“Yes,” said Bell; “we knew that you would be glad to hear of her happiness.”
“Indeed, I am glad; and thoroughly hope that she may be happy. You all like him, do you not?”
“We like him very much.”
“And I am told that he is well off. He is a very fortunate man—very fortunate—very fortunate.”
“Of course we think so,” said Bell. “Not, however, because he is rich.”
“No; not because he is rich. But because, being worthy of such happiness, his circumstances should enable him to marry, and to enjoy it.”
“Yes, exactly,” said Bell. “That is just it.” Then she sat down, and in sitting down put an end to the conversation. “That is just it,” she had said. But as soon as the words were spoken she declared to herself that it was not so, and that Crofts was wrong. “We love him,” she said to herself, “not because he is rich enough to marry without anxious thought, but because he dares to marry although he is not rich.” And then she told herself that she was angry with the doctor.
After that Dr. Crofts got off towards the door, and stood there by himself, leaning against the wall, with the thumbs of both his hands stuck into the armholes of his waistcoat. People said that he was a shy man. I suppose he was shy, and yet he was a man that was by no means afraid of doing anything that he had to do. He could speak before a multitude without being abashed, whether it was a multitude of men or of women. He could be very fixed too in his own opinion, and eager, if not violent, in the prosecution of his purpose. But he could not stand and say little words, when he had in truth nothing to say. He could not keep his ground when he felt that he was not using the ground upon which he stood. He had not learned the art of assuming himself to be of importance in whatever place he might find himself. It was this art which Crosbie had learned, and by this art that he had flourished. So Crofts retired and leaned against the wall near the door; and Crosbie came forward and shone like an Apollo among all the guests. “How is it that he does it?” said John Eames to himself, envying the perfect happiness of the London man of fashion.
At last Lily got the dancers out upon the lawn, and then they managed to go through one quadrille. But it was found that it did not answer. The music of the single fiddle which Crosbie had hired from Guestwick was not sufficient for the purpose; and then the grass, though it was perfect for purposes of croquet, was not pleasant to the feet for dancing.
“This is very nice,” said Bernard to his cousin. “I don’t know anything that could be nicer; but perhaps—”
“I know what you mean,” said Lily. “But I shall stay here. There’s no touch of romance about any of you. Look at the moon there at the back of the steeple. I don’t mean to go in all night.” Then she walked off by one of the paths, and her lover went after her.
“Don’t you like the moon?” she said, as she took his arm, to which she was now so accustomed that she hardly thought of it as she took it.
“Like the moon?—well; I fancy I like the sun better. I don’t quite believe in moonlight. I think it does best to talk about when one wants to be sentimental.”
“Ah; that is just what I fear. That is what I say to Bell when I tell her that her romance will fade as the roses do. And then I shall have to learn that prose is more serviceable than poetry, and that the mind is better than the heart, and—and that money is better than love. It’s all coming, I know; and yet I do like the moonlight.”
“And the poetry—and the love?”
“Yes. The poetry much, and the love more. To be loved by you is sweeter even than any of my dreams—is better than all the poetry I have read.”
“Dearest Lily,” and his unchecked arm stole round her waist.
“It is the meaning of the moonlight, and the essence of the poetry,” continued the impassioned girl. “I did not know then why I liked such things, but now I know. It was because I longed to be loved.”
“And to love.”
“Oh, yes. I would be nothing without that. But that, you know, is your delight—or should be. The other is mine. And yet it is a delight to love you; to know that I may love you.”
“You mean that this is the realization of your romance.”
“Yes; but it must not be the end of it, Adolphus. You must like the soft twilight, and the long evenings when we shall be alone; and you must read to me the books I love, and you must not teach me to think that the world is hard, and dry, and cruel—not yet. I tell Bell so very often; but you must not say so to me.”
“It shall not be dry and cruel, if I can prevent it.”
“You understand what I mean, dearest. I will not think it dry and cruel, even though sorrow should come upon us, if you—I think you know what I mean.”
“If I am good to you.”
“I am not afraid of that;—I am not the least afraid of that. You do not think that I could ever distrust you? But you must not be ashamed to look at the moonlight, and to read poetry, and to—”
“To talk nonsense, you mean.”
But as he said it, he pressed her closer to his side, and his tone was pleasant to her.
“I suppose I’m talking nonsense now?” she said, pouting. “You liked me better when I was talking about the pigs; didn’t you?”
“No; I like you best now.”
“And why didn’t you like me then? Did I say anything to
