The Last Chronicle of Barset

  CHAPTER XXXV.

  LILY DALE WRITES TWO WORDS IN HER BOOK.

  John Eames saw nothing more of Lily Dale till he packed up hisportmanteau, left his mother's house, and went to stay for a few dayswith his old friend Lady Julia; and this did not happen till he hadbeen above a week at Guestwick. Mrs. Dale repeatedly said that it wasodd that Johnny did not come to see them; and Grace, speaking of himto Lily, asked why he did not come. Lily, in her funny way, declaredthat he would come soon enough. But even while she was joking therewas something of half-expressed consciousness in her words,--asthough she felt it to be foolish to speak of his coming as shemight of that of any other young man, before people who knew herwhole story. "He'll come quick enough. He knows, and I know, thathis coming will do no good. Of course I shall be glad to see him.Why shouldn't I be glad to see him? I've known him and likedhim all my life. I liked him when there did not seem to be muchabout him to like, and now that he is clever, and agreeable, andgood-looking,--which he never was as a lad,--why shouldn't I go onliking him? He's more like a brother to me than anybody else I'vegot. James,"--James was her brother-in-law, Dr. Crofts,--"thinks ofnothing but his patients and his babies, and my cousin Bernard ismuch too grand a person for me to take the liberty of loving him. Ishall be very glad to see Johnny Eames." From all which Mrs. Dale wasled to believe that Johnny's case was still hopeless. And how shouldit not be hopeless? Had Lily not confessed within the last week ortwo that she still loved Adolphus Crosbie?

  Mrs. Eames also, and Mary, were surprised that John did not go overto Allington. "You haven't seen Mrs. Dale yet, or the squire?" saidhis mother.

  "I shall see them when I am at the cottage."

  "Yes;--no doubt. But it seems strange that you should be here so longwithout going to them."

  "There's time enough," said he. "I shall have nothing else to dowhen I'm at the cottage." Then, when Mary had spoken to him again inprivate, expressing a hope that there was "nothing wrong," he hadbeen very angry with his sister. "What do you mean by wrong? Whatrubbish you girls talk! and you never have any delicacy of feeling tomake you silent."

  "Oh, John, don't say such hard things as that of me!"

  "But I do say them. You'll make me swear among you some day that Iwill never see Lily Dale again. As it is, I wish I never had seenher,--simply because I am so dunned about it." In all of which Ithink that Johnny was manifestly wrong. When the humour was on him hewas fond enough of talking about Lily Dale. Had he not taught her todo so, I doubt whether his sister would ever have mentioned Lily'sname to him. "I did not mean to dun you, John," said Mary, meekly.

  But at last he went to Lady Julia's, and was no sooner there than hewas ready to start for Allington. When Lady Julia spoke to him aboutLily, he did not venture to snub her. Indeed, of all his friends,Lady Julia was the one with whom on this subject he allowed himselfthe most unrestricted confidence. He came over one day, just beforedinner, and declared his intention of walking over to Allingtonimmediately after breakfast on the following morning. "It's the lasttime, Lady Julia," he said.

  "So you say, Johnny."

  "And so I mean it! What's the good of a man frittering away his life?What's the good of wishing for what you can't get?"

  "Jacob was not in such a hurry when he wished for Rachel."

  "That was all very well for an old patriarch who had seven or eighthundred years to live."

  "My dear John, you forget your Bible. Jacob did not live half as longas that."

  "He lived long enough, and slowly enough, to be able to wait fourteenyears;--and then he had something to comfort him in the meantime.And after all, Lady Julia, it's more than seven years since I firstthought Lily was the prettiest girl I ever saw."

  "How old are you now?"

  "Twenty-seven,--and she's twenty-four."

  "You've time enough yet, if you'll only be patient."

  "I'll be patient for to-morrow, Lady Julia, but never again. Notthat I mean to quarrel with her. I'm not such a fool as to quarrelwith a girl because she can't like me. I know how it all is. If thatscoundrel had not come across my path just when he did,--in thatvery nick of time, all might have been right betwixt her and me.I couldn't have offered to marry her before, when I hadn't as muchincome as would have found her in bread-and-butter. And then, just asbetter times came to me, he stepped in! I wonder whether it will beexpected of me that I should forgive him?"

  "As far as that goes, you have no right to be angry with him."

  "But I am,--all the same."

  "And so was I,--but not for stepping in, as you call it."

  "You and I are different, Lady Julia. I was angry with him forstepping in; but I couldn't show it. Then he stepped out, and I didmanage to show it. And now I shouldn't wonder if he doesn't step inagain. After all, why should he have such a power? It was simply thenick of time which gave it to him." That John Eames should be able tofind some consolation in this consideration is devoutly to be hopedby us all.

  There was nothing said about Lily Dale the next morning at breakfast.Lady Julia observed that John was dressed a little more neatly thanusual;--though the change was not such as to have called for herspecial observation, had she not known the business on which he wasintent.

  "You have nothing to send to the Dales?" he said, as he got up fromthe table.

  "Nothing but my love, Johnny."

  "No worsted or embroidery work,--or a pot of special jam for thesquire?"

  "No, sir, nothing; though I should like to make you carry a pair ofpanniers, if I could."

  "They would become me well," said Johnny, "for I am going on an ass'serrand." Then, without waiting for the word of affection which was onthe old woman's lips, he got himself out of the room, and started onhis journey.

  The walk was only three miles and the weather was dry and frosty, andhe had come to the turn leading up to the church and the squire'shouse almost before he remembered that he was near Allington. Herehe paused for a moment to think. If he continued his way down by the"Red Lion" and through Allington Street, he must knock at Mrs. Dale'sdoor, and ask for admission by means of the servant,--as would bedone by any ordinary visitor. But he could make his way on to thelawn by going up beyond the wall of the churchyard and through thesquire's garden. He knew the path well,--very well; and he thoughtthat he might take so much liberty as that, both with the squire andwith Mrs. Dale, although his visits to Allington were not so frequentnow as they used to be in the days of his boyhood. He did not wishto be admitted by the servant, and therefore he went through thegardens. Luckily he did not see the squire, who would have detainedhim, and he escaped from Hopkins, the old gardener, with little morethan a word. "I'm going down to see the ladies, Hopkins; I suppose Ishall find them?" And then, while Hopkins was arranging his spade sothat he might lean upon it for a little chat, Johnny was gone and hadmade his way into the other garden. He had thought it possible thathe might meet Lily out among the walks by herself, and such a meetingas this would have suited him better than any other. And as hecrossed the little bridge which separated the gardens he thought ofmore than one such meeting,--of one especial occasion on which hehad first ventured to tell her in plain words that he loved her. Butbefore that day Crosbie had come there, and at the moment in which hewas speaking of his love she regarded Crosbie as an angel of lightupon the earth. What hope could there have been for him then? Whatuse was there in his telling such a tale of love at that time? Whenhe told it, he knew that Crosbie had been before him. He knew thatCrosbie was at that moment the angel of light. But as he had neverbefore been able to speak of his love, so was he then unable not tospeak of it. He had spoken, and of course had been simply rebuked.Since that day Crosbie had ceased to be an angel of light, and he,John Eames, had spoken often. But he had spoken in vain, and now hewould speak once again.

  He went through the garden and over the lawn belonging to the SmallHouse and saw no one. He forgot, I think, that ladies do not comeout to pick roses when the ground is frozen, and that croquet is notoften in pr
ogress with the hoar-frost on the grass. So he walkedup to the little terrace before the drawing-room, and looking insaw Mrs. Dale, and Lily, and Grace at their morning work. Lily wasdrawing, and Mrs. Dale was writing, and Grace had her needle in herhand. As it happened, no one at first perceived him, and he had timeto feel that after all he would have managed better if he had beenannounced in the usual way. As, however, it was now necessary thathe should announce himself, he knocked at the window, and they allimmediately looked up and saw him. "It's my cousin John," said Grace."Oh, Johnny, how are you at last?" said Mrs. Dale. But it was Lilywho, without speaking, opened the window for him, who was the firstto give him her hand, and who led him through into the room.

  "It's a great shame my coming in this way," said John, "and lettingall the cold air in upon you."

  "We shall survive it," said Mrs. Dale. "I suppose you have just comedown from my brother-in-law?"

  "No; I have not seen the squire as yet. I will do so before I goback, of course. But it seemed such a commonplace sort of thing to goround by the village."

  "We are very glad to see you, by whatever way you come;--are we not,mamma?" said Lily.

  "I'm not so sure of that. We were only saying yesterday that as youhad been in the country a fortnight without coming to us, we did notthink we would be at home when you did come."

  "But I have caught you, you see," said Johnny.

  And so they went on, chatting of old times and of mutual friends verycomfortably for full an hour. And there was some serious conversationabout Grace's father and his affairs, and John declared his opinionthat Mr. Crawley ought to go to his uncle, Thomas Toogood, not at allknowing at that time that Mr. Crawley himself had come to the sameopinion. And John gave them an elaborate description of Sir RaffleBuffle, standing up with his back to the fire with his hat on hishead, and speaking with a loud harsh voice, to show them the way inwhich he declared that that gentleman received his inferiors; andthen bowing and scraping and rubbing his hands together and simperingwith would-be softness,--declaring that after that fashion Sir Rafflereceived his superiors. And they were very merry,--so that no onewould have thought that Johnny was a despondent lover, now bent onthrowing the dice for his last stake; or that Lily was aware that shewas in the presence of one lover, and that she was like to fall tothe ground between two stools,--having two lovers, neither of whomcould serve her turn.

  "How can you consent to serve him if he's such a man as that?" saidLily, speaking of Sir Raffle.

  "I do not serve him. I serve the Queen,--or rather the public. Idon't take his wages, and he does not play his tricks with me. Heknows that he can't. He has tried it, and has failed. And he onlykeeps me where I am because I've had some money left me. He thinks itfine to have a private secretary with a fortune. I know that he tellspeople all manner of lies about it, making it out to be five timesas much as it is. Dear old Huffle Snuffle. He is such an ass; andyet he's had wit enough to get to the top of the tree, and to keephimself there. He began the world without a penny. Now he has got ahandle to his name, and he'll live in clover all his life. It's veryodd, isn't it, Mrs. Dale?"

  "I suppose he does his work?"

  "When men get so high as that, there's no knowing whether they workor whether they don't. There isn't much for them to do, as far as Ican see. They have to look beautiful, and frighten the young ones."

  "And does Sir Raffle look beautiful?" Lily asked.

  "After a fashion, he does. There is something imposing about such aman till you're used to it, and can see through it. Of course it'sall padding. There are men who work, no doubt. But among the bigwigs,and bishops and cabinet ministers, I fancy that the looking beautifulis the chief part of it. Dear me, you don't mean to say it's luncheontime?"

  But it was luncheon time, and not only had he not as yet said a wordof all that which he had come to say, but had not as yet made anymove towards getting it said. How was he to arrange that Lilyshould be left alone with him? Lady Julia had said that she shouldnot expect him back till dinner-time, and he had answered herlackadaisically, "I don't suppose I shall be there above ten minutes.Ten minutes will say all I've got to say, and do all I've got to do.And then I suppose I shall go and cut names about upon bridges,--eh,Lady Julia?" Lady Julia understood his words; for once, upon a formeroccasion, she had found him cutting Lily's name on the rail of awooden bridge in her brother's grounds. But he had now been a coupleof hours at the Small House, and had not said a word of that which hehad come to say.

  "Are you going to walk out with us after lunch?" said Lily.

  "He will have had walking enough," said Mrs. Dale.

  "We'll convoy him back part of the way," said Lily.

  "I'm not going yet," said Johnny, "unless you turn me out."

  "But we must have our walk before it is dark," said Lily.

  "You might go up with him to your uncle," said Mrs. Dale. "Indeed,I promised to go up myself, and so did you, Grace, to see themicroscope. I heard Mr. Dale give orders that one of thoselong-legged reptiles should be caught on purpose for yourinspection."

  Mrs. Dale's little scheme for bringing the two together was verytransparent, but it was not the less wise on that account. Schemeswill often be successful, let them be ever so transparent. Littleintrigues become necessary, not to conquer unwilling people, butpeople who are willing enough, who, nevertheless, cannot give wayexcept under the machinations of an intrigue.

  "I don't think I'll mind looking at the long-legged creature to-day,"said Johnny.

  "I must go, of course," said Grace.

  Lily said nothing at the moment, either about the long-leggedcreature or the walk. That which must be, must be. She knew well whyJohn Eames had come there. She knew that the visits to his motherand to Lady Julia would never have been made, but that he might havethis interview. And he had a right to demand, at any rate, as much asthat. That which must be, must be. And therefore when both Mrs. Daleand Grace stoutly maintained their purpose of going up to the squire,Lily neither attempted to persuade John to accompany them, nor saidthat she would do so herself.

  "I will convoy you home myself," she said, "and Grace, when she hasdone with the beetle, shall come and meet me. Won't you, Grace?"

  "Certainly."

  "We are not helpless young ladies in these parts, nor yet timorous,"continued Lily. "We can walk about without being afraid of ghosts,robbers, wild bulls, young men, or gipsies. Come the field path,Grace. I will go as far as the big oak with him, and then I shallturn back, and I shall come in by the stile opposite the church gate,and through the garden. So you can't miss me."

  "I daresay he'll come back with you," said Grace.

  "No, he won't. He will do nothing of the kind. He'll have to go onand open Lady Julia's bottle of port wine for his own drinking."

  All this was very good on Lily's part, and very good also on the partof Mrs. Dale; and John was of course very much obliged to them. Butthere was a lack of romance in it all, which did not seem to himto argue well as to his success. He did not think much about it,but he felt that Lily would not have been so ready to arrange theirwalk had she intended to yield to his entreaty. No doubt in theselatter days plain good sense had become the prevailing mark ofher character,--perhaps, as Johnny thought, a little too stronglyprevailing; but even with all her plain good sense and determinationto dispense with the absurdities of romance in the affairs of herlife, she would not have proposed herself as his companion for awalk across the fields merely that she might have an opportunityof accepting his hand. He did not say all this to himself, but heinstinctively felt that it was so. And he felt also that it shouldhave been his duty to arrange the walk, or the proper opportunity forthe scene that was to come. She had done it instead,--she and hermother between them, thereby forcing upon him a painful convictionthat he himself had not been equal to the occasion. "I always make amull of it," he said to himself, when the girls went up to get theirhats.

  They went down together through the garden, and parted where thepaths led away, one to th
e great house and the other towards thechurch. "I'll certainly come and call upon the squire before I goback to London," said Johnny.

  "We'll tell him so," said Mrs. Dale. "He would be sure to hear thatyou had been with us, even if we said nothing about it."

  "Of course he would," said Lily; "Hopkins has seen him." Then theyseparated, and Lily and John Eames were together.

  Hardly a word was said, perhaps not a word, till they had crossed theroad and got into the field opposite to the church. And in this firstfield there was more than one path, and the children of the villagewere often there, and it had about it something of a public nature.John Eames felt that it was by no means a fitting field to say thatwhich he had to say. In crossing it, therefore, he merely remarkedthat the day was very fine for walking. Then he added one specialword, "And it is so good of you, Lily, to come with me."

  "I am very glad to come with you. I would do more than that, John,to show how glad I am to see you." Then they had come to the secondlittle gate, and beyond that the fields were really fields, and therewere stiles instead of wicket-gates, and the business of the day mustbe begun.

  "Lily, whenever I come here you say you are glad to see me?"

  "And so I am,--very glad. Only you would take it as meaning what itdoes not mean, I would tell you, that of all my friends living awayfrom the reach of my daily life, you are the one whose coming is everthe most pleasant to me."

  "Oh, Lily!"

  "It was, I think, only yesterday that I was telling Grace that youare more like a brother to me than any one else. I wish it might beso. I wish we might swear to be brother and sister. I'd do more foryou then than walk across the fields with you to Guestwick Cottage.Your prosperity would then be the thing in the world for which Ishould be most anxious. And if you should marry--"

  Lily wishes that they might swear to beBrother and Sister.]

  "It can never be like that between us," said Johnny.

  "Can it not? I think it can. Perhaps not this year, or next year;perhaps not in the next five years. But I make myself happy withthinking that it may be so some day. I shall wait for it patiently,very patiently, even though you should rebuff me again and again,--asyou have done now."

  "I have not rebuffed you."

  "Not maliciously, or injuriously, or offensively. I will be verypatient, and take little rebuffs without complaining. This is theworst stile of all. When Grace and I are here together we can nevermanage it without tearing ourselves all to pieces. It is much nicerto have you to help me."

  "Let me help you always," he said, keeping her hands in his after hehad aided her to jump from the stile to the ground.

  "Yes, as my brother."

  "That is nonsense, Lily."

  "Is it nonsense? Nonsense is a hard word."

  "It is nonsense as coming from you to me. Lily, I sometimes thinkthat I am persecuting you, writing to you, coming after you, as Iam doing now,--telling the same whining story,--asking, asking, andasking for that which you say you will never give me. And then I feelashamed of myself, and swear that I will do it no more."

  "Do not be ashamed of yourself; but yet do it no more."

  "And then," he continued, without minding her words, "at other timesI feel that it must be my own fault; that if I only persevered withsufficient energy I must be successful. At such times I swear that Iwill never give it up."

  "Oh, John, if you could only know how little worthy of such pursuitit is."

  "Leave me to judge of that, dear. When a man has taken a month, orperhaps only a week, or perhaps not more than half an hour, to makeup his mind, it may be very well to tell him that he doesn't knowwhat he is about. I've been in the office now for over seven years,and the first day I went I put an oath into a book that I would comeback and get you for my wife when I had got enough to live upon."

  "Did you, John?"

  "Yes. I can show it you. I used to come and hover about the place inthe old days, before I went to London, when I was such a fool thatI couldn't speak to you if I met you. I am speaking of a time longbefore,--before that man came down here."

  "Do not speak of him, Johnny."

  "I must speak of him. A man isn't to hold his tongue when everythinghe has in the world is at stake. I suppose he loved you after afashion, once."

  "Pray, pray do not speak ill of him."

  "I am not going to abuse him. You can judge of him by his deeds. Icannot say anything worse of him than what they say. I suppose heloved you; but he certainly did not love you as I have done. I haveat any rate been true to you. Yes, Lily, I have been true to you.I am true to you. He did not know what he was about. I do. I amjustified in saying that I do. I want you to be my wife. It is no useyour talking about it as though I only half wanted it."

  "I did not say that."

  "Is not a man to have any reward? Of course if you had married himthere would have been an end of it. He had come in between me and myhappiness, and I must have borne it, as other men bear such sorrows.But you have not married him; and, of course, I cannot but feel thatI may yet have a chance. Lily, answer me this. Do you believe that Ilove you?" But she did not answer him. "You can at any rate tell methat. Do you think that I am in earnest?"

  "Yes, I think you are in earnest."

  "And do you believe that I love you with all my heart and all mystrength and all my soul?"

  "Oh, John!"

  "But do you?"

  "I think you love me."

  "Think! what am I to say or to do to make you understand that my onlyidea of happiness is the idea that sooner or later I may get you tobe my wife? Lily, will you say that it shall be so? Speak, Lily.There is no one that will not be glad. Your uncle will consent,--hasconsented. Your mother wishes it. Bell wishes it. My mother wishesit. Lady Julia wishes it. You would be doing what everybody aboutyou wants you to do. And why should you not do it? It isn't that youdislike me. You wouldn't talk about being my sister, if you had notsome sort of regard for me."

  "I have a regard for you."

  "Then why will you not be my wife? Oh, Lily, say the word now, here,at once. Say the word, and you'll make me the happiest fellow in allEngland." As he spoke he took her by both arms, and held her fast.She did not struggle to get away from him, but stood quite still,looking into his face, while the first sparkle of a salt tear formeditself in each eye. "Lily, one little word will do it,--half a word,a nod, a smile. Just touch my arm with your hand and I will take itfor a yes." I think that she almost tried to touch him; that the wordwas in her throat, and that she almost strove to speak it. But therewas no syllable spoken, and her fingers did not loose themselves tofall upon his sleeve. "Lily, Lily, what can I say to you?"

  "I wish I could," she whispered;--but the whisper was so hoarse thathe hardly recognized the voice.

  "And why can you not? What is there to hinder you? There is nothingto hinder you, Lily."

  "Yes, John; there is that which must hinder me."

  "And what is it?"

  "I will tell you. You are so good and so true, and soexcellent,--such a dear, dear, dear friend, that I will tell youeverything, so that you may read my heart. I will tell you as I tellmamma,--you and her and no one else;--for you are the choice friendof my heart. I cannot be your wife because of the love I bear foranother man."

  "And that man is he,--he who came here?"

  "Of course it is he. I think, Johnny, you and I are alike in this,that when we have loved we cannot bring ourselves to change. You willnot change, though it would be so much better you should do so."

  "No; I will never change."

  "Nor can I. When I sleep I dream of him. When I am alone I cannotbanish him from my thoughts. I cannot define what it is to love him.I want nothing from him,--nothing, nothing. But I move about throughmy little world thinking of him, and I shall do so to the end. Iused to feel proud of my love, though it made me so wretched that Ithought it would kill me. I am not proud of it any longer. It is afoolish poor-spirited weakness,--as though my heart had been onlyhalf formed in the making
. Do you be stronger, John. A man should bestronger than a woman."

  "I have none of that sort of strength."

  "Nor have I. What can we do but pity each other, and swear that wewill be friends,--dear friends. There is the oak-tree and I have gotto turn back. We have said everything that we can say,--unless youwill tell me that you will be my brother."

  "No; I will not tell you that."

  "Good-by, then, Johnny."

  He paused, holding her by the hand and thinking of another questionwhich he longed to put to her,--considering whether he would ask herthat question or not. He hardly knew whether he were entitled to askit;--whether or no the asking of it would be ungenerous. She had saidthat she would tell him everything,--as she had told everything toher mother. "Of course," he said, "I have no right to expect to knowanything of your future intentions?"

  "You may know them all,--as far as I know them myself. I have saidthat you should read my heart."

  "If this man, whose name I cannot bear to mention, should comeagain--"

  "If he were to come again he would come in vain, John." She did notsay that he had come again. She could tell her own secret, but notthat of another person.

  "You would not marry him, now that he is free?"

  She stood and thought a while before she answered him. "No, I shouldnot marry him now. I think not." Then she paused again. "Nay, I amsure I would not. After what has passed I could not trust myself todo it. There is my hand on it. I will not."

  "No, Lily, I do not want that."

  "But I insist. I will not marry Mr. Crosbie. But you must notmisunderstand me, John. There;--all that is over for me now. Allthose dreams about love, and marriage, and of a house of my own, andchildren,--and a cross husband, and a wedding-ring growing alwaystighter as I grow fatter and older. I have dreamed of such thingsas other girls do,--more perhaps than other girls, more than Ishould have done. And now I accept the thing as finished. You wrotesomething in your book, you dear John,--something that could not bemade to come true. Dear John, I wish for your sake it was otherwise.I will go home and I will write in my book, this very day, LilianDale, Old Maid. If ever I make that false, do you come and ask me forthe page."

  "Let it remain there till I am allowed to tear it out."

  "I will write it, and it shall never be torn out. You I cannot marry.Him I will not marry. You may believe me, Johnny, when I say therecan never be a third."

  "And is that to be the end of it?"

  "Yes;--that is to be the end of it. Not the end of our friendship.Old maids have friends."

  "It shall not be the end of it. There shall be no end of it with me."

  "But, John--"

  "Do not suppose that I will trouble you again,--at any rate not for awhile. In five years time perhaps,--"

  "Now, Johnny, you are laughing at me. And of course it is the bestway. If there is not Grace, and she has caught me before I haveturned back. Good-by, dear, dear John. God bless you. I think youthe finest fellow there is in the world. I do, and so does mamma.Remember always that there is a temple at Allington in which yourworship is never forgotten." Then she pressed his hand and turnedaway from him to meet Grace Crawley. John did not stop to speak aword to his cousin, but pursued his way alone.

  "That cousin of yours," said Lily, "is simply the dearest,warmest-hearted, finest creature that ever was seen in the shape ofa man."

  "Have you told him that you think him so?" said Grace.

  "Indeed, I have," said Lily.

  "But have you told this finest, warmest, dearest creature that heshall be rewarded with the prize he covets?"

  "No, Grace. I have told him nothing of the kind. I think heunderstands it all now. If he does not, it is not for the want of mytelling him. I don't suppose any lady was ever more open-spoken to agentleman than I have been to him."

  "And why have you sent him away disappointed? You know you love him."

  "You see, my dear," said Lily, "you allow yourself, for the sake ofyour argument, to use a word in a double sense, and you attempt toconfound me by doing so. But I am a great deal too clever for you,and have thought too much about it, to be taken in in that way. Icertainly love your cousin John; and so I do love Mr. Boyce, thevicar."

  "You love Johnny much better than you do Mr. Boyce."

  "True; very much better; but it is the same sort of love. However, itis a great deal too deep for you to understand. You're too young, andI shan't try to explain it. But the long and the short of it is,--Iam not going to marry your cousin."

  "I wish you were," said Grace, "with all my heart."

  John Eames as he returned to the cottage was by no means able tofall back upon those resolutions as to his future life, which he hadformed for himself and communicated to his friend Dalrymple, andwhich he had intended to bring at once into force in the event ofhis being again rejected by Lily Dale. "I will cleanse my mind of italtogether," he had said, "and though I may not forget her, I willlive as though she were forgotten. If she declines my proposal again,I will accept her word as final. I will not go about the world anylonger as a stricken deer,--to be pitied or else bullied by the restof the herd." On his way down to Guestwick he had sworn twenty timesthat it should be so. He would make one more effort, and then hewould give it up. But now, after his interview with Lily, he was aslittle disposed to give it up as ever.

  He sat upon a gate in a paddock through which there was a backentrance into Lady Julia's garden, and there swore a thousand oathsthat he would never give her up. He was, at any rate, sure that shewould never become the wife of any one else. He was equally sure thathe would never become the husband of any other wife. He could trusther. Yes; he was sure of that. But could he trust himself? Communingwith himself, he told himself that after all he was but a poorcreature. Circumstances had been very good to him, but he had donenothing for himself. He was vain, and foolish, and unsteady. So hetold himself while sitting upon the gate. But he had, at any rate,been constant to Lily, and constant he would remain.

  He would never more mention her name to any one,--unless it were toLady Julia to-night. To Dalrymple he would not open his mouth abouther, but would plainly ask his friend to be silent on that subject ifher name should be mentioned by him. But morning and evening he wouldpray for her, and in his prayers he would always think of her ashis wife. He would never speak to another girl without rememberingthat he was bound to Lily. He would go nowhere into society withoutrecalling to mind the fact that he was bound by the chains of asolemn engagement. If he knew himself he would be constant to Lily.

  And then he considered in what manner it would be best and mostbecoming that he should still prosecute his endeavour and repeat hisoffer. He thought that he would write to her every year, on the sameday of the year, year after year, it might be for the next twentyyears. And his letters should be very simple. Sitting there on thegate he planned the wording of his letters;--of his first letter, andof his second, and of his third. They should be very like to eachother,--should hardly be more than a repetition of the same words."If now you are ready for me, then, Lily, am I, as ever, still readyfor you." And then "if now" again, and again "if now;--and stillif now." When his hair should be grey, and the wrinkles on hischeeks,--ay, though they should be on hers, he would still continueto tell her from year to year that he was ready to take her. Surelysome day that "if now" would prevail. And should it never prevail,the merit of his constancy should be its own reward.

  Such letters as those she would surely keep. Then he looked forward,down into the valley of coming years, and fancied her as she mightsit reading them in the twilight of some long evening,--letters whichhad been written all in vain. He thought that he could look forwardwith some satisfaction towards the close of his own career, in havingbeen the hero of such a love-story. At any rate, if such a story wereto be his story, the melancholy attached to it should arise from nofault of his own. He would still press her to be his wife. And thenas he remembered that he was only twenty-seven and that she wastwenty-four, he began to marv
el at the feeling of grey old age whichhad come upon him, and tried to make himself believe that he wouldhave her yet before the bloom was off her cheek.

  He went into the cottage and made his way at once into the room inwhich Lady Julia was sitting. She did not speak at first, but lookedanxiously into his face. And he did not speak, but turned to a tablenear the window and took up a book,--though the room was too dark forhim to see to read the words. "John," at last said Lady Julia.

  "Well, my lady?"

  "Have you nothing to tell me, John?"

  "Nothing on earth,--except the same old story, which has now become amatter of course."

  "But, John, will you not tell me what she has said?"

  "Lady Julia, she has said no; simply no. It is a very easy word tosay, and she has said it so often that it seems to come from herquite naturally." Then he got a candle and sat down over the firewith a volume of a novel. It was not yet past five, and Lady Juliadid not go upstairs to dress till six, and therefore there was anhour during which they were together. John had at first been rathergrand to his old friend, and very uncommunicative. But before thedressing bell had rung he had been coaxed into a confidential strainand had told everything. "I suppose it is wrong and selfish," hesaid. "I suppose I am a dog in a manger. But I do own that there is aconsolation to me in the assurance that she will never be the wife ofthat scoundrel."

  "I could never forgive her if she were to marry him now," said LadyJulia.

  "I could never forgive him. But she has said that she will not, and Iknow that she will not forswear herself. I shall go on with it, LadyJulia. I have made up my mind to that. I suppose it will never cometo anything, but I shall stick to it. I can live an old bachelor aswell as another man. At any rate I shall stick to it." Then the goodsilly old woman comforted him and applauded him as though he were ahero among men, and did reward him, as Lily had predicted, by one ofthose now rare bottles of superexcellent port which had come to herfrom her brother's cellar.

  John Eames stayed out his time at the cottage, and went over morethan once again to Allington, and called on the squire, on oneoccasion dining with him and meeting the three ladies from the SmallHouse; and he walked with the girls, comporting himself like anyordinary man. But he was not again alone with Lily Dale, nor did helearn whether she had in truth written those two words in her book.But the reader may know that she did write them there on the eveningof the day on which the promise was made. "Lilian Dale,--Old Maid."

  And when John's holiday was over, he returned to his duties at theelbow of Sir Raffle Buffle.