She did not get very much sympathy from her own family.  “I’m afraid he does not think much of his religious duties.  I’m told that young men of that sort seldom do,” said Rosina.  “I don’t say you’re wrong,” said Margaretta.  “By no means.  Indeed I think less of it now than I did when Amelia did the same thing.  I shouldn’t do it myself, that’s all.”  Her father told her that he supposed she knew her own mind.  Her mother, who endeavoured to comfort and in some sort to congratulate her, nevertheless, harped constantly on the fact that she was marrying a man without rank and without a fortune.  Her congratulations were apologetic, and her comfortings took the guise of consolation.  “Of course you won’t be rich, my dear; but I really think you’ll do very well.  Mr Crosbie may be received anywhere, and you never need be ashamed of him.”  By which the countess implied that her elder married daughter was occasionally called on to be ashamed of her husband.  “I wish he could keep a carriage for you, but perhaps that will come some day.”  Upon the whole Alexandrina did not repent, and stoutly told her father that she did know her own mind.

During all this time Lily Dale was as yet perfect in her happiness.  That delay of a day or two in the receipt of the expected letter from her lover had not disquieted her.  She had promised him that she would not distrust him, and she was firmly minded to keep her promises.  Indeed no idea of breaking it came to her at this time.  She was disappointed when the postman would come and bring no letter for her,—­disappointed, as the husbandman when the longed-for rain does not come to refresh the parched earth; but she was in no degree angry.  “He will explain it,” she said to herself.  And she assured Bell that men never recognised the hunger and thirst after letters which women feel when away from those whom they love.

Then they heard at the Small House that the squire had gone away from Allington.  During the last few days Bernard had not been much with them, and now they heard the news, not through their cousin, but from Hopkins.  “I really can’t undertake to say, Miss Bell, where the master’s gone to.  It’s not likely the master’d tell me where he was going to; not unless it was about seeds, or the likes of that.”

“He has gone very suddenly,” said Bell.

“Well, miss, I’ve nothing to say to that.  And why shouldn’t he go sudden if he likes?  I only know he had his gig, and went to the station.  If you was to bury me alive I couldn’t tell you more.”

“I should like to try,” said Lily as they walked away.  “He is such a cross old thing.  I wonder whether Bernard has gone with my uncle.”  And then they thought no more about it.

On the day after that Bernard came down to the Small House, but he said nothing by way of accounting for the squire’s absence.  “He is in London, I know,” said Bernard.

“I hope he’ll call on Mr Crosbie,” said Lily.  But on this subject Bernard said not a word.  He did ask Lily whether she had heard from Adolphus, in answer to which she replied, with as indifferent a voice as she could assume, that she had not had a letter that morning.