Courcy castle, October, 186—.

   Dearest Lily,—­

This is the first letter I ever wrote to you, except those little notes when I sent you my compliments discreetly, —­and it sounds so odd.  You will think that this does not come as soon as it should; but the truth is that after all I only got in here just before dinner yesterday.  I stayed ever so long at Barchester, and came across such a queer character.  For you must know I went to church, and afterwards fraternised with the clergyman who did the service; such a gentle old soul,—­and, singularly enough, he is the grandfather of Lady Dumbello, who is staying here.  I wonder what you’d think of Lady Dumbello, or how you’d like to be shut up in the same house with her for a week?

But with reference to my staying at Barchester, I must tell you the truth now, though I was a gross impostor the day that I went away.  I wanted to avoid a parting on that last morning, and therefore I started much sooner than I need have done.  I know you will be very angry with me; but open confession is good for the soul.  You frustrated all my little plan by your early rising; and as I saw you standing on the terrace, looking after us as we went, I acknowledged that you had been right, and that I was wrong.  When the time came, I was very glad to have you with me at the last moment.

My own dearest Lily, you cannot think how different this place is from the two houses at Allington, or how much I prefer the sort of life which belongs to the latter.  I know that I have been what the world calls worldly, but you will have to cure me of that.  I have questioned myself very much since I left you, and I do not think that I am quite beyond the reach of a cure.  At any rate, I will put myself trustingly into the doctor’s hands.  I know it is hard for a man to change his habits; but I can with truth say this for myself, that I was happy at Allington, enjoying every hour of the day, and that here I am ennuye by everybody and nearly by everything.  One of the girls of the house I do like; but as to other people, I can hardly find a companion among them, let alone a friend.  However, it would not have done for me to have broken away from all such alliance too suddenly.

When I get up to London—­and now I really am anxious to get there—­I can write to you more at my ease, and more freely than I do here.  I know that I am hardly myself among these people,—­or rather, I am hardly myself as you know me, and as I hope you always will know me.  But, nevertheless, I am not so overcome by the miasma but what I can tell you how truly I love you.  Even though my spirit should be here, which it is not, my heart would be on the Allington lawns.  That dear lawn and that dear bridge!

Give my kind love to Bell and your mother.  I feel already that I might almost say my mother.  And Lily, my darling, write to me at once.  I expect your letters to me to be longer, and better, and brighter than mine to you.  But I will endeavour to make mine nicer when I get back to town.

   God bless you.  Yours, with all my heart,