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?”anyone
“That question is hardly fair, is it? Suppose anyone 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 anyone 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 anyone 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 anyone else that he might meet? I dare not think that. I think I could give him up to-morrow, if I could see anyone 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 syllabubs 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.”