“It would be close enough in London,” Mrs. Dale had said.
“He has more than my brother had when he married,” said the squire.
“If he will only make her as happy as your brother made me—while it lasted!” said Mrs. Dale, as she turned away her face to conceal a tear that was coming. And then there was nothing more said about it between the squire and his sister-in-law. The squire spoke no word as to assistance in money matters—did not even suggest that he would lend a hand to the young people at starting, as an uncle in such a position might surely have done. It may well be conceived that Mrs. Dale herself said nothing on the subject. And, indeed, it may be conceived, also, that the squire, let his intentions be what they might, would not divulge them to Mrs. Dale. This was uncomfortable, but the position was one that was well understood between them.
Bernard Dale was still at Allington, and had remained there through the period of Crosbie’s absence. Whatever words Mrs. Dale might choose to speak on the matter would probably be spoken to him; but, then, Bernard could be quite as close as his uncle. When Crosbie returned, he and Bernard had, of course, lived much together; and, as was natural, there came to be close discussion between them as to the two girls, when Crosbie allowed it to be understood that his liking for Lily was becoming strong.
“You know, I suppose, that my uncle wishes me to marry the elder one,” Bernard had said.
“I have guessed as much.”
“And I suppose the match will come off. She’s a pretty girl, and as good as gold.”
“Yes, she is.”
“I don’t pretend to be very much in love with her. It’s not my way, you know. But, some of these days, I shall ask her to have me, and I suppose it’ll all go right. The governor has distinctly promised to allow me eight hundred a year off the estate, and to take us in for three months every year if we wish it. I told him simply that I couldn’t do it for less, and he agreed with me.”
“You and he get on very well together.”
“Oh, yes! There’s never been any fallal between us about love, and duty, and all that. I think we understand each other, and that’s everything. He knows the comfort of standing well with the heir, and I know the comfort of standing well with the owner.” It must be admitted, I think, that there was a great deal of sound, common sense about Bernard Dale.
“What will he do for the younger sister?” asked Crosbie; and, as he asked the important question, a close observer might have perceived that there was some slight tremor in his voice.
“Ah! that’s more than I can tell you. If I were you, I should ask him. The governor is a plain man, and likes plain business.”
“I suppose you couldn’t ask him?”
“No; I don’t think I could. It is my belief that he will not let her go by any means empty-handed.”
“Well, I should suppose not.”
“But remember this, Crosbie—I can say nothing to you on which you are to depend. Lily, also, is as good as gold; and, as you seem to be fond of her, I should ask the governor, if I were you, in so many words, what he intends to do. Of course, it’s against my interest, for every shilling he gives Lily will ultimately come out of my pocket. But I’m not the man to care about that, as you know.”
What might be Crosbie’s knowledge on this subject we will not here inquire; but we may say that it would have mattered very little to him out of whose pocket the money came, so long as it went into his own. When he felt quite sure of Lily—having, in fact, received Lily’s permission to speak to her uncle, and Lily’s promise that she would herself speak to her mother—he did tell the squire what was his intention. This he did in an open, manly way, as though he felt that in asking for much he also offered to give much.
“I have nothing to say against it,” said the squire.
“And I have your permission to consider myself as engaged to her?”
“If you have hers and her mother’s. Of course you are aware that I have no authority over her.”
“She would not marry without your sanction.”
“She is very good to think so much of her uncle,” said the squire; and his words as he spoke them sounded very cold in Crosbie’s ears. After that Crosbie said nothing about money, having to confess to himself that he was afraid to do so. “And what would be the use?” said he to himself, wishing to make excuses for what he felt to be weak in his own conduct. “If he should refuse to give her a shilling I could not go back from it now.” And then some ideas ran across his mind as to the injustice to which men are subjected in this matter of matrimony. A man has to declare himself before it is fitting that he should make any inquiry about a lady’s money; and then, when he has declared himself, any such inquiry is unavailing. Which consideration somewhat cooled the ardour of his happiness. Lily Dale was very pretty, very nice, very refreshing in her innocence, her purity, and her quick intelligence. No amusement could be more deliciously amusing than that of making love to Lily Dale. Her way of flattering her lover without any intention of flattery on her part, had put Crosbie into a seventh heaven. In all his experience he had known nothing like it. “You may be sure of this,” she had said—“I shall love you with all my heart and all my strength.” It was very nice;—but then what were they to live upon? Could it be that he, Adolphus Crosbie, should settle down on the north side of
