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.