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.