whisperings with any aversion. Why should she? Lucky girl that she was, thus to have eight hundred a year pinned to her skirt!
“I say, Dale,” Crosbie said, as in the course of their day’s work they had come round upon Gruddock’s ground, and were preparing to finish off his turnips before they reached the farmyard gate. And now, as Crosbie spoke, they stood leaning on the gate, looking at the turnips while the two dogs squatted on their haunches. Crosbie had been very silent for the last mile or two, and had been making up his mind for this conversation. “I say, Dale,—your uncle has never said a word to me yet as to Lily’s fortune.”
“As to Lily’s fortune! The question is whether Lily has got a fortune.”
“He can hardly expect that I am to take her without something. Your uncle is a man of the world and he knows—”
“Whether or no my uncle is a man of the world, I will not say; but you are, Crosbie, whether he is or not. Lily, as you have always known, has nothing of her own.”
“I am not talking of Lily’s own. I’m speaking of her uncle. I have been straightforward with him; and when I became attached to your cousin I declared what I meant at once.”
“You should have asked him the question, if you thought there was any room for such a question.”
“Thought there was any room! Upon my word, you are a cool fellow.”
“Now look here, Crosbie; you may say what you like about my uncle, but you must not say a word against Lily.”
“Who is going to say a word against her? You can little understand me if you don’t know that the protection of her name against evil words is already more my care than it is yours. I regard Lily as my own.”
“I only meant to say, that any discontent you may feel as to her money, or want of money, you must refer to my uncle, and not to the family at the Small House.”
“I am quite well aware of that.”
“And though you are quite at liberty to say what you like to me about my uncle, I cannot say that I can see that he has been to blame.”
“He should have told me what her prospects are.”
“But if she have got no prospects! It cannot be an uncle’s duty to tell everybody that he does not mean to give his niece a fortune. In point of fact, why should you suppose that he has such an intention?”
“Do you know that he has not? because you once led me to believe that he would give his niece money.”
“Now, Crosbie, it is necessary that you and I should understand each other in this matter—”
“But did you not?”
“Listen to me for a moment. I never said a word to you about my uncle’s intentions in any way, until after you had become fully engaged to Lily with the knowledge of us all. Then, when my belief on the subject could make no possible difference in your conduct, I told you that I thought my uncle would do something for her. I told you so because I did think so,—and as your friend, I should have told you what I thought in any matter that concerned your interest.”
“And now you have changed your opinion?”
“I have changed my opinion; but very probably without sufficient ground.”
“That’s hard upon me.”
“It may be hard to bear disappointment; but you cannot say that anybody has illused you.”
“And you don’t think he will give her anything?”
“Nothing that will be of much moment to you.”
“And I’m not to say that that’s hard? I think it confounded hard. Of course I must put off my marriage.”
“Why do you not speak to my uncle?”
“I shall do so. To tell the truth, I think it would have come better from him; but that is a matter of opinion. I shall tell him very plainly what I think about it; and if he is angry, why, I suppose I must leave his house; that will be all.”
“Look here, Crosbie; do not begin your conversation with the purpose of angering him. He is not a bad-hearted man, but is very obstinate.”
“I can be quite as obstinate as he.” And, then, without further parley, they went in among the turnips, and each swore against his luck as he missed his birds. There are certain phases of mind in which a man can neither ride nor shoot, nor play a stroke at billiards, nor remember a card at whist,—and to such a phase of mind had come both Crosbie and Dale after their conversation over the gate.
They were not above fifteen minutes late at the trysting-place, but nevertheless, punctual though they had been, the girls were there before them. Of course the first inquiries were made about the game, and of course the gentlemen declared that the birds were scarcer than they had ever been before, that the dogs were wilder, and their luck more excruciatingly bad,—to all which apologies very little attention was paid. Lily and Bell had not come there to inquire after partridges, and would have forgiven the sportsmen even though no single bird had been killed. But they could not forgive the want of good spirits which was apparent.
“I declare I don’t know what’s the matter with you,” Lily said to her lover.
“We have been over fifteen miles of ground, and—”
“I never knew anything so lackadaisical as you gentlemen from London. Been over fifteen miles of ground! Why, Uncle Christopher would think nothing of that.”
“Uncle Christopher is made of sterner stuff than we are,” said Crosbie. “They used to be born so sixty or seventy years ago.” And then they walked on through Gruddock’s fields, and the home paddocks, back to the Great House, where they found the squire standing in the front of the porch.
The walk had not been so pleasant as they had all intended that it should be when they made their arrangements for it. Crosbie had endeavoured to recover his happy state of mind, but had been unsuccessful; and Lily, fancying that her lover was not all that he should be, had become reserved and silent. Bernard and Bell had not shared this discomfiture, but then Bernard and Bell were, as a rule, much more given to silence than the other two.
“Uncle,” said Lily, “these men have shot nothing, and you cannot conceive how unhappy they are in consequence. It’s all the fault of the naughty partridges.”
“There are plenty of partridges if they knew how to get them,” said the squire.
“The dogs are uncommonly wild,” said Crosbie.
“They are not wild with me,” said the squire; “nor yet with Dingles.” Dingles was the squire’s gamekeeper. “The fact is, you young men, nowadays, expect to have dogs trained to do all the work for you. It’s too much labour for you to walk up to your game. You’ll be late for dinner, girls, if you don’t look sharp.”
“We’re not coming up this evening, sir,” said Bell.
“And why not?”
“We’re
