AN OLD MAN'S COMPLAINT.
[ILLUSTRATION: (untitled)]
"Have you been thinking again of what I was saying to you, Bell?"
Bernard said to his cousin one morning.
"Thinking of it, Bernard? Why should I think more of it? I had hoped
that you had forgotten it yourself."
"No," he said; "I am not so easy-hearted as that. I cannot look on
such a thing as I would the purchase of a horse, which I could give
up without sorrow if I found that the animal was too costly for my
purse. I did not tell you that I loved you till I was sure of myself,
and having made myself sure I cannot change at all."
"And yet you would have me change."
"Yes, of course I would. If your heart be free now, it must of course
be changed before you come to love any man. Such change as that is to
be looked for. But when you have loved, then it will not be easy to
change you."
"But I have not."
"Then I have a right to hope. I have been hanging on here, Bell,
longer than I ought to have done, because I could not bring myself to
leave you without speaking of this again. I did not wish to seem to
you to be importunate--"
"If you could only believe me in what I say."
"It is not that I do not believe. I am not a puppy or a fool, to
flatter myself that you must be in love with me. I believe you well
enough. But still it is possible that your mind may alter."
"It is impossible."
"I do not know whether my uncle or your mother have spoken to you
about this."
"Such speaking would have no effect."
In fact, her mother had spoken to her, but she truly said that such
speaking would have no effect. If her cousin could not win the battle
by his own skill, he might have been quite sure, looking at her
character as it was known to him, that he would not be able to win it
by the skill of others.
"We have all been made very unhappy," he went on to say, "by this
calamity which has fallen on poor Lily."
"And because she has been deceived by the man she did love, I am to
make matters square by marrying a man I--" and then she paused. "Dear
Bernard, you should not drive me to say words which will sound harsh
to you."
"No words can be harsher than those which you have already spoken.
But, Bell, at any rate, you may listen to me."
Then he told her how desirable it was with reference to all the
concerns of the Dale family that she should endeavour to look
favourably on his proposition. It would be good for them all, he
said, especially for Lily, as to whom, at the present moment, their
uncle felt so kindly. He, as Bernard pleaded, was so anxious at heart
for this marriage, that he would do anything that was asked of him
if he were gratified. But if he were not gratified in this, he would
feel that he had ground for displeasure.
Bell, as she had been desired to listen, did listen very patiently.
But when her cousin had finished, her answer was very short. "Nothing
that my uncle can say, or think, or do, can make any difference in
this," said she.
"You will think nothing, then, of the happiness of others."
"I would not marry a man I did not love, to ensure any amount of
happiness to others;--at least I know I ought not to do so. But I
do not believe I should ensure any one's happiness by this marriage.
Certainly not yours."
After this Bernard had acknowledged to himself that the difficulties
in his way were great. "I will go away till next autumn," he said to
his uncle.
"If you would give up your profession and remain here, she would not
be so perverse."
"I cannot do that, sir. I cannot risk the well-being of my life on
such a chance." Then his uncle had been angry with him, as well as
with his niece. In his anger he determined that he would go again to
his sister-in-law, and, after some unreasonable fashion, he resolved
that it would become him to be very angry with her also, if she
declined to assist him with all her influence as a mother.
"Why should they not both marry?" he said to himself. Lord De Guest's
offer as to young Eames had been very generous. As he had then
declared, he had not been able to express his own opinion at once;
but on thinking over what the earl had said, he had found himself
very willing to heal the family wound in the manner proposed, if any
such healing might be possible. That, however, could not be done
quite as yet. When the time should come, and he thought it might come
soon,--perhaps in the spring, when the days should be fine and the
evenings again long,--he would be willing to take his share with the
earl in establishing that new household. To Crosbie he had refused to
give anything, and there was upon his conscience a shade of remorse
in that he had so refused. But if Lily could be brought to love this
other man, he would be more open-handed. She should have her share
as though she was in fact his daughter. But then, if he intended
to do so much for them at the Small House, should not they in
return do something also for him? So thinking, he went again to his
sister-in-law, determined to explain his views, even though it might
be at the risk of some hard words between them. As regarded himself,
he did not much care for hard words spoken to him. He almost expected
that people's words should be hard and painful. He did not look for
the comfort of affectionate soft greetings, and perhaps would not
have appreciated them had they come to him. He caught Mrs. Dale
walking in the garden, and brought her into his own room, feeling
that he had a better chance there than in her own house. She, with an
old dislike to being lectured in that room, had endeavoured to avoid
the interview, but had failed.
"So I met John Eames at the manor," he had said to her in the garden.
"Ah, yes; and how did he get on there? I cannot conceive poor Johnny
keeping holiday with the earl and his sister. How did he behave to
them, and how did they behave to him?"
"I can assure you he was very much at home there."
"Was he, indeed? Well, I hope it will do him good. He is, I'm sure, a
very good young man; only rather awkward."
"I didn't think him awkward at all. You'll find, Mary, that he'll do
very well;--a great deal better than his father did."
"I'm sure I hope he may." After that Mrs. Dale made her attempt to
escape; but the squire had taken her prisoner, and led her captive
into the house. "Mary," he said, as soon as he had induced her to sit
down, "it is time that this should be settled between my nephew and
niece."
"I am afraid there will be nothing to settle."
"What do you mean;--that you disapprove of it?"
"By no means,--personally. I should approve of it very strongly. But
that has nothing to do with the question."
"Yes, it has. I beg your pardon, but it must have, and should have
a great deal to do with it. Of course, I am not saying that anybody
should now ever be compelled to marry anybody."
"I hope not."
"I never said that they ought, and never thought so. But I do think
that the wishes of all her family should have very great weight with
a girl that has been well brought up."
"I don't know whether Bell has been well brought up; but in such a
matter as this nobody's wishes would weigh a feather with her; and,
indeed, I could not take upon myself even to express a wish. To you I
can say that I should have been very happy if she could have regarded
her cousin as you wish her to do."
"You mean that you are afraid to tell her so?"
"I am afraid to do what I think is wrong, if you mean that."
"I don't think it would be wrong, and therefore I shall speak to her
myself."
"You must do as you like about that, Mr. Dale; I can't prevent you. I
shall think you wrong to harass her on such a matter, and I fear also
that her answer will not be satisfactory to you. If you choose to
tell her your opinion, you must do so. Of course I shall think you
wrong, that's all."
Mrs. Dale's voice as she said this was stern enough, and so was her
countenance. She could not forbid the uncle to speak his mind to his
niece, but she especially disliked the idea of any interference with
her daughter. The squire got up and walked about the room, trying
to compose himself that he might answer her rationally, but without
anger.
"May I go now?" said Mrs. Dale.
"May you go? Of course you may go if you like it. If you think that
I am intruding upon you in speaking to you of the welfare of your two
girls, whom I endeavour to regard as my own daughters,--except in
this, that I know they have never been taught to love me,--if you
think that it is an interference on my part to show anxiety for their
welfare, of course you may go."
"I did not mean to say anything to hurt you, Mr. Dale."
"Hurt me! What does it signify whether I am hurt or not? I have no
children of my own, and of course my only business in life is to
provide for my nephews and nieces. I am an old fool if I expect that
they are to love me in return, and if I venture to express a wish
I am interfering and doing wrong! It is hard,--very hard. I know
well that they have been brought up to dislike me, and yet I am
endeavouring to do my duty by them."
"Mr. Dale, that accusation has not been deserved. They have not been
brought up to dislike you. I believe that they have both loved and
respected you as their uncle; but such love and respect will not give
you a right to dispose of their hands."
"Who wants to dispose of their hands?"
"There are some things in which I think no uncle,--no parent,--should
interfere, and of all such things this is the chief. If after that
you may choose to tell her your wishes, of course you can do so."
"It will not be much good after you have set her against me."
"Mr. Dale, you have no right to say such things to me, and you are
very unjust in doing so. If you think that I have set my girls
against you, it will be much better that we should leave Allington
altogether. I have been placed in circumstances which have made it
difficult for me to do my duty to my children; but I have endeavoured
to do it, not regarding my own personal wishes. I am quite sure,
however, that it would be wrong in me to keep them here, if I am to
be told by you that I have taught them to regard you unfavourably.
Indeed, I cannot suffer such a thing to be said to me."
All this Mrs. Dale said with an air of decision, and with a voice
expressing a sense of injury received, which made the squire feel
that she was very much in earnest.
"Is it not true," he said, defending himself, "that in all that
relates to the girls you have ever regarded me with suspicion?"
"No, it is not true." And then she corrected herself, feeling
that there was something of truth in the squire's last assertion.
"Certainly not with suspicion," she said. "But as this matter has
gone so far, I will explain what my real feelings have been. In
worldly matters you can do much for my girls, and have done much."
"And wish to do more," said the squire.
"I am sure you do. But I cannot on that account give up my place as
their only living parent. They are my children, and not yours. And
even could I bring myself to allow you to act as their guardian and
natural protector, they would not consent to such an arrangement. You
cannot call that suspicion."
"I can call it jealousy."
"And should not a mother be jealous of her children's love?"
During all this time the squire was walking up and down the room
with his hands in his trousers pockets. And when Mrs. Dale had last
spoken, he continued his walk for some time in silence.
"Perhaps it is well that you should have spoken out," he said.
"The manner in which you accused me made it necessary."
"I did not intend to accuse you, and I do not do so now; but I think
that you have been, and that you are, very hard to me,--very hard
indeed. I have endeavoured to make your children, and yourself also,
sharers with me in such prosperity as has been mine. I have striven
to add to your comfort and to their happiness. I am most anxious to
secure their future welfare. You would have been very wrong had you
declined to accept this on their behalf; but I think that in return
for it you need not have begrudged me the affection and obedience
which generally follows from such good offices."
"Mr. Dale, I have begrudged you nothing of this."
"I am hurt;--I am hurt," he continued. And she was surprised by his
look of pain even more than by the unaccustomed warmth of his words.
"What you have said has, I have known, been the case all along. But
though I had felt it to be so, I own that I am hurt by your open
words."
"Because I have said that my own children must ever be my own?"
"Ah, you have said more than that. You and the girls have been living
here, close to me, for--how many years is it now?--and during all
those years there has grown up for me no kindly feeling. Do you think
that I cannot hear, and see, and feel? Do you suppose that I am a
fool and do not know? As for yourself you would never enter this
house if you did not feel yourself constrained to do so for the
sake of appearances. I suppose it is all as it should be. Having no
children of my own, I owe the duty of a parent to my nieces; but I
have no right to expect from them in return either love, regard, or
obedience. I know I am keeping you here against your will, Mary. I
won't do so any longer." And he made a sign to her that she was to
depart.
As she rose from her seat her heart was softened towards him. In
these latter days he had shown much kindness to the girls,--a
kindness that was more akin to the gentleness of love than had
ever come from him before. Lily's fate had seemed to melt even his
sternness, and he had striven to be tender in his words and ways.
And now he spoke as though he had loved the girls, and had loved
them in vain. Doubtless he had been a disagreeable neighbour to his
sister-in-law, making her feel that it was never for her personally
that he had opened his hand. Doubtless he had been moved by an
unconscious desire to undermine and take upon himself her authority
with her own children. Doubtless he had looked askance at her from
the first day of her marriage with his brother. She had been keenly
alive to all this since she had first known him, and more keenly
alive to it than ever since the failure of those efforts she had made
to live with him on terms of affection, made during the first year or
two of her residence at the Small House. But, nevertheless, in spite
of all, her heart bled for him now. She had gained her victory over
him, having fully held her own position with her children; but now
that he complained that he had been beaten in the struggle, her heart
bled for him.
"My brother," she said, and as she spoke she offered him her hands,
"it may be that we have not thought as kindly of each other as we
should have done."
"I have endeavoured," said the old man. "I have endeavoured--" And
then he stopped, either hindered by some excess of emotion, or unable
to find the words which were necessary for the expression of his
meaning.
"Let us endeavour once again,--both of us."
"What, begin again at near seventy! No, Mary, there is no more
beginning again for me. All this shall make no difference to the
girls. As long as I am here they shall have the house. If they marry,
I will do for them what I can. I believe Bernard is much in earnest
in his suit, and if Bell will listen to him, she shall still be
welcomed here as mistress of Allington. What you have said shall make
no difference;--but as to beginning again, it is simply impossible."
After that Mrs. Dale walked home through the garden by herself. He
had studiously told her that that house in which they lived should be
lent, not to her, but to her children, during his lifetime. He had
positively declined the offer of her warmer regard. He had made her
understand that they were to look on each other almost as enemies;
but that she, enemy as she was, should still be allowed the use of
his munificence, because he chose to do his duty by his nieces!
"It will be better for us that we shall leave it," she said to
herself as she seated herself in her own arm-chair over the
drawing-room fire.