THE SMALL HOUSE AT ALLINGTON. Anthony Trollope
“It would be close enough in London,” Mrs Dale had said.
“He has more than my brother had when he married,” said the squire.
“If he will only make her as happy as your brother made me,—while it lasted!” said Mrs Dale, as she turned away her face to conceal a tear that was coming. And then there was nothing more said about it between the squire and his sister-in-law. The squire spoke no word as to assistance in money matters,—did not even suggest that he would lend a hand to the young people at starting, as an uncle in such a position might surely have done. It may well be conceived that Mrs Dale herself said nothing on the subject. And, indeed, it may be conceived, also, that the squire, let his intentions be what they might, would not divulge them to Mrs Dale. This was uncomfortable, but the position was one that was well understood between them.
Bernard Dale was still at Allington, and had remained there through the period of Crosbie’s absence. Whatever words Mrs Dale might choose to speak on the matter would probably be spoken to him; but, then, Bernard could be quite as close as his uncle. When Crosbie returned, he and Bernard had, of course, lived much together; and, as was natural, there came to be close discussion between them as to the two girls, when Crosbie allowed it to be understood that his liking for Lily was becoming strong.
“You know, I suppose, that my uncle wishes me to marry the elder one,” Bernard had said.
“I have guessed as much.”
“And I suppose the match will come off. She’s a pretty girl, and as good as gold.”
“Yes, she is.”
“I don’t pretend to be very much in love with her. It’s not my way, you know. But, some of these days, I shall ask her to have me, and I suppose it’ll all go right. The governor has distinctly promised to allow me eight hundred a year off the estate, and to take us in for three months every year if we wish it. I told him simply that I couldn’t do it for less, and he agreed with me.”
“You and he get on very well together.”
“Oh, yes! There’s never been any fal-lal between us about love, and duty, and all that. I think we understand each other, and that’s everything. He knows the comfort of standing well with the heir, and I know the comfort of standing well with the owner.” It must be admitted, I think, that there was a great deal of sound, common sense about Bernard Dale.
“What will he do for the younger sister?” asked Crosbie; and, as he asked the important question, a close observer might have perceived that there was some slight tremor in his voice.
“Ah! that’s more than I can tell you. If I were you, I should ask him. The governor is a plain man, and likes plain business.”
“I suppose you couldn’t ask him?”
“No; I don’t think I could. It is my belief that he will not let her go by any means empty-handed.”
“Well, I should suppose not.”
“But remember this, Crosbie,—I can say nothing to you on which you are to depend. Lily, also, is as good as gold; and, as you seem to be fond of her, I should ask the governor, if I were you, in so many words, what he intends to do. Of course, it’s against my interest, for every shilling he gives Lily will ultimately come out of my pocket. But I’m not the man to care about that, as you know.”
What might be Crosbie’s knowledge on this subject we will not here inquire; but we may say that it would have mattered very little to him out of whose pocket the money came, so long as it went into his own. When he felt quite sure of Lily,—having, in fact, received Lily’s permission to speak to her uncle, and Lily’s promise that she would herself speak to her mother,—he did tell the squire what was his intention. This he did in an open, manly way, as though he felt that in asking for much he also offered to give much.
“I have nothing to say against it,” said the squire.
“And I have your permission to consider myself as engaged to her?”
“If you have hers and her mother’s. Of course you are aware that I have no authority over her.”
“She would not marry without your sanction.”
“She is very good to think so much of her uncle,” said the squire; and his words as he spoke them sounded very cold in Crosbie’s ears. After that Crosbie said nothing about money, having to confess to himself that he was afraid to do so. “And what would be the use?” said he to himself, wishing to make excuses for what he felt to be weak in his own conduct. “If he should refuse to give her a shilling I could not go back from it now.” And then some ideas ran across his mind as to the injustice to which men are subjected in this matter of matrimony. A man has to declare himself before it is fitting that he should make any inquiry about a lady’s money; and then, when he has declared himself, any such inquiry is unavailing. Which consideration somewhat cooled the ardour of his happiness. Lily Dale was very pretty, very nice, very refreshing in her innocence, her purity, and her quick intelligence. No amusement could be more deliciously amusing than that of making love to Lily Dale. Her way of flattering her lover without any intention of flattery on her part, had put Crosbie into a seventh heaven. In all his experience he had known nothing like it. “You may be sure of this,” she had said,—”I shall love you with all my heart and all my strength.” It was very nice;—but then what were they to live upon? Could it be that he, Adolphus Crosbie, should settle down on the north side of the New Road, as a married, man, with eight hundred a year? If indeed the squire would be as good to Lily as he had promised to be to Bell, then indeed things might be made to arrange themselves.
But there was no such drawback on Lily’s happiness. Her ideas about money were rather vague, but they were very honest. She knew she had none of her own, but supposed it was a husband’s duty to find what would be needful. She knew she had none of her own, and was therefore aware that she ought not to expect luxuries in the little household that was to be prepared for her. She hoped, for his sake, that her uncle might give some assistance, but was quite prepared to prove that she could be a good poor man’s wife. In the old colloquies on such matters between her and her sister, she had always declared that some decent income should be considered as indispensable before love could be entertained. But eight hundred a year had been considered as doing much more than fulfilling this stipulation. Bell had high-flown notions as to the absolute glory of poverty. She had declared that income should not be considered at all. If she had loved a man, she could allow herself to be engaged to him, even though he had no income. Such had been their theories; and as regarded money, Lily was quite contented with the way in which she had carried out her own.
In these beautiful days there was nothing to check her happiness. Her mother and sister united in telling her that she had done well,—that she was happy in her choice, and justified in her love. On that first day, when she told her mother all, she had been made exquisitely blissful by the way in which her tidings had been received.
“Oh! mamma, I must tell you something,” she said, coming up to her mother’s bedroom, after a long ramble with Mr Crosbie through those Allington fields.
“Is it about Mr Crosbie?”
“Yes, mamma.” And then the rest had been said through the medium of warm embraces and happy tears rather than by words.
As she sat in her mother’s room, hiding her face on her mother’s shoulders, Bell had come, and had knelt at her feet.
“Dear Lily,” she had said, “I am so glad.” And then Lily remembered how she had, as it were, stolen her lover from her sister, and she put her arms round Bell’s neck and kissed her.
“I knew how it was going to be from the very first,” said Bell. “Did I not, mamma?”
“I’m sure I didn’t,” said Lily. “I never thought such a thing was possible.”
“But we did,—mamma and I.”
“Did you?” said Lily.