The Small House at Allington

“But Mr. Crosbie is only a mere clerk.”

This sarcastic condemnation was spoken by Miss Lilian Dale to her sister Isabella, and referred to a gentleman with whom we shall have much concern in these pages. I do not say that Mr. Crosbie will be our hero, seeing that that part in the drama will be cut up, as it were, into fragments. Whatever of the magnificent may be produced will be diluted and apportioned out in very moderate quantities among two or more, probably among three or four, young gentlemen⁠—to none of whom will be vouchsafed the privilege of much heroic action.

“I don’t know what you call a mere clerk, Lily. Mr. Fanfaron is a mere barrister, and Mr. Boyce is a mere clergyman.” Mr. Boyce was the vicar of Allington, and Mr. Fanfaron was a lawyer who had made his way over to Allington during the last assizes. “You might as well say that Lord De Guest is a mere earl.”

“So he is⁠—only a mere earl. Had he ever done anything except have fat oxen, one wouldn’t say so. You know what I mean by a mere clerk? It isn’t much in a man to be in a public office, and yet Mr. Crosbie gives himself airs.”

“You don’t suppose that Mr. Crosbie is the same as John Eames,” said Bell, who, by her tone of voice, did not seem inclined to undervalue the qualifications of Mr. Crosbie.

I have said that John Eames had been petted by none but his mother, but I would not have it supposed, on this account, that John Eames had no friends. There is a class of young men who never get petted, though they may not be the less esteemed, or perhaps loved. They do not come forth to the world as Apollos, nor shine at all, keeping what light they may have for inward purposes. Such young men are often awkward, ungainly, and not yet formed in their gait; they straggle with their limbs, and are shy; words do not come to them with ease, when words are required, among any but their accustomed associates. Social meetings are periods of penance to them, and any appearance in public will unnerve them. They go much about alone, and blush when women speak to them. In truth, they are not as yet men, whatever the number may be of their years; and, as they are no longer boys, the world has found for them the ungraceful name of hobbledehoy.

“I’m sure Lily won’t object to my telling such a dear friend as you what has happened,” said Mrs. Dale. “She is engaged to be married to Mr. Crosbie.”

The water into which Johnny’s heart had been plunged now closed over his head and left him speechless. Lily Dale was engaged to be married to Mr. Crosbie! He knew that he should have spoken when he heard the tidings. He knew that the moments of silence as they passed by told his secret to the two women before him⁠—that secret which it would now behove him to conceal from all the world. But yet he could not speak.

“We are all very well pleased at the match,” said Mrs. Dale, wishing to spare him.

“Nothing can be nicer than Mr. Crosbie,” said Bell. “We have often talked about you, and he will be so happy to know you.”

“He won’t know much about me,” said Johnny; and even in speaking these few senseless words⁠—words which he uttered because it was necessary that he should say something⁠—the tone of his voice was altered. He would have given the world to have been master of himself at this moment, but he felt that he was utterly vanquished.

“There is Lily coming across the lawn,” said Mrs. Dale.

“Then I’d better go,” said Eames. “Don’t say anything about it; pray don’t.” And then, without waiting for another word, he escaped out of the drawing-room.

And it formed another conclusion; as to the sort of love which might be given in return.

“Bell,” he said, “you and I have always been dear friends.”

“Yes; always.”

“Why should we not be something more than friends?”

To give Captain Dale his due I must declare that his voice was perfectly natural as he asked this question, and that he showed no signs of nervousness, either in his face or limbs. He had made up his mind to do it on that occasion, and he did it without any signs of outward disturbance. He asked his question, and then he waited for his answer. In this he was rather hard upon his cousin; for, though the question had certainly been asked in language that could not be mistaken, still the matter had not been put forward with all that fullness which a young lady, under such circumstances, has a right to expect.

They had sat down on the turf close to the ha-ha, and they were so near that Bernard was able to put out his hand with the view of taking that of his cousin within his own. But she contrived to keep her hands locked together, so that he merely held her gently by the wrist.

“I don’t quite understand, Bernard,” she said, after a minute’s pause.

“Shall we be more than cousins? Shall we be man and wife?”

Now, at least, she could not say that she did not understand. If the question was ever asked plainly, Bernard Dale had asked it plainly. Shall we be man and wife?

Had he been prepared with a plan for tomorrow’s happiness Lily would have taken it up eagerly, but Alexandrina never cared for such trifles.

“Are you quite comfortable?” he said, at last.

“Oh, yes, quite, thank you. By the by, what did you do with my dressing-case?”

And that question she did ask with some energy.

“It is under you. You can have it as footstool if you like it.”

“Oh, no; I should scratch it. I was afraid that if Hannah had it, it might be lost.” Then again there was silence, and Crosbie again considered as to what he would next say to his wife.

We all know the advice given us of old as to what we should do under such circumstances; and who can be so thoroughly justified in following that advice as a newly-married husband? So he put out his hand for hers and drew her closer to him.

“Take care of my bonnet,” she said, as she felt the motion of the railway carriage when he kissed her. I don’t think he kissed her again till he had landed her and her bonnet safely at Folkestone. How often would he have kissed Lily, and how pretty would her bonnet have been when she reached the end of her journey, and how delightfully happy would she have looked when she scolded him for bending it! But Alexandrina was quite in earnest about her bonnet; by far too much in earnest for any appearance of happiness.

So he sat without speaking, till the train came to the tunnel.