John Eames stayed out his time at the cottage, and
went over more than once again to Allington, and called
on the squire, on one occasion dining with him and
meeting the three ladies from the Small House; and
he walked with the girls, comporting himself like any
ordinary man. But he was not again alone with
Lily Dale, nor did he learn whether she had in truth
written those two words in her book. But the reader
may be know that she did write them there on the evening
of 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 the elbow of Sir Raffle Buffle.
GRACE CRAWLEY RETURNS HOME
About this time Grace Crawley received two letters,
the first of them reaching her while John Eames was
still at the cottage, and the other immediately after
his return to London. They both help to tell our
story, and our reader shall, therefore, read them if
he so please—or, rather, he shall read
the first and as much of the second as is necessary
for him. Grace’s answer to the first letter
he shall see also. Her answer to the second will
be told in a very few words. The first was from
Major Grantly, and the task of answering that was by
no means easy for Grace.
’Cosby Lodge,—February,
186-
’I told you when I parted from you, that I should
write to you, and I think it best to do so at once,
in order that you may fully understand me. Spoken
words are soon forgotten,’—’I
shall never forget his words,’ Grace had said
to herself as she read this;—’and
are not always as plain as they might be. Dear
Grace, I suppose I ought not to say so, but I fancied
when I parted from you at Allington, that I had succeeded
in making myself dear to you. I believe you to
be so true in spirit, that you were unable to conceal
from me the fact that you love me. I shall believe
that it is so, till I am deliberately and solemnly
assured by yourself that it is not so;—and
I conjure you to think what is due both to yourself
and to myself, before you allow yourself to think
of making such an assurance unless it be strictly
true.
’I have already told my friends that I have
asked you to be my wife. I tell you this, in
order that you may know how little effect your answer
to me has had towards inducing me to give you up.
What you said about your father and your family has
no weight with me, and ought ultimately to have none
with you. This business of your father’s
great misfortune—so great, that probably,
had we not known each other before it happened, it
might have prevented our becoming intimate when we
chanced to meet. But we had met before it happened,
and before it happened I had determined to ask you
to be my wife. What should I have to think of
myself if I allowed my heart to be altered by such
a cause as that?
