"ON MY HONOUR, I DO NOT UNDERSTAND IT."
In the meantime Lady Alexandrina endeavoured to realize 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 is 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 recognized 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, as 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 realized 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."
"It never will, Lily. I once fancied that I cared for Dr. Crofts, but
it was only fancy. I know it, because--" She was going to explain
that her knowledge on that point was assured to her, because since
that day she had felt that she might have learned to love another
man. But that other man had been Mr. Crosbie, and so she stopped
herself.
"I wish he would come and ask you himself."
"He will never do so. He would never ask such a question without
encouragement, and I shall give him none. Nor will he ever think of
marrying till he can do so without,--without what he thinks to be
imprudence as regards money. He has courage enough to be poor himself
without unhappiness, but he has not courage to endure poverty with a
wife. I know well what his feelings are."
"Well, we shall see," said Lily. "I shouldn't wonder if you were
married first now, Bell. For my part I'm quite prepared to wait for
three years."
Late on that evening the squire returned to Allington, Bernard having
driven over to meet him at the station. He had telegraphed to his
nephew that he would be back by a late train, and no more than this
had been heard from him since he went. On that day Bernard had seen
none of the ladies at the Small House. With Bell at the present
moment it was impossible that he should be on easy terms. He could
not meet her alone without recurring to the one special subject of
interest between them, and as to that he did not choose to speak
without much forethought. He had not known himself, when he had gone
about his wooing so lightly, thinking it a slight thing, whether or
no he might be accepted. Now it was no longer a slight thing to him.
I do not know that it was love that made him so eager; not good,
honest, downright love. But he had set his heart upon the object, and
with the wilfulness of a Dale was determined that it should be his.
He had no remotest idea of giving up his cousin, but he had at last
persuaded himself that she was not to be won without some toil, and
perhaps also some delay.
Nor had he been in a humour to talk either to Mrs. Dale or to Lily.
He feared that Lady Julia's news was true,--that at any rate there
might be in it something of truth; and while thus in doubt he could
not go down to the Small House. So he hung about the place by
himself, with a cigar in his mouth, fearing that something evil was
going to happen, and when the message came for him, almost shuddered
as he seated himself in the gig. What would it become him to do
in this emergency if Crosbie had truly been guilty of the villany
with which Lady Julia had charged him? Thirty years ago he would
have called the man out, and shot at him till one of them was hit.
Now-a-days it was hardly possible for a man to do that; and yet what
would the world say of him if he allowed such an injury as this to
pass without vengeance?
His uncle, as he came forth from the station with his travelling-bag
in his hand, was stern, gloomy, and silent. He came out and took his
place in the gig almost without speaking. There were strangers about,
and therefore his nephew at first could ask no question, but as the
gig turned the corner out of the station-house yard he demanded the
news.
"What have you heard?" he said.
But even then the squire did not answer at once. He shook his
head, and turned away his face, as though he did not choose to be
interrogated.
"Have you seen him, sir?" asked Bernard.
"No, he has not dared to see me."
"Then it is true?"
"True?--yes, it is all true. Why did you bring the scoundrel here? It
has been your fault."
"No, sir; I must contradict that. I did not know him for a
scoundrel."
"But it was your duty to have known him before you brought him here
among them. Poor girl! how is she to be told?"
"Then she does not know it?"
"I fear not. Have you seen them?"
"I saw them yesterday, and she did not know it then; she may have
heard it to-day."
"I don't think so. I believe he has been too great a coward to write
to her. A coward indeed! How can any man find the courage to write
such a letter as that?"
By degrees the squire told his tale. How he had gone to Lady Julia,
had made his way to London, had tracked Crosbie to his club, and had
there learned the whole truth from Crosbie's friend, Fowler Pratt, we
already know. "The coward escaped me while I was talking to the man
he sent down," said the squire. "It was a concerted plan, and I think
he was right. I should have brained him in the hall of the club."
On the following morning Pratt had called upon him at his inn with
Crosbie's apology. "His apology!" said the squire. "I have it in my
pocket. Poor reptile; wretched worm of a man! I cannot understand
it. On my honour, Bernard, I do not understand it. I think men are
changed since I knew much of them. It would have been impossible for
me to write such a letter as that." He went on telling how Pratt had
brought him this letter, and had stated that Crosbie declined an
interview. "The gentleman had the goodness to assure me that no good
could come from such a meeting. 'You mean,' I answered, 'that I
cannot touch pitch and not be defiled!' He acknowledged that the man
was pitch. Indeed, he could not say a word for his friend."
"I know Pratt. He is a gentleman. I am sure he would not excuse him."
"Excuse him! How could any one excuse him? Words could not be found
to excuse him." And then he sat silent for some half mile. "On my
honour, Bernard, I can hardly yet bring myself to believe it. It is
so new to me. It makes me feel that the world is changed, and that it
is no longer worth a man's while to live in it."
"And he is engaged to this other girl?"
"Oh, yes; with the full consent of the family. It is all arranged,
and the settlements, no doubt, in the lawyer's hands by this time. He
must have gone away from here determined to throw her over. Indeed,
I don't suppose he ever meant to marry her. He was just passing away
his time here in the country."
"He meant it up to the time of his leaving."
"I don't think it. Had he found me able and willing to give her a
fortune he might, perhaps, have married her. But I don't think he
meant it for a moment after I told him that she would have nothing.
Well, here we are. I may truly say that I never before came back to
my own house with so sore a heart."
They sat silently over their supper, the squire showing more open
sorrow than might have been expected from his character. "What am
I to say to them in the morning?" he repeated over and over again.
"How am I to do it? And if I tell the mother, how is she to tell her
child?"
"Do you think that he has given no intimation of his purpose?"
"As far as I can tell, none. That man Pratt knew that he had not done
so yesterday afternoon. I asked him what were the intentions of his
blackguard friend, and he said that he did not know--that Crosbie
would probably have written to me. Then he brought me this letter.
There it is," and the squire threw the letter over the table; "read
it and let me have it back. He thinks probably that the trouble is
now over as far as he is concerned."
It was a vile letter to have written--not because the language was
bad, or the mode of expression unfeeling, or the facts falsely
stated--but because the thing to be told was in itself so vile.
There are deeds which will not bear a gloss--sins as to which the
perpetrator cannot speak otherwise than as a reptile; circumstances
which change a man and put upon him the worthlessness of vermin.
Crosbie had struggled hard to write it, going home to do it after his
last interview on that night with Pratt. But he had sat moodily in
his chair at his lodgings, unable to take the pen in his hand. Pratt
was to come to him at his office on the following morning, and he
went to bed resolving that he would write it at his desk. On the next
day Pratt was there before a word of it had been written.
"I can't stand this kind of thing," said Pratt. "If you mean me to
take it, you must write it at once." Then, with inward groaning,
Crosbie sat himself at his table, and the words at last were
forthcoming. Such words as they were! "I know that I can have no
excuse to make to you--or to her. But, circumstanced as I now am,
the truth is the best. I feel that I should not make Miss Dale
happy; and, therefore, as an honest man, I think I best do my duty
by relinquishing the honour which she and you had proposed for me."
There was more of it, but we all know of what words such letters are
composed, and how men write when they feel themselves constrained to
write as reptiles.
"As an honest man!" repeated the squire. "On my honour, Bernard, as a
gentleman, I do not understand it. I cannot believe it possible that
the man who wrote that letter was sitting the other day as a guest at
my table."
"What are we to do to him?" said Bernard, after a while.
"Treat him as you would a rat. Throw your stick at him, if he comes
under your feet; but beware, above all things, that he does not get
into your house. That is too late for us now."
"There must be more than that, uncle."
"I don't know what more. There are deeds for committing which a
man is doubly damned, because he has screened himself from overt
punishment by the nature of his own villany. We have to remember
Lily's name, and do what may best tend to her comfort. Poor girl!
poor girl!"
Then they were silent, till the squire rose and took his bed candle.
"Bernard," he said, "let my sister-in-law know early to-morrow that
I will see her here, if she will be good enough to come to me after
breakfast. Do not have anything else said at the Small House. It may
be that he has written to-day."
Then the squire went to bed, and Bernard sat over the dining-room
fire, meditating on it all. How would the world expect that he should
behave to Crosbie? and what should he do when he met Crosbie at the
club?