The Small House at Allington

by Anthony Trollope

  ‘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 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 girl, 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 nor 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 the 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.

  CHAPTER 38

  DR CROETS IS CALLED IN

  MRS DALE had not sat long in her drawing-room before tidings were brought to her which for a while drew her mind away from that question of her removal. ‘Mamma,’ said Bell, entering the room, ‘I really do believe that Jane has got scarlatina’1. Jane, the parlour-maid, had been ailing for the last two days, but noting serious had hitherto been suspected.

  Mrs Dale instantly jumped up. ‘Who is with her?’ she asked.

  It appeared from Bell’s answer that both she and Lily had been with the girl, and that Lily was still in the room. Whereupon Mrs Dale ran upstairs, and there was on the sudden a commotion in the house. In an hour or so the village doctor was there, and he expressed an opinion that the girl’s ailment was certainly scarlatina. Mrs Dale, not satisfied with this, sent off a boy to Guestwick for Dr Crofts, having herself maintained an opposition of many years’ standing against the medical reputation of the apothecary, and gave a positive order to the two girls not to visit poor Jane again. She herself had had scarlatina, and might do as she pleased. Then, too, a nurse was bired

  All this changed for a few hours the current of Mrs Dale’s thoughts: but in the evening she went back to the subject of her morning conversation, and before the three ladies went to bed, they held together an open council of war upon the subject. Dr Crofts had been found to be away from Guestwick, and word had been sent on his behalf that he would be over
at Allington early on the following morning. Mrs Dale had almost made up her mind that the malady of her favourite maid was not scarlatina, but had not on that account relaxed her order as to the absence of her daughters from the maid’s bedside.

  ‘Let us go at once’, said Bell, who was even more opposed to any domination on the part of her uncle than was her mother. In the discussion which had been taking place between them the whole matter of Bernard’s courtship had come upon the carpet. Bell had kept her cousin’s offer to herself as long as she had been able to do so; but since her uncle had pressed the subject upon Mrs Dale, it was impossible for Bell to remain silent any longer. ‘You do not want me to marry him, mamma; do you?’ she had said, when her mother had spoken with some show of kindness towards Bernard. In answer to this, Mrs Dale had protested vehemently that she had no such wish, and Lily, who still held to her belief in Dr Crofts, was almost equally animated. To them all the idea that their uncle should in any way interfere in their own views of life, on the strength of the pecuniary assistance which they had received from him, was peculiarly distasteful. But it was especially distasteful that he should presume to have even an opinion as to their disposition of marriage. They declared to each other that their uncle could have no right to object to any marriage which either of them might contemplate as long as their mother should approve of it. The poor old squire had been right in saying that he was regarded with suspicion. He was so regarded. The fault had certainly been his own, in having endeavoured to win the daughters without thinking it worth his while to win the mother. The girls had unconsciusly felt that the attempt was made, and had vigorously rebelled against it. It had not been their fault that they had been brought to live in their uncle’s house, and made to ride on his ponies, and to eat partially of his bread. They had so eaten, and so lived, and declared themselves to be grateful. The squire was good in his way, and they recognized his goodness; but not on that account would they transfer to him one jot of the allegiance which as children they owed to their mother. When she told them her tale, explaining to them the words which their uncle had spoken that morning, they expressed their regret that he should be so grieved; but they were strong in assurances to their mother that she had been sinned against, and was not sinning.

  ‘Let us go at once,’ said Bell.

  ‘It is much easier said than done, my dear’.

  ‘Of course it is, mamma; else we shouldn’t be here now. What I mean is this – let us take some necessary first step at once. It is clear that my uncle thinks that our remaining here should give him some right over us. I do not say that he is wrong to think so. Perhaps it is natural. Perhaps, in accepting his kindness, we ought to submit ourselves to him. If that be so, it is a conclusive reason for our going.’

  ‘Could we not pay him rent for the house,’ said Lily, ‘as Mrs Hearn does? You would like to remain here, mamma, if you could do that?’

  ‘But we could not do that, Lily. We must choose for ourselves a smaller house than this, and one that is not burdened with the expense of a garden. Even if we paid but a moderate rent for this place, we should not have the means of living here.’

  ‘Not if we lived on toast and tea?’ said Lily, laughing.

  ‘But I should hardly wish you to live upon toast and tea; and indeed I fancy that I should get tired of such a diet myself.’

  ‘Never, mamma,’ said Lily. ‘As for me, I confess to a longing after mutton chops; but I don’t think you would ever want such vulgar things.’

  ‘At any rate, it would be impossible to remain here’, said Bell. ‘Uncle Christopher would not take rent from mamma; and even if he did, we should not know how to go on with our other arrangements after such a change. No; we must give up the dear old Small House.’

  ‘It is a dear old house,’ said Lily, thinking, as she spoke, more of those late scenes in the garden, when Crosbie had been with them in the autumn months, than of any of the former joys of her childhood.

  ‘After all, I do not know that I should be right to move,’ said Mrs Dale, doubtingly.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said both the girls at once. ‘Of course you will be right, mamma; there cannot be a doubt about it, mamma. If we can get any cottage, or even lodgings, that would be better than remaining here, now that we know what uncle Christopher thinks of it.’

  ‘It will make him very unhappy,’ said Mrs Dale.

  But even this argument did not in the least move the girls. They were very sorry that their uncle should be unhappy. They would endeavour to show him by some increased show of affection that their feeling towards him were not unkind. Should he speak to them they would endeavour to explain to him that their thoughts towards him were altogether affectionate. But they could not remain at Allington increasing their load of gratitude, seeing that he expected a certain payment which they did not feel themselves able to render.

  ‘We should be robbing him, if we stayed here,’ Bell declared – ‘wilfully robbing him of what he believes to be his just share of the bargain.’

  So it was settled among them that notice should be given to their uncle of their intention to quit the Small House of Allington.

  And then came the question as to their new home. Mrs Dale was aware that her income was at any rate better than possessed by Mrs Eames, and therefore she had fair ground for presuming that she could afford to keep a house at Guestwick. ‘If we do go away, that is what we must do,’ she said.

  ‘And we shall have to walk out with Mary Eames, instead of Susan Boyce,’ said Lily. ‘It won’t make so much difference after all.’

  ‘In that respect we shall gain as much as we lose,’ said Bell.

  ‘And then it will be so nice to have the shops,’ said Lily, ironically.

  ‘Only we shall never have any money to buy anything,’ said Bell.

  ‘But we shall see more of the world,’ said Lily. ‘Lady Julia’s carriage comes into town twice a week, and the Miss Gruffens drive about in great style. Upon the whole, we shall gain a great deal; only for the poor old garden. Mamma, I do think I shall break my heart at parting with Hopkins; and as to him, I shall be disappointed in mankind if he ever holds his head up again after I am gone.’

  But in truth there was very much of sadness in their resolution, and to Mrs Dale it seemed as though she were managing matters badly for her daughters, and allowing poverty and misfortune to come upon them through her own fault. She well knew how great a load of sorrow was lying on Lily’s heart, hidden beneath those little attempts at pleasantry which she made. When she spoke of being disappointed in mankind, Mrs Dale could hardly repress an outward shudder that would betray her thoughts. And now she was consenting to take them forth from their comfortable home, from the luxury of their lawns and gardens, and to bring them to some small dingy corner of a provincial town – because she had failed to make herself happy with hr brother-in-law. Could she be right to give up all the advantages which they enjoyed at Allington – advantages which had come to them from so legitimate a source – because her own feelings had been wounded? In all their future want of comfort, in the comfortless dowdiness of the new home to which she would remove them, would she not always blame herself for having brought them to that by her own false pride? And yet it seemed to her that she now had no alternative. She could not teach her daughters to obey their uncle’s wishes in all things. She could not make Bell understand that it would be well that she should marry Bernard because the squire had set his heart on such a marriage. She had gone so far that she could not now go back.

  ‘I suppose we must move at Lady-day?’2 said Bell, who was in favour of instant action. ‘If so, had you not better let uncle Christopher know at once?’

  ‘I don’t think that we can find a house by that time.’

  ‘We can get in somewhere,’ continued Bell. ‘There are plenty of lodgings in Guestwick, you know.’ But the sound of the word lodgings was uncomfortable in Mrs Dale’s ears.

  ‘If we are to go, let us go at once,’ said Lily. ‘We need not st
and much upon the order of our going.’3

  ‘Your uncle will be very much shocked,’ said Mrs Dale.

  ‘He cannot say that it is your fault,’ said Bell.

  It was thus agreed between them that the necessary information should be at once given to the squire, and that the old, well-loved house should be left for ever. It would be a great fall in a worldly point of view – from the Allington Small House to an abode in some little street of Guestwick. At Allington they had been county people – raised to a level with their own squire and other squires by the circumstances of their residence; but at Guestwick they would be small even among the people of the town. They would be on an equality with the Eameses, and much looked down upon by the Gruffens. They would hardly dare to call any more at Guestwick Manor, seeing that they certainly could not expect Lady Julia to call upon them at Guestwick. Mrs Boyce to doubt would patronize them, and they could already anticipate the condolence which would be offered to them by Mrs Hearn. Indeed such a movement on their part would be tantamount to a confession of failure in the full hearing of so much of the world as was known to them.

  I must not allow my readers to suppose that these considerations were a matter of indifference to any of the ladies at the Small House. To some women of strong mind, of highly-strung philosophic tendencies, such considerations might have been indifferent. But Mrs Dale was not of this nature, nor were her daughters. The good things of the world were good in their eyes, and they valued the privilege of a pleasant social footing among their friends. They were by no means capable of a wise contempt of the advantages which chance had hitherto given to them. They could not go forth rejoicing in the comparative poverty of their altered condition. But then, neither could they purchase those luxuries which they were about to abandon at the price which was asked for them.

  ‘Had you not better write to my uncle?’ said one of the girls. But to this Mrs Dale objected that she could not make a letter on such a subject clearly intelligence, and that therefore she would see the squire on the following morning. ‘It will be very dreadful,’ she said, ‘but it will soon be over. It is not what he will say at the moment that I fear so much as the bitter reproaches of his face when I shall meet him afterwards.’ So, on the following morning, she again made her way, and now without invitation, to the squire’s study.