THE SMALL HOUSE AT ALLINGTON. Anthony Trollope

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 of love which might be given in return.

      “Bell,” he said, “you and I have always been dear friends.”

      “Yes; always.”

      “Why should we not be something more than friends?”

      To give Captain Dale his due I must declare that his voice was perfectly natural as he asked this question, and that he showed no signs of nervousness, either in his face or limbs. He had made up his mind to do it on that occasion, and he did it without any signs of outward disturbance. He asked his question, and then he waited for his answer. In this he was rather hard upon his cousin; for, though the question had certainly been asked in language that could not be mistaken, still the matter had not been put forward with all that fullness which a young lady, under such circumstances, has a right to expect.

      They had sat down on the turf close to the ha-ha, and they were so near that Bernard was able to put out his hand with the view of taking that of his cousin within his own. But she contrived to keep her hands locked together, so that he merely held her gently by the wrist.

      “I don’t quite understand, Bernard,” she said, after a minute’s pause.

      “Shall we be more than cousins? Shall we be man and wife?”

      Now, at least, she could not say that she did not understand. If the question was ever asked plainly, Bernard Dale had asked it plainly. Shall we be man and wife? Few men, I fancy, dare to put it all at once in so abrupt a way, and yet I do not know that the English language affords any better terms for the question.

      “Oh, Bernard! you have surprised me.”

      “I hope I have not pained you, Bell. I have been long thinking of this, but I am well aware that my own manner, even to you, has not been that of a lover. It is not in me to smile and say soft things, as Crosbie can. But I do not love you the less on that account. I have looked about for a wife, and I have thought that if I could gain you I should be very fortunate.”

      He did not then say anything about his uncle, and the eight hundred a year; but he fully intended to do so as soon as an opportunity should serve. He was quite of opinion that eight hundred a year and the goodwill of a rich uncle were strong ground for matrimony,—were grounds even for love; and he did not doubt but his cousin would see the matter in the same light.

      “You are very good to me—more than good. Of course I know that. But, oh, Bernard I did not expect this a bit.”

      “But you will answer me, Bell! Or if you would like time to think, or to speak to my aunt, perhaps you will answer me tomorrow?”

      “I think I ought to answer you now.”

      “Not if it be a refusal, Bell. Think well of it before you do that. I should have told you that our uncle wishes this match, and that he will remove any difficulty there might be about money.”

      “I do not care for money.”

      “But, as you were saying about Lily, one has to be prudent. Now, in our marriage, everything of that kind would be well arranged. My uncle has promised me that he would at once allow us—”

      “Stop, Bernard. You must not be led to suppose that any offer made by my uncle would help to purchase— Indeed, there can be no need for us to talk about money.”

      “I wished to let you know the facts of the case, exactly as they are. And as to our uncle, I cannot but think that you would be glad, in such a matter, to have him on your side.”

      “Yes, I should be glad to have him on my side; that is, if I were going— But my uncle’s wishes could not influence my decision. The fact is, Bernard—”

      “Well, dearest, what is the fact?”

      “I have always regarded you rather as a brother than as anything else.”

      “But that regard may be changed.”

      “No; I think not.