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

thought as far as possible, but she could not say that she agreed with him when she knew that she differed from him. John Eames was an old friend whom she could not abandon, and so much at the present time she felt herself obliged to say.

“But, Adolphus⁠—”

“Well, dearest?”

“You would not wish me to be unkind to so very old a friend as John Eames? I have known him all my life, and we have all of us had a very great regard for the whole family. His father was my uncle’s most particular friend.”

“I think, Lily, you must understand what I mean. I don’t want you to quarrel with any of them, or to be what you call unkind. But you need not give special and pressing invitations to this young man to come and see you before he goes back to London, and then to come and see you directly you get to London. You tell me that he has some kind of romantic idea of being in love with you;⁠—of being in despair because you are not in love with him. It’s all great nonsense, no doubt, but it seems to me that under such circumstances you’d better⁠—just leave him alone.”

Again Lily was silent. These were her three last days, in which it was her intention to be especially happy, but above all things to make him especially happy. On no account would she say to him sharp words, or encourage in her own heart a feeling of animosity against him, and yet she believed him to be wrong; and so believing could hardly bring herself to bear the injury. Such was her nature, as a Dale. And let it be remembered that very many who can devote themselves for great sacrifices, cannot bring themselves to the endurance of little injuries. Lily could have given up any gratification for her lover, but she could not allow herself to have been in the wrong, believing herself to have been in the right.

“I have asked him now, and he must come,” she said.

“But do not press him to come any more.”

“Certainly not, after what you have said, Adolphus. If he comes over to Allington, he will see me in mamma’s house, to which he has always been made welcome by her. Of course I understand perfectly⁠—”

“You understand what, Lily?”

But she had stopped herself, fearing that she might say that which would be offensive to him if she continued.

“What is it you understand, Lily?”

“Do not press me to go on, Adolphus. As far as I can, I will do all that you want me to do.”

“You meant to say that when you find yourself an inmate of my house, as a matter of course you could not ask your own friends to come and see you. Was that gracious?”

“Whatever I may have meant to say, I did not say that. Nor in truth did I mean it. Pray don’t go on about it now. These are to be our last days, you know, and we shouldn’t waste them by talking of things that are unpleasant. After all poor Johnny Eames is nothing to me; nothing, nothing. How can anyone be anything to me when I think of you?”

But even this did not bring Crosbie back at once into a pleasant humour. Had Lily yielded to him and confessed that he was right, he would have made himself at once as pleasant as the sun in May. But this she had not done. She had simply abstained from her argument because she did not choose to be vexed, and had declared her continued purpose of seeing Eames on his promised visit. Crosbie would have had her acknowledge herself wrong, and would have delighted in the privilege of forgiving her. But Lily Dale was one who did not greatly relish forgiveness, or any necessity of being forgiven. So they rode on, if not in silence, without much joy in their conversation. It was now late on the Monday afternoon, and Crosbie was to go early on the Wednesday morning. What if these three last days should come to be marred with such terrible drawbacks as these!

Bernard Dale had not spoken a word to his cousin of his suit, since they had been interrupted by Crosbie and Lily as they were lying on the bank by the ha-ha. He had danced with her again and again at Mrs. Dale’s party, and had seemed to revert to his old modes of conversation without difficulty. Bell, therefore, had believed the matter to be over, and was thankful to her cousin, declaring within her own bosom that the whole matter should be treated by her as though it had never happened. To no one⁠—not even to her mother, would she tell it. To such reticence she bound herself for his sake, feeling that he would be best pleased that it should be so. But now as they rode on together, far in advance of the other couple, he again returned to the subject.

“Bell,” said he, “am I to have any hope?”

“Any hope as to what, Bernard?”

“I hardly know whether a man is bound to take a single answer on such a subject. But this I know, that if a man’s heart is concerned, he is not very willing to do so.”

“When that answer has been given honestly and truly⁠—”

“Oh, no doubt. I don’t at all suppose that you were dishonest or false when you refused to allow me to speak to you.”

“But, Bernard, I did not refuse to allow you to speak to me.”

“Something very like it. But, however, I have no doubt you were true enough. But, Bell, why should it be so? If you were in love with anyone else I could understand it.”

“I am not in love with anyone else.”

“Exactly. And there are so many reasons why you and I should join our fortunes together.”

“It cannot be a question of fortune, Bernard.”

“Do listen to me. Do let me speak, at any rate. I presume