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

From all which Mrs. Dale learned that some care which had sat heavy on Lily’s heart was now lightened, if not altogether removed. She had asked no questions of her daughter, but she had perceived during the past few days that Lily was in trouble, and she knew that such trouble had arisen from her engagement. She had asked no questions, but of course she had been told what was Mr. Crosbie’s income, and had been made to understand that it was not to be considered as amply sufficient for all the wants of matrimony. There was little difficulty in guessing what was the source of Lily’s care, and as little in now perceiving that something had been said between them by which that care had been relieved.

After that they all rode, and the afternoon went by pleasantly. It was the last day indeed, but Lily had determined that she would not be sad. She had told him that he might go now, and that she would not be discontented at his going. She knew that the morrow would be very blank to her; but she struggled to live up to the spirit of her promise, and she succeeded. They all dined at the Great House, even Mrs. Dale doing so upon this occasion. When they had come in from the garden in the evening, Crosbie talked more to Mrs. Dale than he did even to Lily, while Lily sat a little distant, listening with all her ears, sometimes saying a low-toned word, and happy beyond expression in the feeling that her mother and her lover should understand each other. And it must be understood that Crosbie at this time was fully determined to conquer the difficulties of which he had thought so much, and to fix the earliest day which might be possible for his marriage. The solemnity of that meeting in the field still hung about him, and gave to his present feelings a manliness and a truth of purpose which were too generally wanting to them. If only those feelings would last! But now he talked to Mrs. Dale about her daughter, and about their future prospects, in a tone which he could not have used had not his mind for the time been true to her. He had never spoken so freely to Lily’s mother, and at no time had Mrs. Dale felt for him so much of a mother’s love. He apologized for the necessity of some delay, arguing that he could not endure to see his young wife without the comfort of a home of her own, and that he was now, as he always had been, afraid of incurring debt. Mrs. Dale disliked waiting engagements⁠—as do all mothers⁠—but she could not answer unkindly to such pleading as this.

“Lily is so very young,” she said, “that she may well wait for a year or so.”

“For seven years,” said Lily, jumping up and whispering into her mother’s ear. “I shall hardly be six-and-twenty then, which is not at all too old.”

And so the evening passed away very pleasantly.

“God bless you, Adolphus!” Mrs. Dale said to him, as she parted with him at her own door. It was the first time that she had called him by his Christian name. “I hope you understand how much we are trusting to you.”

“I do⁠—I do,” said he, as he pressed her hand. Then as he walked back alone, he swore to himself, binding himself to the oath with all his heart, that he would be true to those women⁠—both to the daughter and to the mother; for the solemnity of the morning was still upon him.

He was to start the next morning before eight, Bernard having undertaken to drive him over to the railway at Guestwick. The breakfast was on the table shortly after seven; and just as the two men had come down, Lily entered the room, with her hat and shawl. “I said I would be in to pour out your tea,” said she; and then she sat herself down over against the teapot.

It was a silent meal, for people do not know what to say in those last minutes. And Bernard, too, was there; proving how true is the adage which says, that two are company, but that three are not. I think that Lily was wrong to come up on that last morning; but she would not hear of letting him start without seeing him, when her lover had begged her not to put herself to so much trouble. Trouble! Would she not have sat up all night to see even the last of the top of his hat?

Then Bernard, muttering something about the horse, went away. “I have only one minute to speak to you,” said she, jumping up, “and I have been thinking all night of what I had to say. It is so easy to think, and so hard to speak.”

“My darling, I understand it all.”

“But you must understand this, that I will never distrust you. I will never ask you to give me up again, or say that I could be happy without you. I could not live without you; that is, without the knowledge that you are mine. But I will never be impatient, never. Pray, pray believe me! Nothing shall make me distrust you.”

“Dearest Lily, I will endeavour to give you no cause.”

“I know you will not; but I specially wanted to tell you that. And you will write⁠—very soon?”

“Directly I get there.”

“And as often as you can. But I won’t bother you; only your letters will make me so happy. I shall be so proud when they come to me. I shall be afraid of writing too much to you, for fear I should tire you.”

“You will never do that.”

“Shall I not? But you must write first, you know. If you could only understand how I shall live upon your letters! And now goodbye. There are the wheels. God bless you, my own, my own!” And she gave herself up into