“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 authorised 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 nowadays 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?”
“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 realise 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 £5,000 a year; but then as no gentleman with £5,000 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 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 recognised 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, 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 realised 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.”