the following morning at breakfast each of the three gentlemen at the Great House received a little note on pink paper, nominally from Mrs Dale, asking them to drink tea at the Small House on that day week. At the bottom of the note which Lily had written for Mr Crosbie was added: “Dancing on the lawn, if we can get anybody to stand up. Of course you must come, whether you like it or not. And Bernard also. Do your possible to talk my uncle into coming.” And this note did something towards recreating good-humour among them at the breakfast-table. It was shown to the squire, and at last he was brought to say that he would perhaps go to Mrs Dale’s little evening-party.
It may be well to explain that this promised entertainment had been originated with no special view to the pleasure of Mr Crosbie, but altogether on behalf of poor Johnny Eames. What was to be done in that matter? This question had been fully discussed between Mrs Dale and Bell, and they had come to the conclusion that it would best to ask Johnny over to a little friendly gathering, in which he might be able to meet Lily with some strangers around them. In this way his embarrassment might be overcome. It would never do, as Mrs Dale said, that he should be suffered to stay away, unnoticed by them. “When the ice is once broken he won’t mind it,” said Bell. And, therefore, early in the day, a messenger was sent over to Guestwick, who returned with a note from Mrs Eames, saying that she would come on the evening in question, with her son and daughter. They would keep the fly and get back to Guestwick the same evening. This was added, as an offer had been made of beds for Mrs Eames and Mary.
Before the evening of the party another memorable occurrence had taken place at Allington, which must be described, in order that the feelings of the different people on that evening may be understood. The squire had given his nephew to understand that he wished to have that matter settled as to his niece Bell; and as Bernard’s views were altogether in accordance with the squire’s, he resolved to comply with his uncle’s wishes. The project with him was not a new thing. He did love his cousin quite sufficiently for purposes of matrimony, and was minded that it would be a good thing for him to marry. He could not marry without money, but this marriage would give him an income without the trouble of intricate settlements, or the interference of lawyers hostile to his own interests. It was possible that he might do better; but then it was possible also that he might do much worse; and, in addition to this, he was fond of his cousin. He discussed the matter within himself, very calmly; made some excellent resolutions as to the kind of life which it would behove him to live as a married man; settled on the street in London in which he would have his house, and behaved very prettily to Bell for four or five days running. That he did not make love to her, in the ordinary sense of the word, must, I suppose, be taken for granted, seeing that Bell herself did not recognise the fact. She had always liked her cousin, and thought that in these days he was making himself particularly agreeable.
On the evening before the party the girls were at the Great House, having come up nominally with the intention of discussing the expediency of dancing on the lawn. Lily had made up her mind that it was to be so, but Bell had objected that it would be cold and damp, and that the drawing-room would be nicer for dancing.
“You see we’ve only got four young gentlemen and one ungrown,” said Lily; “and they will look so stupid standing up all properly in a room, as though we had a regular party.”
“Thank you for the compliment,” said Crosbie, taking off his straw hat.
“So you will; and we girls will look more stupid still. But out on the lawn it won’t look stupid at all. Two or three might stand up on the lawn, and it would be jolly enough.”
“I don’t quite see it,” said Bernard.
“Yes, I think I see it,” said Crosbie. “The unadaptability of the lawn for the purpose of a ball—”
“Nobody is thinking of a ball,” said Lily, with mock petulance.
“I’m defending you, and yet you won’t let me speak. The unadaptability of the lawn for the purpose of a ball will conceal the insufficiency of four men and a boy as a supply of male dancers. But, Lily, who is the ungrown gentleman? Is it your old friend Johnny Eames?”
Lily’s voice became sobered as she answered him.
“Oh, no; I did not mean Mr Eames. He is coming, but I did not mean him. Dick Boyce, Mr Boyce’s son, is only sixteen. He is the ungrown gentleman.”
“And who is the fourth adult?”
“Dr Crofts, from Guestwick. I do hope you will like him, Adolphus. We think he is the very perfection of a man.”
“Then of course I shall hate him; and be very jealous, too!”
And then that pair went off together, fighting their own little battle on that head, as turtle-doves will sometimes do. They went off, and Bernard was left with Bell standing together over the ha-ha fence which divides the garden at the back of the house from the field.
“Bell,” he said, “they seem very happy, don’t they?”
“And they ought to be happy now, oughtn’t they? Dear Lily! I hope he will be good to her. Do you know, Bernard, though he is your friend, I am very, very anxious about it. It is such a vast trust to put in a man when we do not quite know him.”
“Yes, it is; but they’ll do very well together. Lily will be happy enough.”
“And he?”
“I suppose he’ll be happy, too. He’ll feel himself a little straightened as to income at first, but that will all come round.”
“If he is not, she will be wretched.”
“They will do very well. Lily must be prepared to make the money go as far as she can, that’s all.”
“Lily won’t feel the want of money. It is not that. But if he lets her know that she has made him a poor man, then she will be unhappy. Is he extravagant, Bernard?”
But Bernard was anxious to discuss another subject, and therefore would not speak such words of wisdom as to Lily’s engagement as might have been expected from him had he been in a different frame of mind.
“No, I should say not,” said he. “But, Bell—”
“I do not know that we could have acted otherwise than we have done, and yet I fear that we have been rash. If he makes her unhappy, Bernard, I shall never forgive you.”
But as she said this she put her hand lovingly upon his arm, as a cousin might do, and spoke in a tone which divested her threat of its acerbity.
“You must not quarrel with me, Bell, whatever may happen. I cannot afford to quarrel with you.”
“Of course I was not in earnest as to that.”
“You and I must never quarrel, Bell; at least, I hope not. I could bear to quarrel with any one rather than with you.” And then, as he spoke, there was something in his voice which gave the girl some slight, indistinct warning of what might be his intention. Not that she said to herself at once, that he was going to make her an offer of his hand,—now, on the spot; but she felt that he intended something beyond the tenderness of ordinary cousinly affection.
“I hope we shall never quarrel,” she said. But as she spoke, her mind was settling itself,—forming its resolution, and coming to a conclusion as to the sort of love which Bernard might, perhaps, expect. And it formed another conclusion; as to the sort
