‘Mr Palliser,’ said he. ‘I wonder you don’t think of marrying. I hope you’ll excuse me.’
Mr Palliser was by no means sure that he would excuse him, and sat himself suddenly upright in his chair in a manner that was intended to exhibit a first symptom of outraged dignity. But, singularly enough, he had himself been thinking of marriage at that moment. How would it have been with him had he known the beautiful Griselda before the Dumbello alliance had been arranged? Would he have married her? Would he have been comfortable if he had married her? Of course he could not marry now, seeing that he was in love with Lady Dumbello, and that the lady in question, unfortunately, had a husband of her own; but though he had been thinking of marrying, he did not like to have the subject thus roughly thrust before his eyes, and, as it were, into his very lap by his uncle’s agent. Mr Forthergill, no doubt, saw the first symptom of outraged dignity, for he was a clever, sharp man. But, perhaps, he did not in truth much regard it. Perhaps he had received instructions which he was bound to regard above all other matters.
‘I hope you’ll excuse me, Mr Palliser, I do, indeed; but I say it because I am half afraid of some – some – diminution of good feeling, perhaps I had better call it, between you and your uncle. Anything of that kind would be such a monstrous pity.’
‘I am not aware of any such probability.’
This Mr Palliser said with considerable dignity; but when the words were spoken he bethought himself whether he had not told a fib.
‘No; perhaps not. I trust there is no such probability. But the duke is a very determined man if he takes anything into his head – and then he has so much in his power.’
‘He has not me in his power, Mr Fothergill.’
‘No, no, no. One man does not have another in his power in this country – not in that way; but then you know, Mr Palliser, it would hardly do to offend him; would it?’
‘I would rather not offend him, as is natural. Indeed, I do not wish to offend anyone.’
‘Exactly so; and least of all the duke, who has the whole property in his own hands. We may say the whole, for he can marry tomorrow if he pleases. And then his life is so good. I don’t know a stouter man of his age, anywhere.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it.’
‘I’m sure you are, Mr Palliser. But if he were to take offence, you know?’
‘I should put up with it.’
‘Yes, exactly; that’s what you would do. But it would be worthwhile to avoid it, seeing how much he has in his power.’
‘Has the duke sent you to me now, Mr Forthergill?’
‘No, no, no – nothing of the sort. But he dropped words the other day which made me fancy that he was not quite – quite – quite at ease about you. I have long known that he would be very good indeed to see an heir born to the property. The other morning – I don’t know whether there was anything in it – but I fancied he was going to make some change in the present arrangements. He did not do it, and it might have been fancy. Only think, Mr Palliser, what one word of his might do! If he says s word, he never goes back from it.’ Then, having said so much, Mr Fothergill went his way.
Mr Palliser understood the meaning of all this very well. It was not the first occasion on which Mr Fothergill had given him advice – advice such as Mr Fothergill himself had no right to give him. He always received such counsel with an air of half-injured dignity, intending thereby to explain to Mr Fothergill that he was intruding. But he knew well whence the advice came; and though, in all such cases, he had made up his mind not to follow such counsel, it had generally come to pass that Mr Palliser’s conduct had more or less accurately conformed itself to Mr Fothergill’s advice. A word from the duke might certainly do a great deal! Mr Palliser resolved that in that affair of Lady Dumbello he would follow his own devices. But, nevertheless, it was undoubtedly true that a word from the duke might do a great deal!
We, who are in the secret, know how far Mr Palliser had already progressed in his iniquitous passion before he left Hartlebury. Others, who were perhaps not so well informed, gave credit for a much more advanced success. Lady Clandidlem, in her letter to Lady De Courcy, written immediately after the departure of Mr Palliser, declared that, having heard of that gentleman’s intended matutinal departure, she had confidently expected to learn at the breakfast-table that Lady Dumbello had flown with him. From the tone of her ladyship’s language, it seemed as though she had been robbed of an anticipated pleasure by Lady Dumbello’s prolonged sojourn in the halls of her husband’s ancestors. ‘I feel, however, quite convinced,’ said Lady Clandidlem, ‘that it cannot go on longer than the spring. I never yet saw a man so infatuated as Mr Palliser. He did not leave her for one moment all the time he was here. No one but Lady Hartletop would have permitted it. But, you know, there is nothing so pleasant as good old family friendships.’
CHAPTER 44
VALENTINE’S DAY AT ALLINGTON
LILY HAD exacted a promise from her mother before her illness, and during the period of her convalescence often referred to it, reminding her mother that that promise had been made, and must be kept. Lily was to be told the day on which Crosbie was to be married. It had come to the knowledge of them all that the marriage was to take place in February. But this was not sufficient for Lily. She must know the day.
And as the time drew nearer – Lily becoming stronger the while, and less subject to medical authority – the marriage of Crosbie and Alexandrina was spoken of much more frequently at the Small House. It was not a subject which Mrs Dale or Bell would have chosen for conversation; but Lily would refer to it. She would begin by doing so almost in a drolling strain, alluding to herself as a forlorn damsel in a play-book; and then she would go on to speak of his interests as a matter which was still of great moment to her. But in the course of such talking she would too often break down, showing by some sad word or melancholy tone how great was the burden on her heart. Mrs Dale and Bell would willingly have avoided the subject, but Lily would not have it avoided. For them it was a very difficult matter on which to speak in her hearing. It was not permitted to them to say a word of abuse against Crosbie, as to whom they thought that no word of condemnation could be sufficiently severe; and they were forced to listen to such excuses for his conduct as Lily chose to manufacture, never daring to point out how vain those excuses were.
Indeed, in those days Lily reigned as a queen at the Small House. Ill-usage and illness together falling into her hands had given her such power, that none of the other women were able to withstand it. Nothing was said about it; but it was understood by them all, Jane and the cook included, that Lily was for the time paramount. She was a dear, gracious, loving, brave queen, and no one was anxious to rebel – only that those praises of Crosbie were so very bitter in the ears of her subjects. The day was named soon enough, ad the tidings came down to Allington. On the fourteenth of February, Crosbie was to be made a happy man. This was not known to the Dales till the twelfth, and they would willingly have spared the knowledge then, had it been possible to spare it. But it was not so, and on that evening Lily was told.
During these day, Bell used to see her uncle daily. Her visits were made with the pretence of taking to him information as to Lily’s health; but there was perhaps at the bottom of them a feeling that, as the family intended to leave the Small House at the end of March, it would be well to let the squire know that there was no enmity in their hearts against him. Nothing more had been said about their moving – nothing, that is, from them to him. But the matter was going on, and he knew it. Dr Crofts was already in treaty on their behalf for a small furnished house at Guestwick. The squire was very sad about it – very sad indeed. When Hopkins spoke to him on the subject, he sharply desired that faithful gardener to hold his tongue, giving it to be understood that such things were not to be made matter of talk by the Allington dependants till they had been officially announced. With Bell during these visits he never alluded to the matter. She was the chief sinner, in that she had refu
sed to marry her cousin, and had declined even to listen to rational counsel upon the matter. But the squire felt that he could not discuss the subject with her, seeing that he had been specially informed by Mrs Dale that his interference would not be permitted; and then he was perhaps aware that if he did discuss the subject with Bell, he would not gain much by such discussion. Their conversation, therefore, generally fell upon Crosbie, and the tone in which he was mentioned in the Great House was very different from that assumed in Lily’s presence.
‘He’ll be a wretched man,’ said the squire, when he told Bell of the day that had been fixed.
‘I don’t want him to be wretched,’ said Bell. ‘But I can hardly think that he can act as he has done without being punished.’
‘He will be a wretched man. He gets no fortune with her, and she will expect everything that fortune can give. I believe, too, that she is older than he is. I cannot understand it. Upon my word, I cannot understand how a man can be such a knave and such a fool. Give my love to Lily. I’ll see her tomorrow or the next day. She’s well rid of him; I’m sure of that – though I suppose it would not do to tell her so.’
The morning of the fourteenth came upon them at the Small House, as comes the morning of those special days which have been long considered, and which are to be long remembered. It brought with it a hard, bitter frost – a black, biting frost – such a frost as breaks the water-pipes, and binds the ground to the hardness of granite. Lily, queen as she was, had not yet been allowed to go back to her own chamber, but occupied the larger bed in her mother’s room, her mother sleeping on a smaller one.
‘Mamma,’ she said, ‘how cold they’ll be!’ Her mother had announced to her the fact of the black frost, and these were the first words she spoke.
‘I fear their hearts will be cold also,’ said Mrs Dale. She ought not to have said so. She was transgressing the acknowledged rule of the house in saying any word that could be construed as being inimical to Crosbie or his bride. But her feeling on the matter was too strong, and she could not restrain herself.
‘Why should their hearts be cold? Oh, mamma, that is a terrible thing to say. Why should their hearts be cold?’
‘I hope it may not be so.’
‘Of course you do; of course we all hope it. He was not cold-hearted, at any rate. A man is not cold-hearted, because he does not know himself. Mamma, I want you to wish for their happiness.’
Mrs Dale was silent for a minute or two before she answered this, but then she did answer it. ‘I think I do,’ said she. ‘I think I do wish for it.’
‘I am very sure that I do,’ said Lily.
At this time Lily had her breakfast upstairs, but went down into the drawing-room in the course of the morning.
‘You must be very careful in wrapping yourself as you go downstairs,’ said Bell, who stood by the tray on which she had brought up the toast and tea. ‘The cold is what you would call awful.’
‘I should call it jolly,’ said Lily, ‘if I could get up and go out. Do you remember lecturing me about talking slang the day that he first came?’
‘Did I, my pet?’
‘Don’t you remember, when I called him a swell? Ah, dear! so he was. That was the mistake, and it was all my own fault, as I had seen it from the first.’
Bell for a moment turned her face away, and beat with her foot against the ground. Her anger was more difficult of restraint than was even her mother’s – and now, not restraining it, but wishing to hide it, she gave it vent in this way.
‘I understand, Bell. I know what your foot means when it goes in that way; and you shan’t do it. Come here, Bell, and let me teach you Christianity. I’m a fine sort of teacher, am I not? And I did not quite mean that.’
‘I wish I could learn it from someone,’ said Bell. ‘There are circumstances in which what we call Christianity seems to me to be hardly possible.’
‘When you foot goes in that way it is a very unchristian foot, and you ought to keep it still. It means anger against him, because he discovered before it was too late that he would not be happy – that is, that he and I would not be happy together if we were married.’
‘Don’t scrutinize my foot too closely, Lily.’
‘But your foot must bear scrutiny, and your eyes, and your voice. He was very foolish to fall in love with me. And so was I very foolish to let him love me, at a moment’s notice – without a thought as it were. I was so proud of having him, that I gave myself up to him all at once, without giving him a chance of thinking of it. In a week or two it was done. Who could expect that such an engagement should be lasting?’
‘And why not? That is nonsense, Lily. But we will not talk about it.’
‘Ah, but I want to talk about it. It was as I have said, and if so, you shouldn’t hate him because he did the only thing which he honestly could do when he found out his mistake.’
‘What; become engaged again within a week!’
‘There had been a very old friendship, Bell; you must remember that. But I was speaking of his conduct to me, and not of his conduct to –’ And then she remembered that that other lady might at this very moment possess the name which she had once been so proud to think that she would bear herself. ‘Bell,’ she said, stopping her other speech suddenly, ‘at what o’clock do people get married in London?’
‘Oh, at all manner of hours – any time before twelve. They will be fashionable, and will be married late.’
‘You don’t think she’s Mrs Crosbie yet, then?’
‘Lady Alexandrina Crosbie,’ said Bell, shuddering.
‘Yes, of course; I forgot. I should so like to see her. I feel such an interest about her. I wonder what coloured hair she has. I suppose she is a sort of Juno of a woman – very tall and handsome. I’m sure she has not got a pug-nose like me. Do you know what I should really like, only of course it’s not possible – to be godmother to his first child.’
‘Oh, Lily!’
‘I should. Don’t you hear me say that I know it’s not possible? I’m not going up to London to ask her. She’ll have all manner of grandees for her godfathers and godmothers. I wonder what those grand people are really like.’
‘I don’t think there’s any difference. Look at Lady Julia.’
‘Oh, she’s not a grand person. It isn’t merely having a title. Don’t you remember that he told us that Mr Palliser is about the grandest grandee of them all. I suppose people do learn to like them. He always used to say that he had been so long among people of that sort, that it would be very difficult for him to divide himself off from them. I should never have done for that kind of thing; should I?’
‘There is nothing I despise so much as what you call that kind of thing.’
‘Do you? I don’t. After all, think how much work they do. He used to tell me of that. They have all the governing in their hands, and get very little money for doing it.’
‘Worse luck for the country.’
‘The country seems to do pretty well. But you’re a radical, Bell. My belief is, you wouldn’t be a lady if you could help it.’
‘I’d sooner be an honest woman.’
‘And so you are – my own dear, dearest, honest Bell – and the fairest lady that I know. If I were a man, Bell, you are just the girl that I should worship.’
‘But you are not a man; so it’s no good.’
‘But you mustn’t let your foot go astray in that way; you mustn’t, indeed. Somebody said, that whatever is, is right,1 and I declare I believe it.’
‘I’m sometimes inclined to think, that whatever is, is wrong.’
‘That’s because you’re a radical. I think I’ll get up now, Bell; only it’s so frightfully cold that I’m afraid.’
‘There’s a beautiful fire,’ said Bell.
‘Yes; I see. But the fire won’t go all around me, like the bed does. I wish I could know the very moment when they’re at the altar. It’s only half-past ten yet.’
‘I shouldn’t be at all surprised if it’s
over.’
‘Over! What a word that is! A thing like that is over, and then all the world cannot put it back again. What if he should be unhappy after all?’
‘He must take his chance,’ said Bell, thinking within her own mind that that chance would be a very bad one.
‘Of course he must take his chance. Well – I’ll get up now.’ And then she took her first step our into the cold world beyond her bed. ‘We must all take our chance. I have made up my mind that it will be half-past eleven.’
When half-past eleven came, she was seated in a large easy-chair over the drawing-room fire, with a little table by her side, on which a novel was lying. She had not opened her book that morning, and had been sitting for some time perfectly silent, with her eyes closed, and her watch in her hand.
‘Mamma,’ she said at last, ‘it is over now, I’m sure.’
‘What is over, my dear?’
‘He has made that lady his wife. I hope God will bless them, and I pray that they may be happy.’ As she spoke these words, there was an unwonted solemnity in her tone which startled Mrs Dale and Bell.
‘I also will hope so,’ said Mrs Dale. ‘And now, Lily, will it not be well that you should turn your mind away from the subject, and endeavour to think of other things?’
‘But I can’t mamma. It is so easy to say that; but people can’t choose their own thoughts.’
‘They can usually direct them as they will, if they make the effort.’
‘But I can’t make the effort. Indeed, I don’t know why I should. It seems natural to me to think about him, and I don’t suppose it can be very wrong. When you have had so deep an interest in a person, you can’t drop him all of a sudden.’ Then there was gain silence, and after a while Lily took up her novel. She made that effort of which her mother had spoken, but she made it altogether in vain. ‘I declare, Bell,’ she said, ‘it’s the greatest rubbish I ever attempted to read.’ This was specially ungrateful, because Bell had recommended the book. ‘All the books have got to be so stupid! I think I’ll read Pilgrim’s Progress again.’
The Small House at Allington Page 58
