Lily had evidently intended to return home through
the front door; but she changed her purpose before
she reached the house, and made her way slowly back
through the churchyard, and by the gate of the Great
House, and by the garden at the back of it, till she
crossed the little bridge. But on the bridge
she rested awhile, leaning against the railing as
she had often leant with him, and thinking of all
that had passed since that July day on which she had
first met him. On no spot had he so often told
her of his love as on this, and nowhere had she so
eagerly sworn to him that she would be his own dutiful
loving wife.
“And by God’s help so I will,” she
said to herself, as she walked firmly up to the house.
“He has gone, mamma,” she said, as she
entered the breakfast-room. “And now we’ll
go back to our work-a-day ways; it has been all Sunday
for me for the last six weeks.”
Mr Crosbie Meets an Old Clergyman on His Way to Courcy
Castle
For the first mile or two of their journey Crosbie
and Bernard Dale sat, for the most part, silent in
their gig. Lily, as she ran down to the churchyard
corner and stood there looking after them with her
loving eyes, had not been seen by them. But the
spirit of her devotion was still strong upon them
both, and they felt that it would not be well to strike
at once into any ordinary topic of conversation.
And, moreover, we may presume that Crosbie did feel
much at thus parting from such a girl as Lily Dale,
with whom he had lived in close intercourse for the
last six weeks, and whom he loved with all his heart,—with
all the heart that he had for such purposes.
In those doubts as to his marriage which had troubled
him he had never expressed to himself any disapproval
of Lily. He had not taught himself to think that
she was other than he would have her be, that he might
thus give himself an excuse for parting from her.
Not as yet, at any rate, had he had recourse to that
practice, so common with men who wish to free themselves
from the bonds with which they have permitted themselves
to be bound. Lily had been too sweet to his eyes,
to his touch, to all his senses for that. He had
enjoyed too keenly the pleasure of being with her,
and of hearing her tell him that she loved him, to
allow of his being personally tired of her. He
had not been so spoilt by his club life but that he
had taken exquisite pleasure in all her nice country
ways, and soft, kind-hearted, womanly humour.
He was by no means tired of Lily. Better than
any of his London pleasures was this pleasure of making
love in the green fields to Lily Dale. It was
the consequences of it that affrighted him. Babies
with their belongings would come; and dull evenings,
over a dull fire, or else the pining grief of a disappointed
woman. He would be driven to be careful as to
his clothes, because the ordering of a new coat would
entail a serious expenditure. He could go no
