'Should I? I thought the beaters had to shout at the birds. I should get very tired of shouting at birds, so I think I'll stay at home and look after my clothes.'
'I hope he will come, because Uncle Christopher seems to like him so much,' said Bell.
'I wonder whether a certain gentleman at Guestwick will like his coming,' said Lily. And then, as soon as she had spoken the words, she looked at her sister, and saw that she had grieved her.
'Lily, you let your tongue run too fast,' said Mrs Dale.
'I didn't mean anything, Bell,' said Lily. 'I beg your pardon.'
'It doesn't signify,' said Bell. 'Only Lily says things without thinking.' And then that conversation came to an end, and nothing more was said among them beyond what appertained to their toilet, and a few last words at parting. But the two girls occupied the same room, and when their own door was closed upon them, Bell did allude to what had passed with some spirit.
'Lily, you promised me,' she said, 'that you would not say anything more to me about Dr Crofts.'
'I know I did, and I was very wrong. I beg your pardon, Bell; and I won't do it again,—not if I can help it.'
'Not help it, Lily!'
'But I'm sure I don't know why I shouldn't speak of him,—only not in the way of laughing at you. Of all the men I ever saw in my life I like him best. And only that I love you better than I love myself I could find it in my heart to grudge you his—'
'Lily, what did you promise just now?'
'Well; after to-night. And I don't know why you should turn against him.'
'I have never turned against him or for him.'
'There's no turning about him. He'd give his left hand if you'd only smile on him. Or his right either,—and that's what I should like to see; so now you've heard it.'
'You know you are talking nonsense.'
'So I should like to see it. And so would mamma too, I'm sure; though I never heard her say a word about him. In my mind he's the finest fellow I ever saw. What's Mr Apollo Crosbie to him? And now, as it makes you unhappy, I'll never say another word about him.'
As Bell wished her sister good-night with perhaps more than her usual affection, it was evident that Lily's words and eager tone had in some way pleased her, in spite of their opposition to the request which she had made. And Lily was aware that it was so.
IV. Mrs Roper's Boarding-House
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.
Such observations, however, as I have been enabled to make in this matter have led me to believe that the hobbledehoy is by no means the least valuable species of the human race. When I compare the hobbledehoy of one or two and twenty to some finished Apollo of the same age, I regard the former as unripe fruit, and the latter as fruit that is ripe. Then comes the question as to the two fruits. Which is the better fruit, that which ripens early,—which is, perhaps, favoured with some little forcing apparatus, or which, at least, is backed by the warmth of a southern wall; or that fruit of slower growth, as to which nature works without assistance, on which the sun operates in its own time,—or perhaps never operates if some ungenial shade has been allowed to interpose itself? The world, no doubt, is in favour of the forcing apparatus or of the southern wall. The fruit comes certainly, and at an assured period. It is spotless, speckless, and of a certain quality by no means despicable. The owner has it when he wants it, and it serves its turn. But, nevertheless, according to my thinking, the fullest flavour of the sun is given to that other fruit,—is given in the sun's own good time, if so be that no ungenial shade has interposed itself. I like the smack of the natural growth, and like it, perhaps, the better because that which
