The Small House at Allington - Anthony Trollope (i want to read a book txt) 📗

“I’ve not the slightest objection,” said Bell; “only I don’t know what there can be to say about it. Marrying the doctor is such a very commonplace sort of thing.”

“Not a bit more commonplace than marrying the parson,” said Lily.

“Oh, yes, it is. Parsons’ marriages are often very grand affairs. They come in among county people. That’s their luck in life. Doctors never do; nor lawyers. I don’t think lawyers ever get married in the country. They’re supposed to do it up in London. But a country doctor’s wedding is not a thing to be talked about much.”

Mrs. Boyce probably agreed in this view of the matter, seeing that she did not choose the coming marriage as her first subject of conversation. As soon as the two girls were seated she flew away immediately to the house, and began to express her very great surprise⁠—her surprise and her joy also⁠—at the sudden change which had been made in their plans. “It is so much nicer, you know,” said she, “that things should be pleasant among relatives.”

“Things always have been tolerably pleasant with us,” said Bell.

“Oh, yes; I’m sure of that. I’ve always said it was quite a pleasure to see you and your uncle together. And when we heard about your all having to leave⁠—”

“But we didn’t have to leave, Mrs. Boyce. We were going to leave because we thought mamma would be more comfortable in Guestwick; and now we’re not going to leave, because we’ve all ‘changed our mindses,’ as Mrs. Crump calls it.”

“And is it true the house is going to be painted?” asked Mrs. Boyce.

“I believe it is true,” said Lily.

“Inside and out?”

“It must be done some day,” said Bell.

“Yes, to be sure; but I must say it is generous of the squire. There’s such a deal of woodwork about your house. I know I wish the Ecclesiastical Commissioners would paint ours; but nobody ever does anything for the clergy. I’m sure I’m delighted you’re going to stay. As I said to Mr. Boyce, what should we ever have done without you? I believe the squire had made up his mind that he would not let the place.”

“I don’t think he ever has let it.”

“And if there was nobody in it, it would all go to rack and ruin; wouldn’t it? Had your mamma to pay anything for the lodgings she engaged at Guestwick?”

“Upon my word, I don’t know. Bell can tell you better about that than I, as Dr. Crofts settled it. I suppose Dr. Crofts tells her everything.” And so the conversation was changed, and Mrs. Boyce was made to understand that whatever further mystery there might be, it would not be unravelled on that occasion.

It was settled that Dr. Crofts and Bell should be married about the middle of June, and the squire determined to give what grace he could to the ceremony by opening his own house on the occasion. Lord De Guest and Lady Julia were invited by special arrangement between her ladyship and Bell, as has been before explained. The colonel also with Lady Fanny came up from Torquay on the occasion, this being the first visit made by the colonel to his paternal roof for many years. Bernard did not accompany his father. He had not yet gone abroad, but there were circumstances which made him feel that he would not find himself comfortable at the wedding. The service was performed by Mr. Boyce, assisted, as the County Chronicle very fully remarked, by the Reverend John Joseph Jones, M.A., late of Jesus College, Cambridge, and curate of St. Peter’s, Northgate, Guestwick; the fault of which little advertisement was this⁠—that as none of the readers of the paper had patience to get beyond the Reverend John Joseph Jones, the fact of Bell’s marriage with Dr. Crofts was not disseminated as widely as might have been wished.

The marriage went off very nicely. The squire was upon his very best behaviour, and welcomed his guests as though he really enjoyed their presence there in his halls. Hopkins, who was quite aware that he had been triumphant, decorated the old rooms with mingled flowers and greenery with an assiduous care which pleased the two girls mightily. And during this work of wreathing and decking there was one little morsel of feeling displayed which may as well be told in these last lines. Lily had been encouraging the old man while Bell for a moment had been absent.

“I wish it had been for thee, my darling!” he said; “I wish it had been for thee!”

“It is much better as it is, Hopkins,” she answered, solemnly.

“Not with him, though,” he went on, “not with him. I wouldn’t ’a hung a bough for him. But with t’other one.”

Lily said no word further. She knew that the man was expressing the wishes of all around her. She said no word further, and then Bell returned to them.

But no one at the wedding was so gay as Lily⁠—so gay, so bright, and so wedding-like. She flirted with the old earl till he declared that he would marry her himself. No one seeing her that evening, and knowing nothing of her immediate history, would have imagined that she herself had been cruelly jilted some six or eight months ago. And those who did know her could not imagine that what she then suffered had hit her so hard, that no recovery seemed possible for her. But though no recovery, as she herself believed, was possible for her⁠—though she was as a man whose right arm had been taken from him in the battle, still all the world had not gone with that right arm. The bullet which had maimed her sorely had not touched her life, and she scorned to go about the world complaining either by word or look of the injury she had received. “Wives when they have lost their husbands still eat and laugh,” she said to herself, “and he is not dead like that.” So she resolved that she would be happy, and I here