“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 at Barchester, and came across such a queer character. For you must know I went to church, and afterwards fraternised 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
ennuyé
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 alliance 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 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
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 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 recognised 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?”