The Chronicles of Barsetshire

by Anthony Trollope

  And what was the state of Lily’s mind at the same moment, while she, also, was performing some slight toilet changes preparatory to their simple dinner at the Small House?

  “I didn’t behave well to him,” she said to herself; “I never do. I forget how much he is giving up for me; and then, when anything annoys him, I make it worse instead of comforting him.” And upon that she made accusation against herself that she did not love him half enough—that she did not let him see how thoroughly and perfectly she loved him. She had an idea of her own, that as a girl should never show any preference for a man till circumstances should have fully entitled him to such manifestation, so also should she make no drawback on her love, but pour it forth for his benefit with all her strength, when such circumstances had come to exist. But she was ever feeling that she was not acting up to her theory, now that the time for such practice had come. She would unwittingly assume little reserves, and make small pretences of indifference in spite of her own judgment. She had done so on this afternoon, and had left him without giving him her hand to press, without looking up into his face with an assurance of love, and therefore she was angry with herself. “I know I shall teach him to hate me,” she said out loud to Bell.

  “That would be very sad,” said Bell; “but I don’t see it.”

  “If you were engaged to a man you would be much better to him. You would not say so much, but what you did say would be all affection. I am always making horrid little speeches, for which I should like to cut out my tongue afterwards.”

  “Whatever sort of speeches they are, I think that he likes them.”

  “Does he? I’m not all so sure of that, Bell. Of course I don’t expect that he is to scold me—not yet, that is. But I know by his eye when he is pleased and when he is displeased.”

  And then they went down to their dinner.

  Up at the Great House the three gentlemen met together in apparent good humour. Bernard Dale was a man of an equal temperament, who rarely allowed any feeling, or even any annoyance, to interfere with his usual manner—a man who could always come to table with a smile, and meet either his friend or his enemy with a properly civil greeting. Not that he was especially a false man. There was nothing of deceit in his placidity of demeanour. It arose from true equanimity; but it was the equanimity of a cold disposition rather than of one well ordered by discipline. The squire was aware that he had been unreasonably petulant before dinner, and having taken himself to task in his own way, now entered the dining-room with the courteous greeting of a host. “I find that your bag was not so bad after all,” he said, “and I hope that your appetite is at least as good as your bag.”

  Crosbie smiled, and made himself pleasant, and said a few flattering words. A man who intends to take some very decided step in an hour or two generally contrives to bear himself in the meantime as though the trifles of the world were quite sufficient for him. So he praised the squire’s game; said a good-natured word as to Dingles, and bantered himself as to his own want of skill. Then all went merry, not quite as a marriage bell; but still merry enough for a party of three gentlemen.

  But Crosbie’s resolution was fixed; and as soon, therefore, as the old butler was permanently gone, and the wine steadily in transit upon the table, he began his task, not without some apparent abruptness. Having fully considered the matter, he had determined that he would not wait for Bernard Dale’s absence. He thought it possible that he might be able to fight his battle better in Bernard’s presence than he should do behind his back.

  “Squire,” he began. They all called him squire when they were on good terms together, and Crosbie thought it well to begin as though there was nothing amiss between them. “Squire, of course I am thinking a good deal at the present moment as to my intended marriage.”

  “That’s natural enough,” said the squire.

  “Yes, by George! sir, a man doesn’t make a change like that without finding that he has got something to think of.”

  “I suppose not,” said the squire. “I never was in the way of getting married myself, but I can easily understand that.”

  “I’ve been the luckiest fellow in the world in finding such a girl as your niece—” Whereupon the squire bowed, intending to make a little courteous declaration that the luck in the matter was on the side of the Dales. “I know that,” continued Crosbie. “She is exactly everything that a girl ought to be.”

  “She is a good girl,” said Bernard.

  “Yes; I think she is,” said the squire.

  “But it seems to me,” said Crosbie, finding that it was necessary to dash at once headlong into the water, “that something ought to be said as to my means of supporting her properly.”

  Then he paused for a moment, expecting that the squire would speak. But the squire sat perfectly still, looking intently at the empty fireplace and saying nothing. “Of supporting her,” continued Crosbie, “with all those comforts to which she has been accustomed.”

  “She has never been used to expense,” said the squire. “Her mother, as you doubtless know, is not a rich woman.”

  “But living here, Lily has had great advantages—a horse to ride, and all that sort of thing.”

  “I don’t suppose she expects a horse in the park,” said the squire, with a very perceptible touch of sarcasm in his voice.

  “I hope not,” said Crosbie.

  “I believe she has had the use of one of the ponies here sometimes, but I hope that has not made her extravagant in her ideas. I did not think that there was anything of that nonsense about either of them.”

  “Nor is there—as far as I know.”

  “Nothing of the sort,” said Bernard.

  “But the long and the short of it is this, sir!” and Crosbie, as he spoke, endeavoured to maintain his ordinary voice and usual coolness, but his heightened colour betrayed that he was nervous. “Am I to expect any accession of income with my wife?”

  “I have not spoken to my sister-in-law on the subject,” said the squire; “but I should fear that she cannot do much.”

  “As a matter of course, I would not take a shilling from her,” said Crosbie.

  “Then that settles it,” said the squire.

  Crosbie paused a moment, during which his colour became very red. He unconsciously took up an apricot and ate it, and then he spoke out. “Of course I was not alluding to Mrs. Dale’s income; I would not, on any account, disturb her arrangements. But I wished to learn, sir, whether you intend to do anything for your niece.”

  “In the way of giving her a fortune? Nothing at all. I intend to do nothing at all.”

  “Then I suppose we understand each other—at last,” said Crosbie.

  “I should have thought that we might have understood each other at first,” said the squire. “Did I ever make you any promise, or give you any hint that I intended to provide for my niece? Have I ever held out to you any such hope? I don’t know what you mean by that word ‘at last’—unless it be to give offence.”

  “I meant the truth, sir—I meant this—that seeing the manner in which your nieces lived with you, I thought it probable that you would treat them both as though they were your daughters. Now I find out my mistake—that is all!”

  “You have been mistaken—and without a shadow of excuse for your mistake.”

  “Others have been mistaken with me,” said Crosbie, forgetting, on the spur of the moment, that he had no right to drag the opinion of any other person into the question.

  “What others?” said the squire, with anger; and his mind immediately betook itself to his sister-in-law.

  “I do not want to make any mischief,” said Crosbie.

  “If anybody connected with my family has presumed to tell you that I intended to do more for my niece Lilian than I have already done, such person has not only been false, but ungrateful. I have given to no one any authority to make any promise on behalf of my niece.”

  “No such promise has been made. It was only a suggestion,” said Crosbie.r />
  He was not in the least aware to whom the squire was alluding in his anger; but he perceived that his host was angry, and having already reflected that he should not have alluded to the words which Bernard Dale had spoken in his friendship, he resolved to name no one. Bernard, as he sat by listening, knew exactly how the matter stood; but, as he thought, there could be no reason why he should subject himself to his uncle’s ill-will, seeing that he had committed no sin.

  “No such suggestion should have been made,” said the squire. “No one has had a right to make such a suggestion. No one has been placed by me in a position to make such a suggestion to you without manifest impropriety. I will ask no further questions about it; but it is quite as well that you should understand at once that I do not consider it to be my duty to give my niece Lilian a fortune on her marriage. I trust that your offer to her was not made under any such delusion.”

  “No, sir; it was not,” said Crosbie.

  “Then I suppose that no great harm has been done. I am sorry if false hopes have been given to you; but I am sure you will acknowledge that they were not given to you by me.”

  “I think you have misunderstood me, sir. My hopes were never very high; but I thought it right to ascertain your intentions.”

  “Now you know them. I trust, for the girl’s sake, that it will make no difference to her. I can hardly believe that she has been to blame in the matter.”

  Crosbie hastened at once to exculpate Lily; and then, with more awkward blunders than a man should have made who was so well acquainted with fashionable life as the Apollo of the Beaufort, he proceeded to explain that, as Lily was to have nothing, his own pecuniary arrangements would necessitate some little delay in their marriage.

  “As far as I myself am concerned,” said the squire, “I do not like long engagements. But I am quite aware that in this matter I have no right to interfere, unless, indeed—” and then he stopped himself.

  “I suppose it will be well to fix some day; eh, Crosbie?” said Bernard.

  “I will discuss that matter with Mrs. Dale,” said Crosbie.

  “If you and she understand each other,” said the squire, “that will be sufficient. Shall we go into the drawing-room now, or out upon the lawn?”

  That evening, as Crosbie went to bed, he felt that he had not gained the victory in his encounter with the squire.

  CHAPTER VIII

  It Cannot Be

  On the following morning at breakfast each of the three gentlemen at the Great House received a little note on pink paper, nominally from Mrs. Dale, asking them to drink tea at the Small House on that day week. At the bottom of the note which Lily had written for Mr. Crosbie was added: “Dancing on the lawn, if we can get anybody to stand up. Of course you must come, whether you like it or not. And Bernard also. Do your possible to talk my uncle into coming.” And this note did something towards re-creating good-humour among them at the breakfast-table. It was shown to the squire, and at last he was brought to say that he would perhaps go to Mrs. Dale’s little evening-party.

  It may be well to explain that this promised entertainment had been originated with no special view to the pleasure of Mr. Crosbie, but altogether on behalf of poor Johnny Eames. What was to be done in that matter? This question had been fully discussed between Mrs. Dale and Bell, and they had come to the conclusion that it would best to ask Johnny over to a little friendly gathering, in which he might be able to meet Lily with some strangers around them. In this way his embarrassment might be overcome. It would never do, as Mrs. Dale said, that he should be suffered to stay away, unnoticed by them. “When the ice is once broken he won’t mind it,” said Bell. And, therefore, early in the day, a messenger was sent over to Guestwick, who returned with a note from Mrs. Eames, saying that she would come on the evening in question, with her son and daughter. They would keep the fly and get back to Guestwick the same evening. This was added, as an offer had been made of beds for Mrs. Eames and Mary.

  Before the evening of the party another memorable occurrence had taken place at Allington, which must be described, in order that the feelings of the different people on that evening may be understood. The squire had given his nephew to understand that he wished to have that matter settled as to his niece Bell; and as Bernard’s views were altogether in accordance with the squire’s, he resolved to comply with his uncle’s wishes. The project with him was not a new thing. He did love his cousin quite sufficiently for purposes of matrimony, and was minded that it would be a good thing for him to marry. He could not marry without money, but this marriage would give him an income without the trouble of intricate settlements, or the interference of lawyers hostile to his own interests. It was possible that he might do better; but then it was possible also that he might do much worse; and, in addition to this, he was fond of his cousin. He discussed the matter within himself, very calmly; made some excellent resolutions as to the kind of life which it would behove him to live as a married man; settled on the street in London in which he would have his house, and behaved very prettily to Bell for four or five days running. That he did not make love to her, in the ordinary sense of the word, must, I suppose, be taken for granted, seeing that Bell herself did not recognise the fact. She had always liked her cousin, and thought that in these days he was making himself particularly agreeable.

  On the evening before the party the girls were at the Great House, having come up nominally with the intention of discussing the expediency of dancing on the lawn. Lily had made up her mind that it was to be so, but Bell had objected that it would be cold and damp, and that the drawing-room would be nicer for dancing.

  “You see we’ve only got four young gentlemen and one ungrown,” said Lily; “and they will look so stupid standing up all properly in a room, as though we had a regular party.”

  “Thank you for the compliment,” said Crosbie, taking off his straw hat.

  “So you will; and we girls will look more stupid still. But out on the lawn it won’t look stupid at all. Two or three might stand up on the lawn, and it would be jolly enough.”

  “I don’t quite see it,” said Bernard.

  “Yes, I think I see it,” said Crosbie. “The unadaptability of the lawn for the purpose of a ball—”

  “Nobody is thinking of a ball,” said Lily, with mock petulance.

  “I’m defending you, and yet you won’t let me speak. The unadaptability of the lawn for the purpose of a ball will conceal the insufficiency of four men and a boy as a supply of male dancers. But, Lily, who is the ungrown gentleman? Is it your old friend Johnny Eames?”

  Lily’s voice became sobered as she answered him.

  “Oh, no; I did not mean Mr. Eames. He is coming, but I did not mean him. Dick Boyce, Mr. Boyce’s son, is only sixteen. He is the ungrown gentleman.”

  “And who is the fourth adult?”

  “Dr. Crofts, from Guestwick. I do hope you will like him, Adolphus. We think he is the very perfection of a man.”

  “Then of course I shall hate him; and be very jealous, too!”

  And then that pair went off together, fighting their own little battle on that head, as turtle-doves will sometimes do. They went off, and Bernard was left with Bell standing together over the ha-ha fence which divides the garden at the back of the house from the field.

  “Bell,” he said, “they seem very happy, don’t they?”

  “And they ought to be happy now, oughtn’t they? Dear Lily! I hope he will be good to her. Do you know, Bernard, though he is your friend, I am very, very anxious about it. It is such a vast trust to put in a man when we do not quite know him.”

  “Yes, it is; but they’ll do very well together. Lily will be happy enough.”

  “And he?”

  “I suppose he’ll be happy, too. He’ll feel himself a little straightened as to income at first, but that will all come round.”

  “If he is not, she will be wretched.”

  “They will do very well. Lily must be prepared to make the money go a
s far as she can, that’s all.”

  “Lily won’t feel the want of money. It is not that. But if he lets her know that she has made him a poor man, then she will be unhappy. Is he extravagant, Bernard?”

  But Bernard was anxious to discuss another subject, and therefore would not speak such words of wisdom as to Lily’s engagement as might have been expected from him had he been in a different frame of mind.

  “No, I should say not,” said he. “But, Bell—”

  “I do not know that we could have acted otherwise than we have done, and yet I fear that we have been rash. If he makes her unhappy, Bernard, I shall never forgive you.”

  But as she said this she put her hand lovingly upon his arm, as a cousin might do, and spoke in a tone which divested her threat of its acerbity.

  “You must not quarrel with me, Bell, whatever may happen. I cannot afford to quarrel with you.”

  “Of course I was not in earnest as to that.”

  “You and I must never quarrel, Bell; at least, I hope not. I could bear to quarrel with anyone rather than with you.” And then, as he spoke, there was something in his voice which gave the girl some slight, indistinct warning of what might be his intention. Not that she said to herself at once, that he was going to make her an offer of his hand—now, on the spot; but she felt that he intended something beyond the tenderness of ordinary cousinly affection.