The Small House at Allington

nothing. Oh, Bernard, I should so like to see you rolled down into the bottom of the ha-ha. Just remain there, and we'll do it between us.'

Whereupon Bernard got up, as did Bell also, and they all went in to tea.

IX. Mrs Dale's Little Party

The next day was the day of the party. Not a word more was said on that evening between Bell and her cousin, at least, not a word more of any peculiar note; and when Crosbie suggested to his friend on the following morning that they should both step down and see how the preparations were getting on at the Small House, Bernard declined.

'You forget, my dear fellow, that I'm not in love as you are,' said he.

'But I thought you were,' said Crosbie.

'No; not at all as you are. You are an accepted lover, and will be allowed to do anything,—whip the creams, and tune the piano, if you know how. I'm only a half sort of lover, meditating a mariage de convenance to oblige an uncle, and by no means required by the terms of my agreement to undergo a very rigid amount of drill. Your position is just the reverse.' In saying all which Captain Dale was no doubt very false; but if falseness can be forgiven to a man in any position, it may be forgiven in that which he then filled. So Crosbie went down to the Small House alone.

'Dale wouldn't come,' said he, speaking to the three ladies together, 'I suppose he's keeping himself up for the dance on the lawn.'

'I hope he will be here in the evening,' said Mrs Dale. But Bell said never a word. She had determined, that under the existing circumstances, it would be only fair to her cousin that his offer and her answer to it should be kept secret. She knew why Bernard did not come across from the Great House with his friend, but she said nothing of her knowledge. Lily looked at her, but looked without speaking; and as for Mrs Dale, she took no notice of the circumstance. Thus they passed the afternoon together without further mention of Bernard Dale; and it may be said, at any rate of Lily and Crosbie, that his presence was not missed.

Mrs Eames, with her son and daughter, were the first to come. 'It is so nice of you to come early,' said Lily, trying on the spur of the moment to say something which should sound pleasant and happy, but in truth using that form of welcome which to my ears sounds always the most ungracious. 'Ten minutes before the time named; and, of course, you must have understood that I meant thirty minutes after it!' That is my interpretation of the words when I am thanked for coming early. But Mrs Eames was a kind, patient, unexacting woman, who took all civil words as meaning civility. And, indeed, Lily had meant nothing else.

'Yes; we did come early,' said Mrs Eames, 'because Mary thought she would like to go up into the girls' room and just settle her hair, you know.'

'So she shall,' said Lily, who had taken Mary by the hand.

'And we knew we shouldn't be in the way. Johnny can go out into the garden if there's anything left to be done.'

'He shan't be banished unless he likes it,' said Mrs Dale. 'If he finds us women too much for his unaided strength—'

John Eames muttered something about being very well as he was, and then got himself into an arm-chair. He had shaken hands with Lily, trying as he did so to pronounce articulately a little speech which he had prepared for the occasion. 'I have to congratulate you, Lily, and I hope with all my heart that you will be happy.' The words were simple enough, and were not ill-chosen, but the poor young man never got them spoken. The word 'congratulate' did reach Lily's ears, and she understood it all;—both the kindness of the intended speech and the reason why it could not be spoken.

'Thank you, John,' she said; 'I hope I shall see so much of you in London. It will be so nice to have an old Guestwick friend near me.' She had her own voice, and the pulses of her heart better under command than had he; but she also felt that the occasion was trying to her. The man had loved her honestly and truly,—still did love her, paying her the great homage of bitter grief in that he had lost her. Where is the girl who will not sympathise with such love and such grief, if it be shown only because it cannot be concealed, and be declared against the will of him who declares it?

Then came in old Mrs Hearn, whose cottage was not distant two minutes' walk from the Small House. She always called Mrs Dale 'my dear,' and petted the girls as though they had been children. When told of Lily's marriage, she had thrown up her hands with surprise, for she had still left in some corner of her drawers remnants of sugar-plums which she had bought for Lily. 'A London man, is he? Well, well. I wish he lived in the country. Eight hundred a year, my dear?' she had said to Mrs Dale. 'That sounds nice down here, because we are all so poor. But I suppose eight hundred a year isn't very much up in London?'