount Street,--beginning the world with five hundred a year, not six.
For Mr. Gazebee, when the reckoning came, showed him that a larger
income at the present moment was not possible for him. The countess
had for a long time refused to let Lady Alexandrina go with her on so
small a pittance as four hundred and fifty;--and then were there not
the insurances to be maintained?

But I think he would have consented to accept his liberty with three
hundred a year,--so great to him was the relief.




CHAPTER LVII.

LILIAN DALE VANQUISHES HER MOTHER.


Mrs. Dale had been present during the interview in which John Eames
had made his prayer to her daughter, but she had said little or
nothing on that occasion. All her wishes had been in favour of the
suitor, but she had not dared to express them, neither had she dared
to leave the room. It had been hard upon him to be thus forced to
declare his love in the presence of a third person, but he had done
it, and had gone away with his answer. Then, when the thing was over,
Lily, without any communion with her mother, took herself off, and
was no more seen till the evening hours had come on, in which it was
natural that they should be together again. Mrs. Dale, when thus
alone, had been able to think of nothing but this new suit for her
daughter's hand. If only it might be accomplished! If any words from
her to Lily might be efficacious to such an end! And yet, hitherto,
she had been afraid almost to utter a word.

She knew that it was very difficult. She declared to herself over
and over that he had come too soon,--that the attempt had been made
too quickly after that other shipwreck. How was it possible that the
ship should put to sea again at once, with all her timbers so rudely
strained? And yet, now that the attempt had been made, now that Eames
had uttered his request and been sent away with an answer, she felt
that she must at once speak to Lily on the subject, if ever she were
to speak upon it. She thought that she understood her child and all
her feelings. She recognized the violence of the shock which must be
encountered before Lily could be brought to acknowledge such a change
in her heart. But if the thing could be done, Lily would be a happy
woman. When once done it would be in all respects a blessing. And
if it were not done, might not Lily's life be blank, lonely, and
loveless to the end? Yet when Lily came down in the evening, with
some light, half-joking word on her lips, as was usual to her, Mrs.
Dale was still afraid to venture upon her task.

"I suppose, mamma, we may consider it as a settled thing that
everything must be again unpacked, and that the lodging scheme will
be given up."

"I don't know that, my dear."

"Oh, but I do--after what you said just now. What geese everybody
will think us!"

"I shouldn't care a bit for that, if we didn't think ourselves geese,
or if your uncle did not think us so."

"I believe he would think we were swans. If I had ever thought he
would be so much in earnest about it, or that he would ever have
cared about our being here, I would never have voted for going. But
he is so strange. He is affectionate when he ought to be angry, and
ill-natured when he ought to be gentle and kind."

"He has, at any rate, given us reason to feel sure of his affection."

"For us girls, I never doubted it. But, mamma, I don't think I could
face Mrs. Boyce. Mrs. Hearn and Mrs. Crump would be very bad, and
Hopkins would come down upon us terribly when he found that we had
given way. But Mrs. Boyce would be worse than any of them. Can't you
fancy the tone of her congratulations?"

"I think I should survive Mrs. Boyce."

"Ah, yes; because we should have to go and tell her. I know your
cowardice of old, mamma; don't I? And Bell wouldn't care a bit,
because of her lover. Mrs. Boyce will be nothing to her. It is I that
must bear it all. Well, I don't mind; I'll vote for staying if you
will promise to be happy here. Oh, mamma, I'll vote for anything if
you will be happy."

"And will you be happy?"

"Yes, as happy as the day is long. Only I know we shall never see
Bell. People never do see each other when they live just at that
distance. It's too near for long visits, and too far for short
visits. I'll tell you what; we might make arrangements each to walk
half-way, and meet at the corner of Lord De Guest's wood. I wonder
whether they'd let us put up a seat there. I think we might have a
little house and carry sandwiches and a bottle of beer. Couldn't we
see something of each other in that way?"

Thus it came to be the fixed idea of both of them that they would
abandon their plan of migrating to Guestwick, and on this subject
they continued to talk over their tea-table; but on that evening Mrs.
Dale ventured to say nothing about John Eames.

But they did not even yet dare to commence the work of reconstructing
their old home. Bell must come back before they would do that, and
the express assent of the squire must be formally obtained. Mrs. Dale
must, in a degree, acknowledge herself to have been wrong, and ask to
be forgiven for her contumacy.

"I suppose the three of us had better go up in sackcloth, and throw
ashes on our foreheads as we meet Hopkins in the garden," said Lily,
"and then I know he'll heap coals of fire on our heads by sending us
an early dish of peas. And Dingles would bring us in a pheasant, only
that pheasants don't grow in May."

"If the sackcloth doesn't take an unpleasanter shape than that, I
shan't mind it."

"That's because you've got no delicate feelings. And then uncle
Christopher's gratitude!"

"Ah! I shall feel that."

"But, mamma, we'll wait till Bell comes home. She shall decide. She
is going away, and therefore she'll be free from prejudice. If uncle
offers to paint the house,--and I know he will,--then I shall be
humbled to the dust."

But yet Mrs. Dale had said nothing on the subject which was nearest
to her heart. When Lily in pleasantry had accused her of cowardice,
her mind had instantly gone off to that other matter, and she had
told herself that she was a coward. Why should she be afraid of
offering her counsel to her own child? It seemed to her as though she
had neglected some duty in allowing Crosbie's conduct to have passed
away without hardly a word of comment on it between herself and Lily.
Should she not have forced upon her daughter's conviction the fact
that Crosbie had been a villain, and as such should be discarded from
her heart? As it was, Lily had spoken the simple truth when she told
John Eames that she was dealing more openly with him on that affair
of her engagement than she had ever dealt, even with her mother.
Thinking of this as she sat in her own room that night, before she
allowed herself to rest, Mrs. Dale resolved that on the next morning
she would endeavour to make Lily see as she saw and think as she
thought.

She let breakfast pass by before she began her task, and even then
she did not rush at it at once. Lily sat herself down to her work
when the teacups were taken away, and Mrs. Dale went down to her
kitchen as was her wont. It was nearly eleven before she seated
herself in the parlour, and even then she got her work-box before her
and took out her needle.

"I wonder how Bell gets on with Lady Julia," said Lily.

"Very well, I'm sure."

"Lady Julia won't bite her, I know, and I suppose her dismay at the
tall footmen has passed off by this time."

"I don't know that they have any tall footmen."

"Short footmen then,--you know what I mean; all the noble belongings.
They must startle one at first, I'm sure, let one determine ever so
much not to be startled. It's a very mean thing, no doubt, to be
afraid of a lord merely because he is a lord; yet I'm sure I should
be afraid at first, even of Lord De Guest, if I were staying in the
house."

"It's well you didn't go then."

"Yes, I think it is. Bell is of a firmer mind, and I dare say she'll
get over it after the first day. But what on earth does she do there?
I wonder whether they mend their stockings in such a house as that."

"Not in public, I should think."

"In very grand houses they throw them away at once, I suppose. I've
often thought about it. Do you believe the Prime Minister ever has
his shoes sent to a cobbler?"

"Perhaps a regular shoemaker will condescend to mend a Prime
Minister's shoes."

"You do think they are mended then? But who orders it? Does he
see himself when there's a little hole coming, as I do? Does an
archbishop allow himself so many pairs of gloves in a year?"

"Not very strictly, I should think."

"Then I suppose it comes to this, that he has a new pair whenever
he wants them. But what constitutes the want? Does he ever say to
himself that they'll do for another Sunday? I remember the bishop
coming here once, and he had a hole at the end of his thumb. I was
going to be confirmed, and I remember thinking that he ought to have
been smarter."

"Why didn't you offer to mend it?"

"I shouldn't have dared for all the world."

The conversation had commenced itself in a manner that did not
promise much assistance to Mrs. Dale's project. When Lily got upon
any subject, she was not easily induced to leave it, and when her
mind had twisted itself in one direction, it was difficult to untwist
it. She was now bent on a consideration of the smaller social habits
of the high and mighty among us, and was asking her mother whether
she supposed that the royal children ever carried halfpence in their
pockets, or descended so low as fourpenny-bits.

"I suppose they have pockets like other children," said Lily.

But her mother stopped her suddenly,--

"Lily, dear, I want to say something to you about John Eames."

"Mamma, I'd sooner talk about the Royal Family just at present."

"But, dear, you must forgive me if I persist. I have thought much
about it, and I'm sure you will not oppose me when I am doing what
I think to be my duty."

"No, mamma; I won't oppose you, certainly."

"Since Mr. Crosbie's conduct was made known to you, I have mentioned
his name in your hearing very seldom."

"No, mamma, you have not. And I have loved you so dearly for your
goodness to me. Do not think that I have not understood and known how
generous you have been. No other mother ever was so good as you have
been. I have known it all, and thought of it every day of my life,
and thanked you in my heart for your trusting silence. Of course, I
understand your feelings. You think him bad and you hate him for what
he has done."

"I would not willingly hate any one, Lily."

"Ah, but you do hate him. If I were you, I should hate him; but I am
not you, and I love him. I pray for his happiness every night and
morning, and for hers. I have forgiven him altogether, and I think
that he was right. When I am old enough to do so without being wrong,
I will go to him and tell him so. I should like to hear of all his
doings and all his success, if it were only possible. How, then, can
you and I talk about him? It is impossible. You have been silent and
I have been silent,--let us remain silent."

"It is not about Mr. Crosbie that I wish to speak. But I think you
ought to understand that conduct such as his will be rebuked by all
the world. You may forgive him, but you should acknowledge--"

"Mamma, I don't want to acknowledge anything;--not about him. There
are things as to which a person cannot argue." Mrs. Dale felt
that this present matter was one as to which she could not argue.
"Of course, mamma," continued Lily, "I don't want to oppose you in
anything, but I think we had better be silent about this."

"Of course I am thinking only of your future happiness."

"I know you are; but pray believe me that you need not be alarmed.
I do not mean to be unhappy. Indeed, I think I may say I am not
unhappy; of course I have been unhappy,--very unhappy. I did think
that my heart would break. But that has passed away, and I believe I
can be as happy as my neighbours. We're all of us sure to have some
troubles, as you used to tell us when we were children."

Mrs. Dale felt that she had begun wrong, and that she would have been
able to make better progress had she omitted all mention of Crosbie's
name. She knew exactly what it was that she wished to say,--what were
the arguments which she desired to expound before her daughter; but
she did not know what language to use, or how she might best put her
thoughts into words. She paused for a while, and Lily went on with
her work as though the conversation was over. But the conversation
was not over.

"It was about John Eames, and not about Mr. Crosbie, that I wished to
speak to you."

"Oh, mamma!"

"My dear, you must not hinder me in doing what I think to be a duty.
I heard what he said to you and what you replied, and of course I
cannot but have my mind full of the subject. Why should you set
yourself against him in so fixed a manner?"

"Because I love another man." These words she spoke out loud, in a
steady, almost dogged tone, with a certain show of audacity,--as
though aware that the declaration was unseemly, but resolved that,
though unseemly, it must be made.

"But, Lily, that love, from its very nature, must cease; or, rather,
such love is not the same as that you felt when you thought that you
were to be his wife."

"Yes, it is. If she died, and he came to me in five years' time, I
would still take him. I should think myself constrained to take him."

"But she is not dead, nor likely to die."

"That makes no difference. You don't understand me, mamma."

"I think I do, and I want you to understand me also. I know how
difficult is your position; I know what your feelings are; but I know
this also, that if you could reason with yourself, and bring yourself
in time to receive John Eames as a dear friend--"

"I did receive him as a dear friend. Why not? He is a dear friend. I
love him heartily,--as you do."

"You know what I mean?"

"Yes, I do; and I tell you it is impossible."

"If you would make the attempt, all this misery would soon be
forgotten. If once you could bring yourself to regard him as
a friend, who might become your husband, all this would be
changed,--and I should see you happy!"

"You are strangely anxious to be rid of me, mamma!"

"Yes, Lily;--to be rid of you in that way. If I could see you put
your hand in his as his promised wife, I think that I should be the
happiest woman in the world."

"Mamma, I cannot make you happy in that way. If you really understood
my feelings, my doing as you propose would make you very unhappy. I
should commit a great sin,--the sin against which women should be
more guarded than against any other. In my heart I am married to that
other man. I gave myself to him, and loved him, and rejoiced in his
love. When he kissed me I kissed him again, and I longed for his
kisses. I seemed to live only that he might caress me. All that time
I never felt myself to be wrong,--because he was all in all to me. I
was his own. That has been changed,--to my great misfortune; but it
cannot be undone or forgotten. I cannot be the girl I was before he
came here. There are things that will not have themselves buried and
put out of sight, as though they had never been. I am as you are,
mamma,--widowed. But you have your daughter, and I have my mother. If
you will be contented, so will I." Then she got up and threw herself
on her mother's neck.

Mrs. Dale's argument was over now. To such an appeal as that last
made by Lily no rejoinder on her part was possible. After that she
was driven to acknowledge to herself that she must be silent. Years
as they rolled on might make a change, but no reasoning could be of
avail. She embraced her daughter, weeping over her,--whereas Lily's
eyes were dry. "It shall be as you will," Mrs. Dale murmured.

"Yes, as I will. I shall have my own way; shall I not? That is all
I want; to be a tyrant over you, and make you do my bidding in
everything, as a well-behaved mother should do. But I won't be stern
in my orderings. If you will only be obedient, I will be so gracious
to you! There's Hopkins again. I wonder whether he has come to knock
us down and trample upon us with another speech."

Hopkins knew very well to which window he must come, as only one
of the rooms was at the present time habitable. He came up to the
dining-room, and almost flattened his nose against the glass.

"Well, Hopkins," said Lily, "here we are." Mrs. Dale had turned her
face away, for she knew that the tears were still on her cheek.

"Yes, miss, I see you. I want to speak to your mamma, miss."

"Come round," said Lily, anxious to spare her mother the necessity
of showing herself at once. "It's too cold to open the window; come
round, and I'll open the door."

"Too cold!" muttered Hopkins, as he went. "They'll find it a deal
colder in lodgings at Guestwick." However, he went round through the
kitchen, and Lily met him in the hall.

"Well, Hopkins, what is it? Mamma has got a headache."

"Got a headache, has she? I won't make her headache no worse. It's
my opinion that there's nothing for a headache so good as fresh air.
Only some people can't abear to be blowed upon, not for a minute. If
you don't let down the lights in a greenhouse more or less every day,
you'll never get any plants,--never;--and it's just the same with the
grapes. Is I to go back and say as how I couldn't see her?"

"You can come in if you like; only be quiet, you know."

"Ain't I ollays quiet, miss? Did anybody ever hear me rampage? If you
please, ma'am, the squire's come home."

"What, home from Guestwick? Has he brought Miss Bell?"

"He ain't brought none but hisself, 'cause he come on horseback; and
it's my belief he's going back almost immediate. But he wants you to
come to him, Mrs. Dale."

"Oh, yes, I'll come at once."

"He bade me say with his kind love. I don't know whether that makes
any difference."

"At any rate, I'll come, Hopkins."

"And I ain't to say nothing about the headache?"

"About what?" said Mrs. Dale.

"No, no, no," said Lily. "Mamma will be there at once. Go and tell my
uncle, there's a good man," and she put up her hand and backed him
out of the room.

"I don't believe she's got no headache at all," said Hopkins,
grumbling, as he returned through the back premises. "What lies
gentlefolks do tell! If I said I'd a headache when I ought to be out
among the things, what would they say to me? But a poor man mustn't
never lie, nor yet drink, nor yet do nothing." And so he went back
with his message.

"What can have brought your uncle home?" said Mrs. Dale.

"Just to look after the cattle, and to see that the pigs are not all
dead. My wonder is that he should ever have gone away."

"I must go up to him at once."

"Oh, yes, of course."

"And what shall I say about the house?"

"It's not about that,--at least I think not. I don't think he'll
speak about that again till you speak to him."

"But if he does?"

"You must put your trust in Providence. Declare you've got a bad
headache, as I told Hopkins just now; only you would throw me over by
not understanding. I'll walk with you down to the bridge." So they
went off together across the lawn.

But Lily was soon left alone, and continued her walk, waiting for
her mother's return. As she went round and round the gravel paths,
she thought of the words that she had said to her mother. She had
declared that she also was widowed. "And so it should be," she
said, debating the matter with herself. "What can a heart be worth
if it can be transferred hither and thither as circumstances and
convenience and comfort may require? When he held me here in his
arms"--and, as the thoughts ran through her brain, she remembered the
very spot on which they had stood--"oh, my love!" she had said to him
then as she returned his kisses--"oh, my love, my love, my love!"
"When he held me here in his arms, I told myself that it was right,
because he was my husband. He has changed, but I have not. It might
be that I should have ceased to love him, and then I should have told
him so. I should have done as he did." But, as she came to this, she
shuddered, thinking of the Lady Alexandrina. "It was very quick," she
said, still speaking to herself; "very, very. But then men are not
the same as women." And she walked on eagerly, hardly remembering
where she was, thinking over it all, as she did daily; remembering
every little thought and word of those few eventful months in which
she had learned to regard Crosbie as her husband and master. She
had declared that she had conquered her unhappiness; but there were
moments in which she was almost wild with misery. "Tell me to forget
him!" she said. "It is the one thing which will never be forgotten."

At last she heard her mother's step coming down across the squire's
garden, and she took up her post at the bridge.

"Stand and deliver," she said, as her mother put her foot upon the
plank. "That is, if you've got anything worth delivering. Is anything
settled?"

"Come up to the house," said Mrs. Dale, "and I'll tell you all."




CHAPTER LVIII.

THE FATE OF THE SMALL HOUSE.


[ILLUSTRATION: (untitled)]

There was something in the tone of Mrs. Dale's voice, as she desired
her daughter to come up to the house, and declared that her budget of
news should be opened there, which at once silenced Lily's assumed
pleasantry. Her mother had been away fully two hours, during which
Lily had still continued her walk round the garden, till at last she
had become impatient for her mother's footstep. Something serious
must have been said between her uncle and her mother during those
long two hours. The interviews to which Mrs. Dale was occasionally
summoned at the Great House did not usually exceed twenty minutes,
and the upshot would be communicated to the girls in a turn or two
round the garden; but in the present instance Mrs. Dale positively
declined to speak till she was seated within the house.

"Did he come over on purpose to see you, mamma?"

"Yes, my dear, I believe so. He wished to see you, too; but I asked
his permission to postpone that till after I had talked to you."

"To see me, mamma? About what?"

"To kiss you, and bid you love him; solely for that. He has not a
word to say to you that will vex you."

"Then I will kiss him, and love him, too."

"Yes, you will when I have told you all. I have promised him solemnly
to give up all idea of going to Guestwick. So that is over."

"Oh, oh! And we may begin to unpack at once? What an episode in one's
life!"

"We may certainly unpack, for I have pledged myself to him; and he is
to go into Guestwick himself and arrange about the lodgings."

"Does Hopkins know it?"

"I should think not yet."

"Nor Mrs. Boyce! Mamma, I don't believe I shall be able to survive
this next week. We shall look such fools! I'll tell you what we'll
do;--it will be the only comfort I can have;--we'll go to work and
get everything back into its place before Bell comes home, so as to
surprise her."

"What! in two days?"

"Why not? I'll make Hopkins come and help, and then he'll not be so
bad. I'll begin at once and go to the blankets and beds, because I
can undo them myself."

"But I haven't half told you all; and, indeed, I don't know how to
make you understand what passed between us. He is very unhappy about
Bernard; Bernard has determined to go abroad, and may be away for
years."

"One can hardly blame a man for following up his profession."

"There was no blaming. He only said that it was very sad for him
that, in his old age, he should be left alone. This was before there
was any talk about our remaining. Indeed he seemed determined not
to ask that again as a favour. I could see that in his eye, and I
understood it from his tone. He went on to speak of you and Bell,
saying how well he loved you both; but that, unfortunately, his hopes
regarding you had not been fulfilled."

"Ah, but he shouldn't have had hopes of that sort."

"Listen, my dear, and I think that you will not feel angry with
him. He said that he felt his house had never been pleasant to you.
Then there followed words which I could not repeat, even if I could
remember them. He said much about myself, regretting that the feeling
between us had not been more kindly. 'But my heart,' he said, 'has
ever been kinder than my words.' Then I got up from where I was
seated, and going over to him, I told him that we would remain here."

"And what did he say?"

"I don't know what he said. I know that I was crying, and that he
kissed me. It was the first time in his life. I know that he was
pleased,--beyond measure pleased. After a while he became animated,
and talked of doing ever so many things. He promised that very
painting of which you spoke."

"Ah, yes, I knew it; and Hopkins will be here with the peas before
dinner-time to-morrow, and Dingles with his shoulders smothered with
rabbits. And then Mrs. Boyce! Mamma, he didn't think of Mrs. Boyce;
or, in very charity of heart, he would still have maintained his
sadness."

"Then he did not think of her; for when I left him he was not at all
sad. But I haven't told you half yet."

"Dear me, mamma; was there more than that?"

"And I've told it all wrong; for what I've got to tell now was said
before a word was spoken about the house. He brought it in just after
what he said about Bernard. He said that Bernard would, of course, be
his heir."

"Of course he will."

"And that he should think it wrong to encumber the property with any
charges for you girls."

"Mamma, did any one ever--"

"Stop, Lily, stop; and make your heart kinder towards him if you
can."

"It is kind; only I hate to be told that I'm not to have a lot of
money, as though I had ever shown a desire for it. I have never
envied Bernard his man-servant, or his maid-servant, or his ox, or
his ass, or anything that is his. To tell the truth I didn't even
wish it to be Bell's, because I knew well that there was somebody she
would like a great deal better than ever she could like Bernard."

"I shall never get to the end of my story."

"Yes, you will, mamma, if you persevere."

"The long and the short of it is this, that he has given Bell three
thousand pounds, and has given you three thousand also."

"But why me, mamma?" said Lily, and the colour of her cheeks became
red as she spoke. There should if possible be nothing more said about
John Eames; but whatever might or might not be the necessity of
speaking, at any rate, let there be no mistake. "But why me, mamma?"

"Because, as he explained to me, he thinks it right to do the same
by each of you. The money is yours at this moment,--to buy hair-pins
with, if you please. I had no idea that he could command so large a
sum."

"Three thousand pounds! The last money he gave me was half-a-crown,
and I thought that he was so stingy! I particularly wanted ten
shillings. I should have liked it so much better now if he had given
me a nice new five-pound note."

"You'd better tell him so."

"No; because then he'd give me that too. But with five pounds I
should have the feeling that I might do what I liked with it;--buy a
dressing-case, and a thing for a squirrel to run round in. But nobody
ever gives girls money like that, so that they can enjoy it."

"Oh, Lily; you ungrateful child!"

"No, I deny it. I'm not ungrateful. I'm very grateful, because his
heart was softened--and because he cried and kissed you. I'll be ever
so good to him! But how I'm to thank him for giving me three thousand
pounds, I cannot think. It's a sort of thing altogether beyond my
line of life. It sounds like something that's to come to me in
another world, but which I don't want quite yet. I am grateful, but
with a misty, mazy sort of gratitude. Can you tell me how soon I
shall have a new pair of Balmoral boots because of this money? If
that were brought home to me I think it would enliven my gratitude."

The squire, as he rode back to Guestwick, fell again from that
animation, which Mrs. Dale had described, into his natural sombre
mood. He thought much of his past life, declaring to himself the
truth of those words in which he had told his sister-in-law that his
heart had ever been kinder than his words. But the world, and all
those nearest to him in the world, had judged him always by his words
rather than by his heart. They had taken the appearance, which he
could not command or alter, rather than the facts, of which he had
been the master. Had he not been good to all his relations?--and yet
was there one among them that cared for him? "I'm almost sorry that
they are going to stay," he said to himself;--"I know that I shall
disappoint them." Yet when he met Bell at the Manor House he accosted
her cheerily, telling her with much appearance of satisfaction that
that flitting into Guestwick was not to be accomplished.

"I am so glad," said she. "It is long since I wished it."

"And I do not think your mother wishes it now."

"I am sure she does not. It was all a misunderstanding from the
first. When some of us could not do all that you wished, we thought
it better--" Then Bell paused, finding that she would get herself
into a mess if she persevered.

"We will not say any more about it," said the squire. "The thing is
over, and I am very glad that it should be so pleasantly settled. I
was talking to Dr. Crofts yesterday."

"Were you, uncle?"

"Yes; and he is to come and stay with me the day before he is
married. We have arranged it all. And we'll have the breakfast up at
the Great House. Only you must fix the day. I should say some time in
May. And, my dear, you'll want to make yourself fine; here's a little
money for you. You are to spend that before your marriage, you know."
Then he shambled away, and as soon as he was alone, again became sad
and despondent. He was a man for whom we may predicate some gentle
sadness and continued despondency to the end of his life's chapter.

We left John Eames in the custody of Lady Julia, who had overtaken
him in the act of erasing Lily's name from the railing which ran
across the brook. He had been premeditating an escape home to his
mother's house in Guestwick, and thence back to London, without
making any further appearance at the Manor House. But as soon as he
heard Lady Julia's step, and saw her figure close upon him, he knew
that his retreat was cut off from him. So he allowed himself to be
led away quietly up to the house. With Lady Julia herself he openly
discussed the whole matter,--telling her that his hopes were over,
his happiness gone, and his heart half-broken. Though he would
perhaps have cared but little for her congratulations in success, he
could make himself more amenable to consolation and sympathy from her
than from any other inmate in the earl's house. "I don't know what I
shall say to your brother," he whispered to her, as they approached
the side door at which she intended to enter.

"Will you let me break it to him? After that he will say a few words
to you of course, but you need not be afraid of him."

"And Mr. Dale?" said Johnny. "Everybody has heard about it. Everybody
will know what a fool I have made myself." She suggested that the
earl should speak to the squire, assured him that nobody would think
him at all foolish, and then left him to make his way up to his own
bedroom. When there he found a letter from Cradell, which had been
delivered in his absence; but the contents of that letter may best be
deferred to the next chapter. They were not of a nature to give him
comfort or to add to his sorrow.

About an hour before dinner there was a knock at his door, and the
earl himself, when summoned, made his appearance in the room. He was
dressed in his usual farming attire, having been caught by Lady Julia
on his first approach to the house, and had come away direct to his
young friend, after having been duly trained in what he ought to say
by his kind-hearted sister. I am not, however, prepared to declare
that he strictly followed his sister's teaching in all that he said
upon the occasion.

"Well, my boy," he began, "so the young lady has been perverse."

"Yes, my lord. That is, I don't know about being perverse. It is all
over."

"That's as may be, Johnny. As far as I know, not half of them accept
their lovers the first time of asking."

"I shall not ask her again."

"Oh, yes, you will. You don't mean to say you are angry with her for
refusing you."

"Not in the least. I have no right to be angry. I am only angry with
myself for being such a fool, Lord De Guest. I wish I had been dead
before I came down here on this errand. Now I think of it, I know
there are so many things which ought to have made me sure how it
would be."

"I don't see that at all. You come down again,--let me see,--it's May
now. Say you come when the shooting begins in September. If we can't
get you leave of absence in any other way, we'll make old Buffle come
too. Only, by George, I believe he'd shoot us all. But never mind;
we'll manage that. You keep up your spirits till September, and then
we'll fight the battle in another way. The squire shall get up a
little party for the bride, and my lady Lily must go then. You shall
meet her so; and then we'll shoot over the squire's land. We'll bring
you together so; you see if we don't. Lord bless me! Refused once! My
belief is, that in these days a girl thinks nothing of a man till she
has refused him half-a-dozen times."

"I don't think Lily is at all like that."

"Look here, Johnny. I have not a word to say against Miss Lily. I
like her very much, and think her one of the nicest girls I know.
When she's your wife, I'll love her dearly, if she'll let me. But
she's made of the same stuff as other girls, and will act in the same
way. Things have gone a little astray among you, and they won't right
themselves all in a minute. She knows now what your feelings are, and
she'll go on thinking of it, till at last you'll be in her thoughts
more than that other fellow. Don't tell me about her becoming an old
maid, because at her time of life she has been so unfortunate as to
come across a false-hearted man like that. It may take a little time;
but if you'll carry on and not be down-hearted, you'll find it will
all come right in the end. Everybody doesn't get all that they want
in a minute. How I shall quiz you about all this when you have been
two or three years married!"

"I don't think I shall ever be able to ask her again; and I feel
sure, if I do, that her answer will be the same. She told me in so
many words--; but never mind, I cannot repeat her words."

"I don't want you to repeat them; nor yet to heed them beyond their
worth. Lily Dale is a very pretty girl; clever, too, I believe, and
good, I'm sure; but her words are not more sacred than those of other
men or women. What she has said to you now, she means, no doubt; but
the minds of men and women are prone to change, especially when such
changes are conducive to their own happiness."

"At any rate I'll never forget your kindness, Lord De Guest."

"And there is one other thing I want to say to you, Johnny. A
man should never allow himself to be cast down by anything,--not
outwardly, to the eyes of other men."

"But how is he to help it?"

"His pluck should prevent him. You were not afraid of a roaring bull,
nor yet of that man when you thrashed him at the railway station.
You've pluck enough of that kind. You must now show that you've that
other kind of pluck. You know the story of the boy who would not cry
though the wolf was gnawing him underneath his frock. Most of us have
some wolf to gnaw us somewhere; but we are generally gnawed beneath
our clothes, so that the world doesn't see; and it behoves us so to
bear it that the world shall not suspect. The man who goes about
declaring himself to be miserable will be not only miserable, but
contemptible as well."

"But the wolf hasn't gnawed me beneath my clothes; everybody knows
it."

"Then let those who do know it learn that you are able to bear such
wounds without outward complaint. I tell you fairly that I cannot
sympathize with a lackadaisical lover."

"I know that I have made myself ridiculous to everybody. I wish I had
never come here. I wish you had never seen me."

"Don't say that, my dear boy; but take my advice for what it is
worth. And remember what it is that I say; with your grief I do
sympathize, but not with any outward expression of it;--not with
melancholy looks, and a sad voice, and an unhappy gait. A man should
always be able to drink his wine and seem to enjoy it. If he can't,
he is so much less of a man than he would be otherwise,--not so much
more, as some people seem to think. Now get yourself dressed, my dear
fellow, and come down to dinner as though nothing had happened to
you."

As soon as the earl was gone John looked at his watch and saw that
it still wanted some forty minutes to dinner. Fifteen minutes would
suffice for him to dress, and therefore there was time sufficient
for him to seat himself in his arm-chair and think over it all.
He had for a moment been very angry when his friend had told him
that he could not sympathize with a lackadaisical lover. It was an
ill-natured word. He felt it to be so when he heard it, and so he
continued to think during the whole of the half-hour that he sat in
that chair. But it probably did him more good than any word that the
earl had ever spoken to him,--or any other word that he could have
used. "Lackadaisical! I'm not lackadaisical," he said to himself,
jumping up from his chair, and instantly sitting down again. "I
didn't say anything to him. I didn't tell him. Why did he come to
me?" And yet, though he endeavoured to abuse Lord De Guest in his
thoughts, he knew that Lord De Guest was right, and that he was
wrong. He knew that he had been lackadaisical, and was ashamed of
himself; and at once resolved that he would henceforth demean himself
as though no calamity had happened to him. "I've a good mind to take
him at his word, and drink wine till I'm drunk." Then he strove to
get up his courage by a song.

   If she be not fair for me,
   What care I how--

"But I do care. What stuff it is a man writing poetry and putting
into it such lies as that! Everybody knows that he did care,--that
is, if he wasn't a heartless beast."

But nevertheless, when the time came for him to go down into the
drawing-room he did make the effort which his friend had counselled,
and walked into the room with less of that hang-dog look than the
earl and Lady Julia had expected. They were both there, as was also
the squire, and Bell followed him in less than a minute.

"You haven't seen Crofts to-day, John, have you?" said the earl.

"No; I haven't been anywhere his way!"

"His way! His ways are every way, I take it. I wanted him to come and
dine, but he seemed to think it improper to eat two dinners in the
same house two days running. Isn't that his theory, Miss Dale?"

"I'm sure I don't know, Lord De Guest. At any rate, it isn't mine."

So they went to their feast, and before his last chance was over John
Eames found himself able to go through the pretence of enjoying his
roast mutton.

There can, I think, be no doubt that in all such calamities as
that which he was now suffering, the agony of the misfortune is
much increased by the conviction that the facts of the case are
known to those round about the sufferer. A most warm-hearted and
intensely-feeling young gentleman might, no doubt, eat an excellent
dinner after being refused by the girl of his devotions, provided
that he had reason to believe that none of those in whose company
he ate it knew anything of his rejection. But the same warm-hearted
and intensely-feeling young gentleman would find it very difficult
to go through the ceremony with any appearance of true appetite or
gastronomic enjoyment, if he were aware that all his convives knew
all the facts of his little misfortune. Generally, we may suppose,
a man in such condition goes to his club for his dinner, or seeks
consolation in the shades of some adjacent Richmond or Hampton Court.
There he meditates on his condition in silence, and does ultimately
enjoy his little plate of whitebait, his cutlet and his moderate
pint of sherry. He probably goes alone to the theatre, and, in his
stall, speculates with a somewhat bitter sarcasm on the vanity of
the world. Then he returns home, sad indeed, but with a moderated
sadness, and as he puffs out the smoke of his cigar at the open
window,--with perhaps the comfort of a little brandy-and-water at
his elbow,--swears to himself that, "By Jove, he'll have another
try for it." Alone, a man may console himself, or among a crowd of
unconscious mortals; but it must be admitted that the position of
John Eames was severe. He had been invited down there to woo Lily
Dale, and the squire and Bell had been asked to be present at the
wooing. Had it all gone well, nothing could have been nicer. He would
have been the hero of the hour, and everybody would have sung for him
his song of triumph. But everything had not gone well, and he found
it very difficult to carry himself otherwise than lackadaisically. On
the whole, however, his effort was such that the earl gave him credit
for his demeanour, and told him when parting with him for the night
that he was a fine fellow, and that everything should go right with
him yet.

"And you mustn't be angry with me for speaking harshly to you," he
said.

"I wasn't a bit angry."

"Yes, you were; and I rather meant that you should be. But you
mustn't go away in dudgeon."

He stayed at the Manor House one day longer, and then he returned to
his room at the Income-tax Office, to the disagreeable sound of Sir
Raffle's little bell, and the much more disagreeable sound of Sir
Raffle's big voice.




CHAPTER LIX.

JOHN EAMES BECOMES A MAN.


Eames, when he was half way up to London in the railway carriage,
took out from his pocket a letter and read it. During the former
portion of his journey he had been thinking of other things; but
gradually he had resolved that it would be better for him not to
think more of those other things for the present, and therefore he
had recourse to his letter by way of dissipating his thoughts. It was
from Cradell, and ran as follows:--


   Income-Tax Office, May --, 186--.

   MY DEAR JOHN,--I hope the tidings which I have to give
   you will not make you angry, and that you will not think
   I am untrue to the great friendship which I have for you
   because of that which I am now going to tell you. There
   is no _man_--[and the word man was underscored]--there is
   no _man_ whose regard I value so highly as I do yours;
   and though I feel that you can have no just ground to be
   displeased with me after all that I have heard you say on
   many occasions, nevertheless, in matters of the heart it
   is very hard for one person to understand the sentiments
   of another, and when the affections of a lady are
   concerned, I know that quarrels will sometimes arise.


Eames, when he had got so far as this, on the first perusal of the
letter, knew well what was to follow. "Poor Caudle!" he said to
himself; "he's hooked, and he'll never get himself off the hook
again."


   But let that be as it may, the matter has now gone too
   far for any alteration to be made by me; nor would any
   mere earthly inducement suffice to change me. The claims
   of friendship are very strong, _but those of love are
   paramount_. Of course I know all that has passed between
   you and Amelia Roper. Much of this I had heard from
   you before, but the rest she has now told me with that
   pure-minded honesty which is the most remarkable feature
   in her character. She has confessed that at one time she
   felt attached to you, and that she was induced by your
   perseverance to allow you to regard her as your fiancy.
   [Fancy-girl he probably conceived to be the vulgar English
   for the elegant term which he used.] But all that must
   be over between you now. _Amelia has promised to be
   mine_--[this also was underscored]--and mine I intend that
   she shall be. That you may find in the kind smiles of
   L. D. consolation for any disappointment which this may
   occasion you, is the ardent wish of your true friend,

   JOSEPH CRADELL.

   P.S.--Perhaps I had better tell you the whole. Mrs. Roper
   has been in some trouble about her house. She is a little
   in arrears with her rent, and some bills have not been
   paid. As she explained that she has been brought into this
   by those dreadful Lupexes I have consented to take the
   house into my own hands, and have given bills to one or
   two tradesmen for small amounts. Of course she will take
   them up, but it was the credit that was wanting. She
   will carry on the house, but I shall, in fact, be the
   proprietor. I suppose it will not suit you now to remain
   here, but don't you think I might make it comfortable
   enough for some of our fellows; say half-a-dozen, or so?
   That is Mrs. Roper's idea, and I certainly think it is not
   a bad one. Our first efforts must be to get rid of the
   Lupexes. Miss Spruce goes next week. In the meantime we
   are all taking our meals up in our own rooms, so that
   there is nothing for the Lupexes to eat. But they don't
   seem to mind that, and still keep the sitting-room and
   best bedroom. We mean to lock them out after Tuesday, and
   send all their boxes to the public-house.


Poor Cradell! Eames, as he threw himself back upon his seat and
contemplated the depth of misfortune into which his friend had
fallen, began to be almost in love with his own position. He himself
was, no doubt, a very miserable fellow. There was only one thing
in life worth living for, and that he could not get. He had been
thinking for the last three days of throwing himself before a
locomotive steam-engine, and was not quite sure that he would not
do it yet; but, nevertheless, his place was a place among the gods
as compared to that which poor Cradell had selected for himself.
To be not only the husband of Amelia Roper, but to have been driven
to take upon himself as his bride's fortune the whole of his
future mother-in-law's debts! To find himself the owner of a very
indifferent lodging-house;--the owner as regarded all responsibility,
though not the owner as regarded any possible profit! And then, above
and almost worse than all the rest, to find himself saddled with the
Lupexes in the beginning of his career! Poor Cradell indeed!

Eames had not taken his things away from the lodging-house before he
left London, and therefore determined to drive to Burton Crescent
immediately on his arrival, not with the intention of remaining
there, even for a night, but that he might bid them farewell, speak
his congratulations to Amelia, and arrange for his final settlement
with Mrs. Roper. It should have been explained in the last chapter
that the earl had told him before parting with him that his want of
success with Lily would make no difference as regarded money. John
had, of course, expostulated, saying that he did not want anything,
and would not, under his existing circumstances, accept anything; but
the earl was a man who knew how to have his own way, and in this
matter did have it. Our friend, therefore, was a man of wealth when
he returned to London, and could tell Mrs. Roper that he would send
her a cheque for her little balance as soon as he reached his office.

He arrived in the middle of the day,--not timing his return at all
after the usual manner of Government clerks, who generally manage to
reach the metropolis not more than half an hour before the moment
at which they are bound to show themselves in their seats. But he
had come back two days before he was due, and had run away from the
country as though London in May to him were much pleasanter than the
woods and fields. But neither had London nor the woods and fields any
influence on his return. He had gone down that he might throw himself
at the feet of Lily Dale,--gone down, as he now confessed to himself,
with hopes almost triumphant, and he had returned because Lily Dale
would not have him at her feet. "I loved him,--him, Crosbie,--better
than all the world besides. It is still the same. I still love him
better than all the world." Those were the words which had driven him
back to London; and having been sent away with such words as those,
it was little matter to him whether he reached his office a day or
two sooner or later. The little room in the city, even with the
accompaniment of Sir Raffle's bell and Sir Raffle's voice, would be
now more congenial to him than Lady Julia's drawing-room. He would
therefore present himself to Sir Raffle on that very afternoon, and
expel some interloper from his seat. But he would first call in
Burton Crescent and say farewell to the Ropers.

The door was opened for him by the faithful Jemima. "Mr. Heames, Mr.
Heames! ho dear, ho dear!" and the poor girl, who had always taken
his side in the adventures of the lodging-house, raised her hands on
high and lamented the fate which had separated her favourite from its
fortunes. "I suppose you knows it all, Mister Johnny?" Mister Johnny
said that he believed he did know it all, and asked for the mistress
of the house. "Yes, sure enough, she's at home. She don't dare stir
out much, 'cause of them Lupexes. Ain't this a pretty game? No dinner
and no nothink! Them boxes is Miss Spruce's. She's agoing now, this
minute. You'll find 'em all upstairs in the drawen-room." So upstairs
into the drawing-room he went, and there he found the mother and
daughter, and with them Miss Spruce, tightly packed up in her bonnet
and shawl. "Don't, mother," Amelia was saying; "what's the good of
going on in that way? If she chooses to go, let her go."

"But she's been with me now so many years," said Mrs. Roper, sobbing;
"and I've always done everything for her! Haven't I, now, Sally
Spruce?" It struck Eames immediately that, though he had been an
inmate in the house for two years, he had never before heard that
maiden lady's Christian name. Miss Spruce was the first to see Eames
as he entered the room. It is probable that Mrs. Roper's pathos might
have produced some answering pathos on her part had she remained
unobserved, but the sight of a young man brought her back to her
usual state of quiescence. "I'm only an old woman," said she; "and
here's Mr. Eames come back again."

"How d'ye do, Mrs. Roper? how d'ye do,--Amelia? how d'ye do, Miss
Spruce?" and he shook hands with them all.

"Oh, laws," said Mrs. Roper, "you have given me such a start!"

"Dear me, Mr. Eames; only think of your coming back in that way,"
said Amelia.

"Well, what way should I come back? You didn't hear me knock at the
door, that's all. So Miss Spruce is really going to leave you?"

"Isn't it dreadful, Mr. Eames? Nineteen years we've been
together;--taking both houses together, Miss Spruce, we have,
indeed." Miss Spruce, at this point, struggled very hard to convince
John Eames that the period in question had in truth extended over
only eighteen years, but Mrs. Roper was authoritative, and would not
permit it. "It's nineteen years if it's a day. No one ought to know
dates if I don't, and there isn't one in the world understands her
ways unless it's me. Haven't I been up to your bedroom every night,
and with my own hand given you--" But she stopped herself, and was
too good a woman to declare before a young man what had been the
nature of her nightly ministrations to her guest.

"I don't think you'll be so comfortable anywhere else, Miss Spruce,"
said Eames.

"Comfortable! of course she won't," said Amelia. "But if I was mother
I wouldn't have any more words about it."

"It isn't the money I'm thinking of, but the feeling of it," said
Mrs. Roper. "The house will be so lonely like. I shan't know myself;
that I shan't. And now that things are all settled so pleasantly, and
that the Lupexes must go on Tuesday-- I'll tell you what, Sally; I'll
pay for the cab myself, and I'll start off to Dulwich by the omnibus
to-morrow, and settle it all out of my own pocket. I will indeed.
Come; there's the cab. Let me go down, and send him away."

"I'll do that," said Eames. "It's only sixpence, off the stand,"
Mrs. Roper called to him as he left the room. But the cabman got
a shilling, and John, as he returned, found Jemima in the act of
carrying Miss Spruce's boxes back to her room. "So much the better
for poor Caudle," said he to himself. "As he has gone into the trade
it's well that he should have somebody that will pay him."

Mrs. Roper followed Miss Spruce up the stairs and Johnny was left
with Amelia. "He's written to you, I know," said she, with her face
turned a little away from him. She was certainly very handsome, but
there was a hard, cross, almost sullen look about her, which robbed
her countenance of all its pleasantness. And yet she had no intention
of being sullen with him.

"Yes," said John. "He has told me how it's all going to be."

"Well?" she said.

"Well?" said he.

"Is that all you've got to say?"

"I'll congratulate you, if you'll let me."

"Psha;--congratulations! I hate such humbug. If you've no feelings
about it, I'm sure that I've none. Indeed I don't know what's the
good of feelings. They never did me any good. Are you engaged to
marry L. D.?"

"No, I am not."

"And you've nothing else to say to me?"

"Nothing,--except my hopes for your happiness. What else can I say?
You are engaged to marry my friend Cradell, and I think it will be a
happy match."

She turned away her face further from him, and the look of it became
even more sullen. Could it be possible that at such a moment she
still had a hope that he might come back to her?

"Good-by, Amelia," he said, putting out his hand to her.

"And this is to be the last of you in this house!"

"Well, I don't know about that. I'll come and call upon you, if
you'll let me, when you're married."

"Yes," she said, "that there may be rows in the house, and noise, and
jealousy,--as there have been with that wicked woman upstairs. Not
if I know it, you won't! John Eames, I wish I'd never seen you. I
wish we might have both fallen dead when we first met. I didn't think
ever to have cared for a man as I have cared for you. It's all trash
and nonsense and foolery; I know that. It's all very well for young
ladies as can sit in drawing-rooms all their lives, but when a woman
has her way to make in the world it's all foolery. And such a hard
way too to make as mine is!"

"But it won't be hard now."

"Won't it? But I think it will. I wish you would try it. Not that I'm
going to complain. I never minded work, and as for company, I can put
up with anybody. The world's not to be all dancing and fiddling for
the likes of me. I know that well enough. But--" and then she paused.

"What's the 'but' about, Amelia?"

"It's like you to ask me; isn't it?" To tell the truth he should not
have asked her. "Never mind. I'm not going to have any words with
you. If you've been a knave I've been a fool, and that's worse."

"But I don't think I have been a knave."

"I've been both," said the girl; "and both for nothing. After that
you may go. I've told you what I am, and I'll leave you to name
yourself. I didn't think it was in me to have been such a fool. It's
that that frets me. Never mind, sir; it's all over now, and I wish
you good-by."

I do not think that there was the slightest reason why John should
have again kissed her at parting, but he did so. She bore it, not
struggling with him; but she took his caress with sullen endurance.
"It'll be the last," she said. "Good-by, John Eames."

"Good-by, Amelia. Try to make him a good wife and then you'll
be happy." She turned up her nose at this, assuming a look of
unutterable scorn. But she said nothing further, and then he left
the room. At the parlour door he met Mrs. Roper, and had his parting
words with her.

"I am so glad you came," said she. "It was just that word you said
that made Miss Spruce stay. Her money is so ready, you know! And
so you've had it all out with her about Cradell. She'll make him a
good wife, she will indeed;--much better than you've been giving her
credit for."

"I don't doubt she'll be a very good wife."

"You see, Mr. Eames, it's all over now, and we understand each other;
don't we? It made me very unhappy when she was setting her cap at
you; it did indeed. She is my own daughter, and I couldn't go against
her;--could I? But I knew it wasn't in any way suiting. Laws, I know
the difference. She's good enough for him any day of the week, Mr.
Eames."

"That she is,--Saturdays or Sundays," said Johnny, not knowing
exactly what he ought to say.

"So she is; and if he does his duty by her she won't go astray in
hers by him. And as for you, Mr. Eames, I am sure I've always felt it
an honour and a pleasure to have you in the house; and if ever you
could use a good word in sending to me any of your young men, I'd do
by them as a mother should; I would indeed. I know I've been to blame
about those Lupexes, but haven't I suffered for it, Mr. Eames? And it
was difficult to know at first; wasn't it? And as to you and Amelia,
if you would send any of your young men to try, there couldn't be
anything more of that kind, could there? I know it hasn't all been
just as it should have been;--that is as regards you; but I should
like to hear you say that you've found me honest before you went. I
have tried to be honest, I have indeed."

Eames assured her that he was convinced of her honesty, and that
he had never thought of impugning her character either in regard
to those unfortunate people, the Lupexes, or in reference to other
matters. "He did not think," he said, "that any young men would
consult him as to their lodgings; but if he could be of any service
to her, he would." Then he bade her good-by, and having bestowed
half-a-sovereign on the faithful Jemima, he took a long farewell of
Burton Crescent. Amelia had told him not to come and see her when she
should be married, and he had resolved that he would take her at her
word. So he walked off from the Crescent, not exactly shaking the
dust from his feet, but resolving that he would know no more either
of its dust or of its dirt. Dirt enough he had encountered there
certainly, and he was now old enough to feel that the inmates of Mrs.
Roper's house had not been those among whom a resting-place for his
early years should judiciously have been sought. But he had come out
of the fire comparatively unharmed, and I regret to say that he felt
but little for the terrible scorchings to which his friend had been
subjected and was about to subject himself. He was quite content to
look at the matter exactly as it was looked at by Mrs. Roper. Amelia
was good enough for Joseph Cradell--any day of the week. Poor
Cradell, of whom in these pages after this notice no more will be
heard! I cannot but think that a hard measure of justice was meted
out to him, in proportion to the extent of his sins. More weak and
foolish than our friend and hero he had been, but not to my knowledge
more wicked. But it is to the vain and foolish that the punishments
fall;--and to them they fall so thickly and constantly that the
thinker is driven to think that vanity and folly are of all sins
those which may be the least forgiven. As for Cradell I may declare
that he did marry Amelia, that he did, with some pride, take the
place of master of the house at the bottom of Mrs. Roper's table, and
that he did make himself responsible for all Mrs. Roper's debts. Of
his future fortunes there is not space to speak in these pages.

Going away from the Crescent Eames had himself driven to his office,
which he reached just as the men were leaving it, at four o'clock.
Cradell was gone, so that he did not see him on that afternoon; but
he had an opportunity of shaking hands with Mr. Love, who treated
him with all the smiling courtesy due to an official bigwig,--for
a private secretary, if not absolutely a big-wig, is semi-big, and
entitled to a certain amount of reverence;--and he passed Mr. Kissing
in the passage, hurrying along as usual with a huge book under
his arm. Mr. Kissing, hurried as he was, stopped his shuffling
feet; but Eames only looked at him, hardly honouring him with the
acknowledgment of a nod of his head. Mr. Kissing, however, was
not offended; he knew that the private secretary of the First
Commissioner had been the guest of an earl; and what more than a nod
could be expected from him? After that John made his way into the
august presence of Sir Raffle, and found that great man putting on
his shoes in the presence of FitzHoward. FitzHoward blushed; but the
shoes had not been touched by him, as he took occasion afterwards to
inform John Eames.

Sir Raffle was all smiles and civility. "Delighted to see you
back, Eames: am, upon my word; though I and FitzHoward have got on
capitally in your absence; haven't we, FitzHoward?"

"Oh, yes," drawled FitzHoward. "I haven't minded it for a time, just
while Eames has been away."

"You're much too idle to keep at it, I know; but your bread will be
buttered for you elsewhere, so it doesn't signify. My compliments to
the duchess when you see her." Then FitzHoward went. "And how's my
dear old friend?" asked Sir Raffle, as though of all men living Lord
De Guest were the one for whom he had the strongest and the oldest
love. And yet he must have known that John Eames knew as much about
it as he did himself. But there are men who have the most lively
gratification in calling lords and marquises their friends, though
they know that nobody believes a word of what they say,--even though
they know how great is the odium they incur, and how lasting is the
ridicule which their vanity produces. It is a gentle insanity which
prevails in the outer courts of every aristocracy; and as it brings
with itself considerable annoyance and but a lukewarm pleasure, it
should not be treated with too keen a severity.

"And how's my dear old friend?" Eames assured him that his dear old
friend was all right, that Lady Julia was all right, that the dear
old place was all right. Sir Raffle now spoke as though the "dear
old place" were quite well known to him. "Was the game doing pretty
well? Was there a promise of birds?" Sir Raffle's anxiety was
quite intense, and expressed with almost familiar affection. "And,
by-the-by, Eames, where are you living at present?"

"Well, I'm not settled. I'm at the Great Western Railway Hotel at
this moment."

"Capital house, very; only it's expensive if you stay there the whole
season." Johnny had no idea of remaining there beyond one night, but
he said nothing as to this. "By-the-by, you might as well come and
dine with us to-morrow. Lady Buffle is most anxious to know you.
There'll be one or two with us. I did ask my friend Dumbello, but
there's some nonsense going on in the House, and he thinks that he
can't get away." Johnny was more gracious than Lord Dumbello, and
accepted the invitation. "I wonder what Lady Buffle will be like?" he
said to himself, as he walked away from the office.

He had turned into the Great Western Hotel, not as yet knowing where
to look for a home; and there we will leave him, eating his solitary
mutton-chop at one of those tables which are so comfortable to the
eye, but which are so comfortless in reality. I speak not now with
reference to the excellent establishment which has been named, but
to the nature of such tables in general. A solitary mutton-chop in
an hotel coffee-room is not a banquet to be envied by any god; and
if the mutton-chop be converted into soup, fish, little dishes,
big dishes, and the rest, the matter becomes worse and not better.
What comfort are you to have, seated alone on that horsehair chair,
staring into the room and watching the waiters as they whisk about
their towels? No one but an Englishman has ever yet thought of
subjecting himself to such a position as that! But here we will leave
John Eames, and in doing so I must be allowed to declare that only
now, at this moment, has he entered on his manhood. Hitherto he
has been a hobbledehoy,--a calf, as it were, who had carried his
calfishness later into life than is common with calves; but who did
not, perhaps, on that account, give promise of making a worse ox than
the rest of them. His life hitherto, as recorded in these pages, had
afforded him no brilliant success, had hardly qualified him for the
role of hero which he has been made to play. I feel that I have been
in fault in giving such prominence to a hobbledehoy, and that I
should have told my story better had I brought Mr. Crosbie more
conspicuously forward on my canvas. He at any rate has gotten to
himself a wife--as a hero always should do; whereas I must leave my
poor friend Johnny without any matrimonial prospects.

It was thus that he thought of himself as he sat moping over his
solitary table in the hotel coffee-room. He acknowledged to himself
that he had not hitherto been a man; but at the same time he made
some resolution which, I trust, may assist him in commencing his
manhood from this date.




CHAPTER LX.

CONCLUSION.


It was early in June that Lily went up to her uncle at the Great
House, pleading for Hopkins,--pleading that to Hopkins might be
restored all the privileges of head gardener at the Great House.
There was some absurdity in this, seeing that he had never really
relinquished his privileges; but the manner of the quarrel had been
in this wise.

There was in those days, and had been for years, a vexed question
between Hopkins and Jolliffe the bailiff on the matter of--stable
manure. Hopkins had pretended to the right of taking what he required
from the farmyard, without asking leave of any one. Jolliffe in
return had hinted, that if this were so, Hopkins would take it all.
"But I can't eat it," Hopkins had said. Jolliffe merely grunted,
signifying by the grunt, as Hopkins thought, that though a gardener
couldn't eat a mountain of manure fifty feet long and fifteen
high--couldn't eat in the body,--he might convert it into things
edible for his own personal use. And so there had been a great feud.
The unfortunate squire had of course been called on to arbitrate, and
having postponed his decision by every contrivance possible to him,
had at last been driven by Jolliffe to declare that Hopkins should
take nothing that was not assigned to him. Hopkins, when the decision
was made known to him by his master, bit his old lips, and turned
round upon his old heel, speechless. "You'll find it's so at all
other places," said the squire, apologetically. "Other places!"
sneered Hopkins. Where would he find other gardeners like himself?
It is hardly necessary to declare that from that moment he resolved
that he would abide by no such order. Jolliffe on the next morning
informed the squire that the order had been broken, and the squire
fretted and fumed, wishing that Jolliffe were well buried under the
mountain in question. "If they all is to do as they like," said
Jolliffe, "then nobody won't care for nobody." The squire understood
that an order if given must be obeyed, and therefore, with many inner
groanings of the spirit, resolved that war must be waged against
Hopkins.

On the following morning he found the old man himself wheeling a huge
barrow of manure round from the yard into the kitchen-garden. Now, on
ordinary occasions, Hopkins was not required to do with his own hands
work of that description. He had a man under him who hewed wood, and
carried water, and wheeled barrows,--one man always, and often two.
The squire knew when he saw him that he was sinning, and bade him
stop upon his road.

"Hopkins," he said, "why didn't you ask for what you wanted, before
you took it?" The old man put down the barrow on the ground, looked
up in his master's face, spat into his hands, and then again resumed
his barrow. "Hopkins, that won't do," said the squire. "Stop where
you are."

"What won't do?" said Hopkins, still holding the barrow from the
ground, but not as yet progressing.

"Put it down, Hopkins," and Hopkins did put it down. "Don't you know
that you are flatly disobeying my orders?"

"Squire, I've been here about this place going on nigh seventy
years."

"If you've been going on a hundred and seventy it wouldn't do that
there should be more than one master. I'm the master here, and I
intend to be so to the end. Take that manure back into the yard."

"Back into the yard?" said Hopkins, very slowly.

"Yes; back into the yard."

"What,--afore all their faces?"

"Yes; you've disobeyed me before all their faces?"

Hopkins paused a moment, looking away from the squire, and shaking
his head as though he had need of deep thought, but by the aid of
deep thought had come at last to a right conclusion. Then he resumed
the barrow, and putting himself almost into a trot, carried away his
prize into the kitchen-garden. At the pace which he went it would
have been beyond the squire's power to stop him, nor would Mr. Dale
have wished to come to a personal encounter with his servant. But he
called after the man in dire wrath that if he were not obeyed the
disobedient servant should rue the consequences for ever. Hopkins,
equal to the occasion, shook his head as he trotted on, deposited his
load at the foot of the cucumber-frames, and then at once returning
to his master, tendered to him the key of the greenhouse.

"Master," said Hopkins, speaking as best he could with his scanty
breath, "there it is;--there's the key; of course I don't want no
warning, and doesn't care about my week's wages. I'll be out of the
cottage afore night, and as for the work'us, I suppose they'll let me
in at once, if your honour'll give 'em a line."

Now as Hopkins was well known by the squire to be the owner of three
or four hundred pounds, the hint about the workhouse must be allowed
to have been melodramatic.

"Don't be a fool," said the squire, almost gnashing his teeth.

"I know I've been a fool," said Hopkins, "about that 'ere doong; my
feelings has been too much for me. When a man's feelings has been
too much for him, he'd better just take hisself off, and lie in the
work'us till he dies." And then he again tendered the key. But the
squire did not take the key, and so Hopkins went on. "I s'pose I'd
better just see to the lights and the like of that, till you've
suited yourself, Mr. Dale. It 'ud be a pity all them grapes should go
off, and they, as you may say, all one as fit for the table. It's a
long way the best crop I ever see on 'em. I've been that careful with
'em that I haven't had a natural night's rest, not since February.
There ain't nobody about this place as understands grapes, nor yet
anywhere nigh that could be got at. My lord's head man is wery
ignorant; but even if he knew ever so, of course he couldn't come
here. I suppose I'd better keep the key till you're suited, Mr.
Dale."

Then for a fortnight there was an interregnum in the gardens,
terrible in the annals of Allington. Hopkins lived in his cottage
indeed, and looked most sedulously after the grapes. In looking after
the grapes, too, he took the greenhouses under his care; but he
would have nothing to do with the outer gardens, took no wages,
returning the amount sent to him back to the squire, and insisted
with everybody that he had been dismissed. He went about with some
terrible horticultural implement always in his hand, with which it
was said that he intended to attack Jolliffe; but Jolliffe prudently
kept out of his way.

As soon as it had been resolved by Mrs. Dale and Lily that
the flitting from the Small House at Allington was not to be
accomplished, Lily communicated the fact to Hopkins.

"Miss," said he, "when I said them few words to you and your mamma,
I knew that you would listen to reason."

This was no more than Lily had expected; that Hopkins should claim
the honour of having prevailed by his arguments was a matter of
course.

"Yes," said Lily; "we've made up our minds to stay. Uncle wishes it."

"Wishes it! Laws, miss; it ain't only wishes. And we all wishes it.
Why, now, look at the reason of the thing. Here's this here house--"

"But, Hopkins, it's decided. We're going to stay. What I want to know
is this; can you come at once and help me to unpack?"

"What! this very evening, as is--"

"Yes, now; we want to have the things about again before they come
back from Guestwick."

Hopkins scratched his head and hesitated, not wishing to yield to any
proposition that could be considered as childish; but he gave way at
last, feeling that the work itself was a good work. Mrs. Dale also
assented, laughing at Lily for her folly as she did so, and in this
way the things were unpacked very quickly, and the alliance between
Lily and Hopkins became, for the time, very close. This work of
unpacking and resettling was not yet over, when the battle of the
manure broke out, and therefore it was that Hopkins, when his
feelings had become altogether too much for him "about the doong,"
came at last to Lily, and laying down at her feet all the weight
and all the glory of his sixty odd years of life, implored her to
make matters straight for him. "It's been a killing me, miss, so
it has; to see the way they've been a cutting that 'sparagus. It
ain't cutting at all. It's just hocking it up;--what is fit, and
what isn't, all together. And they've been a-putting the plants in
where I didn't mean 'em, though they know'd I didn't mean 'em. I've
stood by, miss, and said never a word. I'd a died sooner. But, Miss
Lily, what my sufferings have been, 'cause of my feelings getting
the better of me about that--you know, miss--nobody will ever
tell;--nobody--nobody--nobody." Then Hopkins turned away and wept.

"Uncle," said Lily, creeping close up against his chair, "I want to
ask you a great favour."

"A great favour. Well, I don't think I shall refuse you anything at
present. It isn't to ask another earl to the house,--is it?"

"Another earl!" said Lily.

"Yes; haven't you heard? Miss Bell has been here this morning,
insisting that I should have over Lord De Guest and his sister for
the marriage. It seems that there was some scheming between Bell and
Lady Julia."

"Of course you'll ask them."

"Of course I must. I've no way out of it. It'll be all very well for
Bell, who'll be off to Wales with her lover; but what am I to do with
the earl and Lady Julia, when they're gone? Will you come and help
me?"

In answer to this, Lily of course promised that she would come and
help. "Indeed," said she, "I thought we were all asked up for the
day. And now for my favour. Uncle, you must forgive poor Hopkins."

"Forgive a fiddlestick!" said the squire.

"No, but you must. You can't think how unhappy he is."

"How can I forgive a man who won't forgive me. He goes prowling about
the place doing nothing; and he sends me back his wages, and he
looks as though he were going to murder some one; and all because he
wouldn't do as he was told. How am I to forgive such a man as that?"

"But, uncle, why not?"

"It would be his forgiving me. He knows very well that he may come
back whenever he pleases; and, indeed, for the matter of that he has
never gone away."

"But he is so very unhappy."

"What can I do to make him happier?"

"Just go down to his cottage and tell him that you forgive him."

"Then he'll argue with me."

"No; I don't think he will. He is too much down in the world for
arguing now."

"Ah! you don't know him as I do. All the misfortunes in the world
wouldn't stop that man's conceit. Of course I'll go if you ask me,
but it seems to me that I'm made to knock under to everybody. I hear
a great deal about other people's feelings, but I don't know that
mine are very much thought of." He was not altogether in a happy
mood, and Lily almost regretted that she had persevered; but she did
succeed in carrying him off across the garden to the cottage, and
as they went together she promised him that she would think of him
always,--always. The scene with Hopkins cannot be described now, as
it would take too many of our few remaining pages. It resulted, I am
afraid I must confess, in nothing more triumphant to the squire than
a treaty of mutual forgiveness. Hopkins acknowledged, with much
self-reproach, that his feelings had been too many for him; but then,
look at his provocation! He could not keep his tongue from that
matter, and certainly said as much in his own defence as he did in
confession of his sins. The substantial triumph was altogether his,
for nobody again ever dared to interfere with his operations in the
farmyard. He showed his submission to his master mainly by consenting
to receive his wages for the two weeks which he had passed in
idleness.

Owing to this little accident, Lily was not so much oppressed by
Hopkins as she had expected to be in that matter of their altered
plans; but this salvation did not extend to Mrs. Hearn, to Mrs.
Crump, or, above all, to Mrs. Boyce. They, all of them, took an
interest more or less strong in the Hopkins controversy; but their
interest in the occupation of the Small House was much stronger,
and it was found useless to put Mrs. Hearn off with the gardener's
persistent refusal of his wages, when she was big with inquiry
whether the house was to be painted inside, as well as out. "Ah,"
said she, "I think I'll go and look at lodgings at Guestwick myself,
and pack up some of my beds." Lily made no answer to this, feeling
that it was a part of that punishment which she had expected. "Dear,
dear," said Mrs. Crump to the two girls; "well, to be sure, we should
'a been 'lone without 'ee, and mayhap we might 'a got worse in your
place; but why did 'ee go and fasten up all your things in them big
boxes, just to unfasten 'em all again?"

"We changed our minds, Mrs. Crump," said Bell, with some severity.

"Yees, I know ye changed your mindses. Well, it's all right for loiks
o' ye, no doubt; but if we changes our mindses, we hears of it."

"So, it seems, do we!" said Lily. "But never mind, Mrs. Crump. Do you
send us our letters up early, and then we won't quarrel."

"Oh, letters! Drat them for letters. I wish there weren't no sich
things. There was a man here yesterday with his imperence. I don't
know where he come from,--down from Lun'on, I b'leeve: and this was
wrong, and that was wrong, and everything was wrong; and then he said
he'd have me discharged the sarvice."

"Dear me, Mrs. Crump; that wouldn't do at all."

"Discharged the sarvice! Tuppence farden a day. So I told 'un to
discharge hisself, and take all the old bundles and things away
upon his shoulders. Letters indeed! What business have they with
post-missusses, if they cannot pay 'em better nor tuppence farden
a day?" And in this way, under the shelter of Mrs. Crump's storm
of wrath against the inspector who had visited her, Lily and Bell
escaped much that would have fallen upon their own heads; but Mrs.
Boyce still remained. I may here add, in order that Mrs. Crump's
history may be carried on to the farthest possible point, that she
was not "discharged the sarvice," and that she still receives her
twopence farthing a day from the Crown. "That's a bitter old lady,"
said the inspector to the man who was driving him. "Yes, sir; they
all says the same about she. There ain't none of 'em get much change
out of Mrs. Crump."

Bell and Lily went together also to Mrs. Boyce's. "If she makes
herself very disagreeable, I shall insist upon talking of your
marriage," said Lily.

"I've not the slightest objection," said Bell; "only I don't know
what there can be to say about it. Marrying the doctor is such a very
commonplace sort of thing."

"Not a bit more commonplace than marrying the parson," said Lily.

"Oh, yes, it is. Parsons' marriages are often very grand affairs.
They come in among county people. That's their luck in life. Doctors
never do; nor lawyers. I don't think lawyers ever get married in
the country. They're supposed to do it up in London. But a country
doctor's wedding is not a thing to be talked about much."

Mrs. Boyce probably agreed in this view of the matter, seeing that
she did not choose the coming marriage as her first subject of
conversation. As soon as the two girls were seated she flew away
immediately to the house, and began to express her very great
surprise,--her surprise and her joy also,--at the sudden change which
had been made in their plans. "It is so much nicer, you know," said
she, "that things should be pleasant among relatives."

"Things always have been tolerably pleasant with us," said Bell.

"Oh, yes; I'm sure of that. I've always said it was quite a pleasure
to see you and your uncle together. And when we heard about your all
having to leave--"

"But we didn't have to leave, Mrs. Boyce. We were going to leave
because we thought mamma would be more comfortable in Guestwick;
and now we're not going to leave, because we've all 'changed our
mindses,' as Mrs. Crump calls it."

"And is it true the house is going to be painted?" asked Mrs. Boyce.

"I believe it is true," said Lily.

"Inside and out?"

"It must be done some day," said Bell.

"Yes, to be sure; but I must say it is generous of the squire.
There's such a deal of wood-work about your house. I know I wish the
Ecclesiastical Commissioners would paint ours; but nobody ever does
anything for the clergy. I'm sure I'm delighted you're going to stay.
As I said to Mr. Boyce, what should we ever have done without you?
I believe the squire had made up his mind that he would not let the
place."

"I don't think he ever has let it."

"And if there was nobody in it, it would all go to rack and ruin;
wouldn't it? Had your mamma to pay anything for the lodgings she
engaged at Guestwick?"

"Upon my word, I don't know. Bell can tell you better about that
than I, as Dr. Crofts settled it. I suppose Dr. Crofts tells her
everything." And so the conversation was changed, and Mrs. Boyce was
made to understand that whatever further mystery there might be, it
would not be unravelled on that occasion.

It was settled that Dr. Crofts and Bell should be married about the
middle of June, and the squire determined to give what grace he could
to the ceremony by opening his own house on the occasion. Lord De
Guest and Lady Julia were invited by special arrangement between her
ladyship and Bell, as has been before explained. The colonel also
with Lady Fanny came up from Torquay on the occasion, this being the
first visit made by the colonel to his paternal roof for many years.
Bernard did not accompany his father. He had not yet gone abroad, but
there were circumstances which made him feel that he would not find
himself comfortable at the wedding. The service was performed by
Mr. Boyce, assisted, as the _County Chronicle_ very fully remarked,
by the Reverend John Joseph Jones, M.A., late of Jesus College,
Cambridge, and curate of St. Peter's, Northgate, Guestwick; the
fault of which little advertisement was this,--that as none of the
readers of the paper had patience to get beyond the Reverend John
Joseph Jones, the fact of Bell's marriage with Dr. Crofts was not
disseminated as widely as might have been wished.

The marriage went off very nicely. The squire was upon his very best
behaviour, and welcomed his guests as though he really enjoyed their
presence there in his halls. Hopkins, who was quite aware that he had
been triumphant, decorated the old rooms with mingled flowers and
greenery with an assiduous care which pleased the two girls mightily.
And during this work of wreathing and decking there was one little
morsel of feeling displayed which may as well be told in these last
lines. Lily had been encouraging the old man while Bell for a moment
had been absent.

"I wish it had been for thee, my darling!" he said; "I wish it had
been for thee!"

"It is much better as it is, Hopkins," she answered, solemnly.

"Not with him, though," he went on, "not with him. I wouldn't 'a hung
a bough for him. But with t'other one."

Lily said no word further. She knew that the man was expressing the
wishes of all around her. She said no word further, and then Bell
returned to them.

But no one at the wedding was so gay as Lily,--so gay, so bright,
and so wedding-like. She flirted with the old earl till he declared
that he would marry her himself. No one seeing her that evening, and
knowing nothing of her immediate history, would have imagined that
she herself had been cruelly jilted some six or eight months ago. And
those who did know her could not imagine that what she then suffered
had hit her so hard, that no recovery seemed possible for her.
But though no recovery, as she herself believed, was possible for
her--though she was as a man whose right arm had been taken from him
in the battle, still all the world had not gone with that right arm.
The bullet which had maimed her sorely had not touched her life, and
she scorned to go about the world complaining either by word or look
of the injury she had received. "Wives when they have lost their
husbands still eat and laugh," she said to herself, "and he is not
dead like that." So she resolved that she would be happy, and I here
declare that she not only seemed to carry out her resolution, but
that she did carry it out in very truth. "You're a dear good man,
and I know you'll be good to her," she said to Crofts just as he was
about to start with his bride.

"I'll try, at any rate," he answered.

"And I shall expect you to be good to me too. Remember you have
married the whole family; and, sir, you mustn't believe a word of
what that bad man says in his novels about mothers-in-law. He has
done a great deal of harm, and shut half the ladies in England out of
their daughters' houses."

"He shan't shut Mrs. Dale out of mine."

"Remember he doesn't. Now, good-by." So the bride and bridegroom went
off, and Lily was left to flirt with Lord De Guest.

Of whom else is it necessary that a word or two should be said before
I allow the weary pen to fall from my hand? The squire, after much
inward struggling on the subject, had acknowledged to himself that
his sister-in-law had not received from him that kindness which she
had deserved. He had acknowledged this, purporting to do his best to
amend his past errors; and I think I may say that his efforts in that
line would not be received ungraciously by Mrs. Dale. I am inclined
therefore to think that life at Allington, both at the Great House
and at the Small, would soon become pleasanter than it used to be in
former days. Lily soon got the Balmoral boots, or, at least, soon
learned that the power of getting them as she pleased had devolved
upon her from her uncle's gift; so that she talked even of buying the
squirrel's cage; but I am not aware that her extravagance led her as
far as that.

Lord De Courcy we left suffering dreadfully from gout and ill-temper
at Courcy Castle. Yes, indeed! To him in his latter days life did
not seem to offer much that was comfortable. His wife had now gone
from him, and declared positively to her son-in-law that no earthly
consideration should ever induce her to go back again;--"not if I
were to starve!" she said. By which she intended to signify that
she would be firm in her resolve, even though she should thereby
lose her carriage and horses. Poor Mr. Gazebee went down to Courcy,
and had a dreadful interview with the earl; but matters were at
last arranged, and her ladyship remained at Baden-Baden in a state
of semi-starvation. That is to say, she had but one horse to her
carriage.

As regards Crosbie, I am inclined to believe that he did again
recover his power at his office. He was Mr. Butterwell's master, and
the master also of Mr. Optimist, and the major. He knew his business,
and could do it, which was more, perhaps, than might fairly be said
of any of the other three. Under such circumstances he was sure to
get in his hand, and lead again. But elsewhere his star did not
recover its ascendancy. He dined at his club almost daily, and there
were those with whom he habitually formed some little circle. But he
was not the Crosbie of former days,--the Crosbie known in Belgravia
and in St. James's Street. He had taken his little vessel bravely out
into the deep waters, and had sailed her well while fortune stuck
close to him. But he had forgotten his nautical rules, and success
had made him idle. His plummet and lead had not been used, and he had
kept no look-out ahead. Therefore the first rock he met shivered his
bark to pieces. His wife, the Lady Alexandrina, is to be seen in the
one-horse carriage with her mother at Baden-Baden.



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