THE WOUNDED FAWN.
[ILLUSTRATION: (untitled)]
Nearly two months passed away, and it was now Christmas time at
Allington. It may be presumed that there was no intention at either
house that the mirth should be very loud. Such a wound as that
received by Lily Dale was one from which recovery could not be quick,
and it was felt by all the family that a weight was upon them which
made gaiety impracticable. As for Lily herself it may be said that
she bore her misfortune with all a woman's courage. For the first
week she stood up as a tree that stands against the wind, which
is soon to be shivered to pieces because it will not bend. During
that week her mother and sister were frightened by her calmness and
endurance. She would perform her daily task. She would go out through
the village, and appear at her place in church on the first Sunday.
She would sit over her book of an evening, keeping back her tears;
and would chide her mother and sister when she found that they were
regarding her with earnest anxiety.
"Mamma, let it all be as though it had never been," she said.
"Ah, dear! if that were but possible!"
"God forbid that it should be possible inwardly," Lily replied, "but
it is possible outwardly. I feel that you are more tender to me
than you used to be, and that upsets me. If you would only scold me
because I am idle, I should soon be better." But her mother could not
speak to her as she perhaps might have spoken had no grief fallen
upon her pet. She could not cease from those anxious tender glances
which made Lily know that she was looked on as a fawn wounded almost
to death.
At the end of the first week she gave way. "I won't get up, Bell,"
she said one morning, almost petulantly. "I am ill;--I had better
lie here out of the way. Don't make a fuss about it. I'm stupid and
foolish, and that makes me ill."
Thereupon Mrs. Dale and Bell were frightened, and looked into each
other's blank faces, remembering stories of poor broken-hearted girls
who had died because their loves had been unfortunate,--as small wax
tapers whose lights are quenched if a breath of wind blows upon them
too strongly. But then Lily was in truth no such slight taper as
that. Nor was she the stem that must be broken because it will not
bend. She bent herself to the blast during that week of illness, and
then arose with her form still straight and graceful, and with her
bright light unquenched.
After that she would talk more openly to her mother about her
loss,--openly and with a true appreciation of the misfortune which
had befallen her; but with an assurance of strength which seemed to
ridicule the idea of a broken heart. "I know that I can bear it," she
said, "and that I can bear it without lasting unhappiness. Of course
I shall always love him, and must feel almost as you felt when you
lost my father."
In answer to this Mrs. Dale could say nothing. She could not speak
out her thoughts about Crosbie, and explain to Lily that he was
unworthy of her love. Love does not follow worth, and is not given
to excellence;--nor is it destroyed by ill-usage, nor killed by blows
and mutilation. When Lily declared that she still loved the man
who had so ill-used her, Mrs. Dale would be silent. Each perfectly
understood the other, but on that matter even they could not
interchange their thoughts with freedom.
"You must promise never to be tired of me, mamma," said Lily.
"Mothers do not often get tired of their children, whatever the
children may do of their mothers."
"I'm not so sure of that when the children turn out old maids. And I
mean to have a will of my own, too, mamma; and a way also, if it be
possible. When Bell is married I shall consider it a partnership, and
I shan't do what I'm told any longer."
"Forewarned will be forearmed."
"Exactly;--and I don't want to take you by surprise. For a year or
two longer, till Bell is gone, I mean to be dutiful; but it would be
very stupid for a girl to be dutiful all her life."
All of which Mrs. Dale understood thoroughly. It amounted to an
assertion on Lily's part that she had loved once and could never love
again; that she had played her game, hoping, as other girls hope,
that she might win the prize of a husband; but that, having lost, she
could never play the game again. It was that inward conviction on
Lily's part which made her say such words to her mother. But Mrs.
Dale would by no means allow herself to share this conviction. She
declared to herself that time would cure Lily's wound, and that her
child might yet be crowned by the bliss of a happy marriage. She
would not in her heart consent to that plan in accordance with which
Lily's destiny in life was to be regarded as already fixed. She
had never really liked Crosbie as a suitor, and would herself have
preferred John Eames, with all the faults of his hobbledehoyhood on
his head. It might yet come to pass that John Eames' love might be
made happy.
But in the meantime Lily, as I have said, had become strong in her
courage, and recommenced the work of living with no lackadaisical
self-assurance that because she had been made more unhappy than
others, therefore she should allow herself to be more idle. Morning
and night she prayed for him, and daily, almost hour by hour, she
assured herself that it was still her duty to love him. It was hard,
this duty of loving, without any power of expressing such love. But
still she would do her duty.
"Tell me at once, mamma," she said one morning, "when you hear that
the day is fixed for his marriage. Pray don't keep me in the dark."
"It is to be in February," said Mrs. Dale.
"But let me know the day. It must not be to me like ordinary days.
But do not look unhappy, mamma; I am not going to make a fool of
myself. I shan't steal off and appear in the church like a ghost."
And then, having uttered her little joke, a sob came, and she hid her
face on her mother's bosom. In a moment she raised it again. "Believe
me, mamma, that I am not unhappy," she said.
After the expiration of that second week Mrs. Dale did write a letter
to Crosbie:
I suppose [she said] it is right that I should acknowledge
the receipt of your letter. I do not know that I have
aught else to say to you. It would not become me as a
woman to say what I think of your conduct, but I believe
that your conscience will tell you the same things. If it
do not, you must, indeed, be hardened. I have promised
my child that I will send to you a message from her. She
bids me tell you that she has forgiven you, and that she
does not hate you. May God also forgive you, and may you
recover his love.
MARY DALE.
I beg that no rejoinder may be made to this letter, either
to myself or to any of my family.
The squire wrote no answer to the letter which he had received, nor
did he take any steps towards the immediate punishment of Crosbie.
Indeed he had declared that no such steps could be taken, explaining
to his nephew that such a man could be served only as one serves a
rat.
"I shall never see him," he said once again; "if I did, I should not
scruple to hit him on the head with my stick; but I should think ill
of myself to go after him with such an object."
And yet it was a terrible sorrow to the old man that the scoundrel
who had so injured him and his should escape scot-free. He had not
forgiven Crosbie. No idea of forgiveness had ever crossed his mind.
He would have hated himself had he thought it possible that he
could be induced to forgive such an injury. "There is an amount of
rascality in it,--of low meanness, which I do not understand," he
would say over and over again to his nephew. And then as he would
walk alone on the terrace he would speculate within his own mind
whether Bernard would take any steps towards avenging his cousin's
injury. "He is right," he would say to himself; "Bernard is quite
right. But when I was young I could not have stood it. In those
days a gentleman might have a fellow out who had treated him as he
has treated us. A man was satisfied in feeling that he had done
something. I suppose the world is different now-a-days." The world is
different; but the squire by no means acknowledged in his heart that
there had been any improvement.
Bernard also was greatly troubled in his mind. He would have had no
objection to fight a duel with Crosbie, had duels in these days been
possible. But he believed them to be no longer possible,--at any rate
without ridicule. And if he could not fight the man, in what other
way was he to punish him? Was it not the fact that for such a fault
the world afforded no punishment? Was it not in the power of a man
like Crosbie to amuse himself for a week or two at the expense of
a girl's happiness for life, and then to escape absolutely without
any ill effects to himself? "I shall be barred out of my club lest
I should meet him," Bernard said to himself, "but he will not be
barred out." Moreover, there was a feeling within him that the matter
would be one of triumph to Crosbie rather than otherwise. In having
secured for himself the pleasure of his courtship with such a girl
as Lily Dale, without encountering the penalty usually consequent
upon such amusement, he would be held by many as having merited
much admiration. He had sinned against all the Dales, and yet
the suffering arising from his sin was to fall upon the Dales
exclusively. Such was Bernard's reasoning, as he speculated on the
whole affair, sadly enough,--wishing to be avenged, but not knowing
where to look for vengeance. For myself I believe him to have been
altogether wrong as to the light in which he supposed that Crosbie's
falsehood would be regarded by Crosbie's friends. Men will still talk
of such things lightly, professing that all is fair in love as it
is in war, and speaking almost with envy of the good fortunes of a
practised deceiver. But I have never come across the man who thought
in this way with reference to an individual case. Crosbie's own
judgment as to the consequences to himself of what he had done was
more correct than that formed by Bernard Dale. He had regarded the
act as venial as long as it was still to do,--while it was still
within his power to leave it undone; but from the moment of its
accomplishment it had forced itself upon his own view in its proper
light. He knew that he had been a scoundrel, and he knew that other
men would so think of him. His friend Fowler Pratt, who had the
reputation of looking at women simply as toys, had so regarded him.
Instead of boasting of what he had done, he was as afraid of alluding
to any matter connected with his marriage as a man is of talking of
the articles which he has stolen. He had already felt that men at his
club looked askance at him; and, though he was no coward as regarded
his own skin and bones, he had an undefined fear lest some day he
might encounter Bernard Dale purposely armed with a stick. The squire
and his nephew were wrong in supposing that Crosbie was unpunished.
And as the winter came on he felt that he was closely watched by the
noble family of De Courcy. Some of that noble family he had already
learned to hate cordially. The Honourable John came up to town in
November, and persecuted him vilely;--insisted on having dinners
given to him at Sebright's, of smoking throughout the whole afternoon
in his future brother-in-law's rooms, and on borrowing his future
brother-in-law's possessions; till at last Crosbie determined that it
would be wise to quarrel with the Honourable John,--and he quarrelled
with him accordingly, turning him out of his rooms, and telling him
in so many words that he would have no more to do with him.
"You'll have to do it, as I did," Mortimer Gazebee had said to him;
"I didn't like it because of the family, but Lady Amelia told me
that it must be so." Whereupon Crosbie took the advice of Mortimer
Gazebee.
But the hospitality of the Gazebees was perhaps more distressing to
him than even the importunities of the Honourable John. It seemed
as though his future sister-in-law was determined not to leave him
alone. Mortimer was sent to fetch him up for the Sunday afternoons,
and he found that he was constrained to go to the villa in St. John's
Wood, even in opposition to his own most strenuous will. He could
not quite analyze the circumstances of his own position, but he felt
as though he were a cock with his spurs cut off,--as a dog with his
teeth drawn. He found himself becoming humble and meek. He had to
acknowledge to himself that he was afraid of Lady Amelia, and almost
even afraid of Mortimer Gazebee. He was aware that they watched him,
and knew all his goings out and comings in. They called him Adolphus,
and made him tame. That coming evil day in February was dinned into
his ears. Lady Amelia would go and look at furniture for him, and
talked by the hour about bedding and sheets. "You had better get your
kitchen things at Tomkins'. They're all good, and he'll give you ten
per cent. off if you pay him ready money,--which of course you will,
you know!" Was it for this that he had sacrificed Lily Dale?--for
this that he had allied himself with the noble house of De Courcy?
Mortimer had been at him about the settlements from the very first
moment of his return to London, and had already bound him up hand and
foot. His life was insured, and the policy was in Mortimer's hands.
His own little bit of money had been already handed over to be tied
up with Lady Alexandrina's little bit. It seemed to him that in
all the arrangements made the intention was that he should die off
speedily, and that Lady Alexandrina should be provided with a decent
little income, sufficient for St. John's Wood. Things were to be so
settled that he could not even spend the proceeds of his own money,
or of hers. They were to go, under the fostering hand of Mortimer
Gazebee, in paying insurances. If he would only die the day after
his marriage, there would really be a very nice sum of money for
Alexandrina, almost worthy of the acceptance of an earl's daughter.
Six months ago he would have considered himself able to turn Mortimer
Gazebee round his finger on any subject that could be introduced
between them. When they chanced to meet Gazebee had been quite humble
to him, treating him almost as a superior being. He had looked down
on Gazebee from a very great height. But now it seemed as though he
were powerless in this man's hands.
But perhaps the countess had become his greatest aversion. She
was perpetually writing to him little notes in which she gave him
multitudes of commissions, sending him about as though he had been
her servant. And she pestered him with advice which was even worse
than her commissions, telling him of the style of life in which
Alexandrina would expect to live, and warning him very frequently
that such an one as he could not expect to be admitted within the
bosom of so noble a family without paying very dearly for that
inestimable privilege. Her letters had become odious to him, and
he would chuck them on one side, leaving them for the whole day
unopened. He had already made up his mind that he would quarrel with
the countess also, very shortly after his marriage; indeed, that he
would separate himself from the whole family if it were possible.
And yet he had entered into this engagement mainly with the view
of reaping those advantages which would accrue to him from being
allied to the De Courcys! The squire and his nephew were wretched
in thinking that this man was escaping without punishment, but they
might have spared themselves that misery.
It had been understood from the first that he was to spend his
Christmas at Courcy Castle. From this undertaking it was quite out
of his power to enfranchise himself: but he resolved that his visit
should be as short as possible. Christmas Day unfortunately came on
a Monday, and it was known to the De Courcy world that Saturday was
almost a _dies non_ at the General Committee Office. As to those
three days there was no escape for him; but he made Alexandrina
understand that the three Commissioners were men of iron as to any
extension of those three days. "I must be absent again in February,
of course," he said, almost making his wail audible in the words he
used, "and therefore it is quite impossible that I should stay now
beyond the Monday." Had there been attractions for him at Courcy
Castle I think he might have arranged with Mr. Optimist for a week or
ten days. "We shall be all alone," the countess wrote to him, "and I
hope you will have an opportunity of learning more of our ways than
you have ever really been able to do as yet." This was bitter as gall
to him. But in this world all valuable commodities have their price;
and when men such as Crosbie aspire to obtain for themselves an
alliance with noble families, they must pay the market price for the
article which they purchase.
"You'll all come up and dine with us on Monday," the squire said to
Mrs. Dale, about the middle of the previous week.
"Well, I think not," said Mrs. Dale; "we are better, perhaps, as we
are."
At this moment the squire and his sister-in-law were on much more
friendly terms than had been usual with them, and he took her reply
in good part, understanding her feeling. Therefore, he pressed his
request, and succeeded.
"I think you're wrong," he said; "I don't suppose that we shall have
a very merry Christmas. You and the girls will hardly have that
whether you eat your pudding here or at the Great House. But it will
be better for us all to make the attempt. It's the right thing to do.
That's the way I look at it."
"I'll ask Lily," said Mrs. Dale.
"Do, do. Give her my love, and tell her from me that, in spite of all
that has come and gone, Christmas Day should still be to her a day of
rejoicing. We'll dine about three, so that the servants can have the
afternoon."
"Of course we'll go," said Lily; "why not? We always do. And we'll
have blind-man's-buff with all the Boyces, as we had last year, if
uncle will ask them up." But the Boyces were not asked up for that
occasion.
But Lily, though she put on it all so brave a face, had much to
suffer, and did in truth suffer greatly. If you, my reader, ever
chanced to slip into the gutter on a wet day, did you not find that
the sympathy of the bystanders was by far the severest part of your
misfortune? Did you not declare to yourself that all might yet be
well, if the people would only walk on and not look at you? And yet
you cannot blame those who stood and pitied you; or, perhaps, essayed
to rub you down, and assist you in the recovery of your bedaubed
hat. You, yourself, if you see a man fall, cannot walk by as though
nothing uncommon had happened to him. It was so with Lily. The people
of Allington could not regard her with their ordinary eyes. They
would look at her tenderly, knowing that she was a wounded fawn,
and thus they aggravated the soreness of her wound. Old Mrs. Hearn
condoled with her, telling her that very likely she would be better
off as she was. Lily would not lie about it in any way. "Mrs. Hearn,"
she said, "the subject is painful to me." Mrs. Hearn said no more
about it, but on every meeting between them she looked the things she
did not say. "Miss Lily!" said Hopkins, one day, "Miss Lily!"--and
as he looked up into her face a tear had almost formed itself in his
old eye--"I knew what he was from the first. Oh, dear! oh, dear! if
I could have had him killed!" "Hopkins, how dare you?" said Lily.
"If you speak to me again in such a way, I will tell my uncle." She
turned away from him; but immediately turned back again, and put out
her little hand to him. "I beg your pardon," she said. "I know how
kind you are, and I love you for it." And then she went away. "I'll
go after him yet, and break the dirty neck of him," said Hopkins to
himself, as he walked down the path.
Shortly before Christmas Day she called with her sister at the
vicarage. Bell, in the course of the visit, left the room with one of
the Boyce girls, to look at the last chrysanthemums of the year. Then
Mrs. Boyce took advantage of the occasion to make her little speech.
"My dear Lily," she said, "you will think me cold if I do not say one
word to you." "No, I shall not," said Lily, almost sharply, shrinking
from the finger that threatened to touch her sore. "There are things
which should never be talked about." "Well, well; perhaps so," said
Mrs. Boyce. But for a minute or two she was unable to fall back upon
any other topic, and sat looking at Lily with painful tenderness. I
need hardly say what were Lily's sufferings under such a gaze; but
she bore it, acknowledging to herself in her misery that the fault
did not lie with Mrs. Boyce. How could Mrs. Boyce have looked at her
otherwise than tenderly?
It was settled, then, that Lily was to dine up at the Great House on
Christmas Day, and thus show to the Allington world that she was not
to be regarded as a person shut out from the world by the depth of
her misfortune. That she was right there can, I think, be no doubt;
but as she walked across the little bridge, with her mother and
sister, after returning from church, she would have given much to be
able to have turned round, and have gone to bed instead of to her
uncle's dinner.