’I have thought a great deal about it, mother,
and I believe I am right. Whether I am right
or wrong, I shall do it. I will not ask you now
for any promise or pledge; but should Miss Crawley
become my wife, I hope that you at least will not
refuse to see her as your daughter.’ Having
so spoken, he kissed his mother, and was about to leave
the room; but she held him by his arm, and he saw
that her eyes were full of tears. ‘Dearest
mother, if I grieve you I am sorry indeed.’
‘Not me, not me, not me,’ she said.
’For my father, I cannot help it. Had
he not threatened me I should have told him also.
As he has done so, you must tell him. But give
him my kindest love.’
’Oh, Henry; you will be ruined. You will,
indeed. Can you not wait? Remember how
headstrong your father is, and how good;—and
how he loves you! Think of all he that he has
done for you. When did he refuse you anything?’
’He has been good to me, but in this I cannot
obey him. He should not ask me.’
’You are wrong. You are indeed.
He has a right to expect that you will not bring disgrace
upon the family.’
’Nor will I;—except such disgrace
as shall attend upon poverty. Good-bye, mother.
I wish you could have said one kind word to me.’
‘Have I not said a kind word?’
’I would not for the world speak unkindly to
you. If it were not for your father I would
bid you bring whom you pleased home to me as your
wife; and I would be as a mother to her. And if
this girl should become your wife—’
‘It shall not be my fault if she does not.’
‘I will try to love her—some day.’
Then the major went, leaving Edith at the rectory,
as requested by his mother. His own dog-cart
and servant were at Plumstead, and he drove himself
home to Cosby Lodge.
When the archdeacon returned the news was told to
him at once. ’Henry has gone to Allington
to propose to Miss Crawley,’ said Mrs Grantly.
‘Gone—without speaking to me!’
’He left his love, and said that it was useless
remaining, as he knew he should only offend you.’
‘He has made his bed, and he must lie upon it,’
said the archdeacon. And then there was not another
word said about Grace Crawley on that occasion.
MISS LILY DALE’S RESOLUTION
The ladies at the Small House at Allington breakfasted
always at nine—a liberal nine; and the
postman whose duty it was to deliver letters in that
village at half-past eight, being also liberal in his
ideas as to time, always arrived punctually in the
middle of breakfast, so that Mrs Dale expected her
letters, and Lily hers, just before the second cup
of tea, as though the letters formed a part of the
morning meal. Jane, the maidservant, always brought
them in, and handed them to Mrs Dale—for
