The Small House at Allington, Anthony Trollope [best ebook reader for chromebook .txt] 📗

Lily. She would not prophesy that the hero of her girl’s heart would be inhospitable to his wife’s mother; but such had been her reading of Crosbie’s character. Alas, alas, as matters were to go, his hospitality or inhospitality would be matter of small moment to them.

Again in the afternoon the two sisters were together, and Lily was still more serious than her wont. It might almost have been gathered from her manner that this marriage of hers was about to take place at once, and that she was preparing to leave her home. “Bell,” she said, “I wonder why Dr. Crofts never comes to see us now?”

“It isn’t a month since he was here, at our party.”

“A month! But there was a time when he made some pretext for being here every other day.”

“Yes, when mamma was ill.”

“Ay, and since mamma was well, too. But I suppose I must not break the promise you made me give you. He’s not to be talked about even yet, is he?”

“I didn’t say he was not to be talked about. You know what I meant, Lily; and what I meant then, I mean now.”

“And how long will it be before you mean something else? I do hope it will come some day⁠—I do indeed.”

“It never will, Lily. I once fancied that I cared for Dr. Crofts, but it was only fancy. I know it, because⁠—” She was going to explain that her knowledge on that point was assured to her, because since that day she had felt that she might have learned to love another man. But that other man had been Mr. Crosbie, and so she stopped herself.

“I wish he would come and ask you himself.”

“He will never do so. He would never ask such a question without encouragement, and I shall give him none. Nor will he ever think of marrying till he can do so without⁠—without what he thinks to be imprudence as regards money. He has courage enough to be poor himself without unhappiness, but he has not courage to endure poverty with a wife. I know well what his feelings are.”

“Well, we shall see,” said Lily. “I shouldn’t wonder if you were married first now, Bell. For my part I’m quite prepared to wait for three years.”

Late on that evening the squire returned to Allington, Bernard having driven over to meet him at the station. He had telegraphed to his nephew that he would be back by a late train, and no more than this had been heard from him since he went. On that day Bernard had seen none of the ladies at the Small House. With Bell at the present moment it was impossible that he should be on easy terms. He could not meet her alone without recurring to the one special subject of interest between them, and as to that he did not choose to speak without much forethought. He had not known himself, when he had gone about his wooing so lightly, thinking it a slight thing, whether or no he might be accepted. Now it was no longer a slight thing to him. I do not know that it was love that made him so eager; not good, honest, downright love. But he had set his heart upon the object, and with the wilfulness of a Dale was determined that it should be his. He had no remotest idea of giving up his cousin, but he had at last persuaded himself that she was not to be won without some toil, and perhaps also some delay.

Nor had he been in a humour to talk either to Mrs. Dale or to Lily. He feared that Lady Julia’s news was true⁠—that at any rate there might be in it something of truth; and while thus in doubt he could not go down to the Small House. So he hung about the place by himself, with a cigar in his mouth, fearing that something evil was going to happen, and when the message came for him, almost shuddered as he seated himself in the gig. What would it become him to do in this emergency if Crosbie had truly been guilty of the villany with which Lady Julia had charged him? Thirty years ago he would have called the man out, and shot at him till one of them was hit. Nowadays it was hardly possible for a man to do that; and yet what would the world say of him if he allowed such an injury as this to pass without vengeance?

His uncle, as he came forth from the station with his travelling-bag in his hand, was stern, gloomy, and silent. He came out and took his place in the gig almost without speaking. There were strangers about, and therefore his nephew at first could ask no question, but as the gig turned the corner out of the station-house yard he demanded the news.

“What have you heard?” he said.

But even then the squire did not answer at once. He shook his head, and turned away his face, as though he did not choose to be interrogated.

“Have you seen him, sir?” asked Bernard.

“No, he has not dared to see me.”

“Then it is true?”

“True?⁠—yes, it is all true. Why did you bring the scoundrel here? It has been your fault.”

“No, sir; I must contradict that. I did not know him for a scoundrel.”

“But it was your duty to have known him before you brought him here among them. Poor girl! how is she to be told?”

“Then she does not know it?”

“I fear not. Have you seen them?”

“I saw them yesterday, and she did not know it then; she may have heard it today.”

“I don’t think so. I believe he has been too great a coward to write to her. A coward indeed! How can any man find the courage to write such a letter as that?”

By degrees the squire told his tale. How he had gone to Lady Julia, had made his way to London, had tracked Crosbie to