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

then, had it been possible to spare it. But it was not so, and on that evening Lily was told.

During these days, 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 refused 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 your 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