The Small House at Allington

by Anthony Trollope

And then she repeated to herself the words which Lily had spoken, sitting there, leaning with her elbow on her knee, and her head upon her hand.

  ‘Please, ma’am, cook says, can we have the peas to shell?’ and then her reverie was broken.

  Whereupon Mrs Dale got up and gave over her basket. ‘Cook knows that the young ladies are going to dine at the Great House?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘She needn’t mind getting dinner for me. I will tea early.’ And so, after all, Mrs Dale did not perform that special duty appointed for her.

  But she soon get herself to work upon another duty. When a family of three persons has to live upon an income of three hundred a year, and nevertheless, makes some pretence of going into society, it has to be very mindful of small details, even though that family may consist only of ladies. Of this Mrs Dale was well aware, and as it pleased her that here daughters should be nice and fresh, and pretty in their attire, many a long hour was given up to that care. The squire would send them shawls in winter, and had given them riding habits, and had sent them down brown silk dresses from London – so limited in quantity that the due manufacture of two dresses out of the material had been found to be beyond the art of woman, and the brown silk garments had been a difficulty from that day to this – the squire having a good memory in such matters, and being anxious to set the fruits of his liberality. All this was doubtless of assistance, but had the squire given the amount which he so expended in money to his nieces, the benefit would have been greater. As it was, the girls were always nice and fresh and pretty, they themselves not being idle in that matter; but their tire-woman4 in chief was their mother. And now she went up to their room and got out their muslin frocks, and – but, perhaps, I should not tell such tales! – She, however, felt no shame in her work, and she sent for a hot iron, and with her owns hands smoothed out the creases, and gave the proper set to the crimp flounces, and fixed a new ribbon where it was wanted, and saw that all was as it should be. Men think but little how much of this kind is endured that heir eyes may be pleased, even though it be but for an hour.

  ‘Oh! mamma, how good you are,’ said Bell, as the two girls came in, only just in time to make themselves ready for returning to dinner.

  ‘Mamma is always good,’ said Lily, ‘I wish, mamma, I could do the same for you oftener,’ and then she kissed her mother. But the squire was exact about dinner, so they dresses themselves in haste, and went off again through the garden, their mother accompanying them to the little bridge.

  ‘Your uncle did not seem vexed at my not coming?’ said Mrs Dale.

  ‘We have not seen him, mamma,’ said Lily. ‘We have been ever so far down the fields, and forgot altogether what o’clock it was.’

  ‘I don’t think uncle Christopher was about the place, or we should have met him,’ said Bell.

  ‘But I am vexed with you, mamma. Are not you, Bell? It is very bad of you to stay here all alone, and not come.’

  ‘I suppose mamma likes being at home better than up at the Great House,’ said Bell, very gently; and as she spoke she was holding her mother’s hand.

  ‘Well; good-bye, dears. I shall expect you between ten and eleven. But don’t yourselves if anything is going on.’ And so they went, and the widow was again alone. The path from the bridge ran straight up towards the back of the Great House, so that for a moment or two she could see them as they tripped on almost in a run. And then she saw their dresses flutter as they turned sharp round, up the terrace steps. She would not go beyond the nook among the laurels by which she was surrounded, lest anyone should see her as she looked after her girls. But when the last flutter of the pink muslin had been whisked away from her sight, she felt it hard that she might not follow them. She stood there, however, without advancing a step. She would not have Hopkins telling how she watched her daughters as they went from her own home to that of her brother-in-law. It was not within the capacity of Hopkins to understand why she watched them.

  ‘Well, girls, you’re not much too soon. I think your mother might have come with you,’ said uncle Christopher. And this was the manner of the man. Had he known his own wished he must have acknowledged to himself that he was better pleased that Mrs Dale should stay away. He felt himself more absolutely master and more comfortably at home at his own table without her company than with it. And yet he frequently made a grievance of her not coming, and himself believed in that grievance.

  ‘I think mamma was tired,’ said Bell.

  ‘Hem. It’s not so very far across from one house to the other. If I were to shut myself up whenever I’m tired – But never mind. Let’s go to dinner. Mr Crosbie, will you take my niece Lilian.’ And then, offering his own arm to Bell, he walked off to the dinning-room.

  ‘If he scolds mamma any more, I’ll go away,’ said Lily to her companion; by which it may be seen that they had all become very intimate during the long day that they had passed together.

  Mrs Dale, after remaining for a moment on the bridge, went in to her tea. What succedaneum5 of mutton chop or broiled ham she had for the roast duck and green peas which were to have been provided for the family dinner we will not particularly inquire. We may, however imagine that she did not devote herself to her evening repast with any particular energy of appetite. She took a book with her as she sat herself down – some novel, probably, for Mrs Dale was not above novels – and read a page or tow as she sipped her tea. But the book was soon laid on one side, and the tray on which the warm plate had become cold was neglected, and she threw herself back in her own familiar chair, thinking of herself, and of her girls, and thinking also what might have been her lot in life had he lived who had loved her truly during the few years that they had been together.

  It is especially the nature of a Dale to be constant in his likings and his dislikings. Her husband’s affection for her had been unswerving – so much so that he had quarrelled with his brother because his brother would not express himself in brotherly terms about his wife; but, nevertheless, the two brothers had loved each other always. Many years had now gone by since these things had occurred, but still the same feelings remained. When she had first come down to Allington she had resolved to win the squire’s regard, but she had now long known that any such winning was out of the question; indeed, there was no longer a wish for it. Mrs Dale was not one of those soft-hearted women who sometimes thank God that they can love anyone. She could once have felt affection for her brother-in-law – affection, and close, careful, sisterly friendship; but she could not do so now. He had been cold to her, and had with perseverance rejected her advances. That was now seven years since; and during those years Mrs Dale had been, at any rate, as cold to him as he had been to her.

  But all this was very hard to bear. That her daughters should love their uncle was not only reasonable, but in every way desirable. He was not cold to them. To them he was generous and affectionate. If she were only out of the way, he would have taken them to his house as his own, and they would in all respects have stood before the world as his adopted children. Would it not be better if she were out of the way?

  It was only in her most dismal moods that this question would get itself asked within her mind, and then she would recover herself, and answer it stoutly with an indignant protest against her own morbid weakness. It would not be well that she should be away from her girls – not though their uncle should have been twice a better uncle; not though, by her absence, they might become heiresses of all Allington. Was it not above everything to them that they should have a mother near them? And as she asked of herself that morbid question – wickedly asked it, as she declared to herself – did she not know that they loved her better than all the world beside, and would prefer her caresses and her care to the guardianship of any uncle, let his house be ever so great? As yet they loved her better than all the world beside. Of other love, should it come, she would not be jealous. And if it should come, and should be happy, might there not yet be a bright evening of life for herself? If the
y should marry, and if their lords would accept her love, her friendship, and her homage, she might yet escape from the deathlike coldness of that Great House, and be happy in some tiny cottage, from which she might go forth at times among those who would really welcome her. A certain doctor there was, living not very far from Allington, at Guest-wick, as to whom she had once thought that he might fill that place of son-in-law – to be well-beloved. Her quiet, beautiful Bell had seemed to like the man; and he had certainly done more than seem to like her. But now, for some weeks past, this hope, or rather this idea, had faded away. Mrs Dale had never questioned her daughter on the matter; she was not a woman prone to put such questions. But during the month or two last past, she had seen with regret that Bell looked almost coldly on the man whom her mother favoured.

  In thinking of all this the long evening passed away, and at eleven o’clock she hear the coming steps across the garden. The young men had, of course, accompanied the girls home; and as she stepped out from the still open window of her own drawing-room, she saw them all on the center of the lawn before her.

  ‘There’s mamma,’ said Lily, ‘Mamma, Mr Crosbie wants to play croquet by moonlight.’

  ‘I don’t think there is light enough for that,’ said Mrs Dale.

  ‘There is light enough for him,’ said Lily, ‘for he plays quite independently of the hoops; don’t you, Mr Crosbie?’

  ‘There’s very pretty croquet light, I should say,’ said Mr Crosbie looking up at the bright moon; ‘and then it is so stupid going to bed.’

  ‘Yes, it is stupid going to bed,’ said Lily; ‘but people in the country are stupid, you know. Billiards, that you can play all night by gas, is much better, isn’t it?’

  ‘Your arrows fall terribly astray there, Miss Dale, for I never touch a cue; you should talk to your cousin about billiards.’

  ‘Is Bernard a great billiard player?’ asked Bell.

  ‘Well, I do play now and again; about as well as Crosbie does croquet. Come, Crosbie, we’ll go home and smoke a cigar.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lily; ‘and then, you know, we stupid people can go to bed. Mamma, I wish you had a little smoking-room here for us. I don’t like being considered stupid.’ And then they parted – the ladies going into the house, and the two men returning across the lawn.

  ‘Lily, my love,’ said Mrs Dale, when they were all together in her bedroom, ‘it seems to me that you are very hard upon Mr Crosbie.’

  ‘She has been going on like that all the evening,’ said Bell.

  ‘I’m sure we are very good friends,’ said Lily.

  ‘Oh, very,’ said Bell.

  ‘Now, Bell, you’re jealous; you know you are.’ And then, seeing that her sister was in some slight degree vexed, she went up to her and kissed her. ‘She shan’t be called jealous; shall she, mamma?’

  ‘I don’t think she deserves it,’ said Mrs Dale.

  ‘Now, you don’t mean to say that you think I meant anything,’ said Lily. ‘As if I cared a buttercup about Mr Crosbie.’

  ‘Or I either, Lily.’

  ‘Of course you don’t. But I do care for him very much, mamma. He is such a duck of an Apollo. I shall always call him Apollo; Phoebus Apollo! And when I draw his picture he shall have a mallet in his hand instead of a bow. Upon my word I am very much obliged to Bernard for bringing him down here; and I do wish he was not going away the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘The day after tomorrow!’ said Mrs Dale. ‘It was hardly worth coming for two days.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t – disturbing us all in our quiet little ways just for such a spell as that – not giving one time even to count his rays.’

  ‘But he says he shall perhaps come again,’ said Bell.

  ‘There is that hope for us,’ said Lily. ‘Uncle Christopher asked him to come down when he gets his long leave of absence. This is only a short sort of leave. He is better off than poor Johnny Eames. Johnny Eames only has a month, but Mr Crosbie has two months just whenever he likes it; and seems to be pretty much his own master all the year round besides.’

  ‘And uncle Christopher asked him to come down for the shooting in September,’ said Bell.

  ‘And though he didn’t say he’d come I think he meant it,’ said Lily. ‘There is that hope for us, mamma.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to draw Apollo with a gun instead of a mallet.’

  ‘That is the worst of it, mamma. We shan’t see much of him or of Bernard either. They wouldn’t let us go out into the woods as beaters, would they?’

  ‘You’d make too much noise to be of any use.’

  ‘Should I? I thought the beaters had to shout at the birds. I should get very tired of shouting at birds, so I think I’ll stay at home and look after me clothes.’

  ‘I hope he will come, because uncle Christopher seems to like him so much,’ said Bell.

  ‘I wonder whether a certain gentleman at Guestwick will like his coming,’ said Lily. And then, as soon as she had spoken the words, she looked at her sister, and saw that she had grieved her.

  ‘Lily, you let your tongue run too fast,’ said Mrs Dale.

  ‘I didn’t mean anything, Bell,’ said Lily. ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘It doesn’t signify,’ said Bell. ‘Only Lily says things without thinking.’ And then that conversation came to an end, and nothing more was said among them beyond what appertained to their toilet, and a few last words at parting. But the two girls occupied the same room, and when their own door was closed upon them, Bell did allude to what had passed with some spirit.

  ‘Lily, you promised me,’ she said, ‘that you would not say anything more to me about Dr Crofts.’

  ‘I know I did, and I was very wrong. I beg your pardon, Bell; and I won’t do it again – not if I can help it.’

  ‘Not help it, Lily!’

  ‘But I’m sure I don’t know why I shouldn’t speak of him – only not in the way of laughing at you. Of all the men I ever saw in my life I like him best. And only that I love you better than I love myself I could find it in my heart to grudge you his –’

  ‘Lily, what did you promise just now?’

  ‘Well; after tonight. And I don’t know why you should turn against him.’

  ‘I have never turned against him or for him.’

  ‘There’s no turning about him. He’d give his left hand if you’d only smile on him. Or his right either – and that’s what I should like to see; so now you’ve heard it.’

  ‘You know you are talking nonsense.’

  ‘So I should like to see it. And so would mamma too, I’m sure; though I never heard her say a word about him. In my mind he’s the finest fellow I ever saw. What’s Mr Apollo Crosbie to him? And now, as it makes you unhappy. I’ll never say another word about him.’

  As Bell wished her sister good-night with perhaps more than her usual affection, it was evident that Lily’s words and eager tone had in some way pleased her, in spite of their opposition to the request which she has made. And Lily was aware that it was so.

  CHAPTER 4

  MRS ROPER’S BOARDING-HOUSE

  I HAVE said that John Eames had been petted by none but his mother, but I would not have it supposed, on this account, that John Eames had no friends. There is a class of young men who never get petted, though they may not be the less esteemed, or perhaps loved. They do not come forth to the world as Apollos, nor shine at all, keeping what light they may have for inward purposes. Such young men are often awkward, ungainly, and not yet formed in their gait; they straggle with their limbs, and are shy; words do not come to them with ease, when words are required, among any but their accustomed associates. Social meetings are periods of penance to them, and any appearance in public will unnerve them. They go much about alone, and blush when women speak to them. In truth, they are not as yet men, whatever the number may be of their years; and, as they are no longer boys, the world has found for them the ungraceful name of hobbledehoy.1

  Such observations, however, as I have been ena
bled to make on this matter have led me to believe that the hobbledehoy is by no means the least valuable species of the human race. When I compare the hobbledehoy of one or two and twenty to some finished Apollo of the same age, I regard to former as unripe fruit, and the latter as fruit that is ripe. Then comes the question as to the two fruits. Which is the better fruit, that which ripens early – which is, perhaps, favoured with some little forcing apparatus, or which, at least, is backed by the warmth of a southern wall;2 or that fruit of slower growth, as to which nature works without assistance, on which the sun operates in its own time – or perhaps never operates if some ungenial shade has been allowed to interpose itself? The world, no doubt, is in favour of the forcing apparatus or of the southern wall. The fruit comes certainly, and at an assured period. It is spotless, speckless, and of a certain quality by no means despicable. The owner has it when he wants it, and it serves its turn. But, nevertheless, according to my thinking, the fullest flavour of the sun is given to that other fruit – is given in the sun’s own good time, if so be that no ungenial shade has interposed itself. I like the smack of the natural growth, and like it, perhaps, the better because that which has been obtained has been obtained without favour.

  But the hobbledehoy, though he blushes when women address him, and is uneasy even when he is near them, though he is not master of his limbs in a ball-room, and is hardly master of his tongue at any time, is the most eloquent of beings, and especially eloquent among beautiful women. He enjoys all the triumphs of a Don Juan, without any of Don Juan’s heartlessness, and is able to conquer in all encounters, through the force of his wit and the sweetness of his voice. But this eloquence is heard only by his own inner ears, and these triumphs are the triumphs of his imagination.3

  The true hobbledehoy is much alone, not being greatly given to social intercourse even with other hobbledehoys – a trait in his character which I think has hardly been sufficiently observed by the world at large. He has probably become a hobbledehoy instead of an Apollo, because circumstances have not afforded him much social intercourse; and, therefore, he wanders about in solitude, taking long walks, in which he dreams of those successes which are so far removed from his powers of achievement. Out in the fields, with his stick in his hand, he is very eloquent, cutting off the heads of the springing summer weeds, as he practises his oratory with energy. And thus he feeds an imagination for which those who know him give him but scanty credit, and unconsciously prepares himself for that latter ripening, if only the ungenial shade will some day cease to interpose itself.