Dale held her brother-in-law in no awe, and sometimes gave to the widow from Guestwick advice quite at variance to that given by the squire.  In this way there had grown up an intimacy between Bell and Lily and the young Eames, and either of the girls was prepared to declare that Johnny Eames was her own and well-loved friend.  Nevertheless, they spoke of him occasionally with some little dash of merriment,—­as is not unusual with pretty girls who have hobbledehoys among their intimate friends, and who are not themselves unaccustomed to the grace of an Apollo.

I may as well announce at once that John Eames, when he went up to London, was absolutely and irretrievably in love with Lily Dale.  He had declared his passion in the most moving language a hundred times; but he had declared it only to himself.  He had written much poetry about Lily, but he kept his lines safe under double lock and key.  When he gave the reins to his imagination, he flattered himself that he might win not only her but the world at large also by his verses; but he would have perished rather than exhibit them to human eye.  During the last ten weeks of his life at Guestwick, while he was preparing for his career in London, he hung about Allington, walking over frequently and then walking back again; but all in vain.  During these visits he would sit in Mrs Dale’s drawing-room, speaking but little, and addressing himself usually to the mother; but on each occasion, as he started on his long, hot walk, he resolved that he would say something by which Lily might know of his love.  When he left for London that something had not been said.

He had not dreamed of asking her to be his wife.  John Eames was about to begin the world with eighty pounds a year, and an allowance of twenty more from his mother’s purse.  He was well aware that with such an income he could not establish himself as a married man in London, and he also felt that the man who might be fortunate enough to win Lily for his wife should be prepared to give her every soft luxury that the world could afford.  He knew well that he ought not to expect any assurance of Lily’s love; but, nevertheless, he thought it possible that he might give her an assurance of his love.  It would probably be in vain.  He had no real hope, unless when he was in one of those poetic moods.  He had acknowledged to himself, in some indistinct way, that he was no more than a hobbledehoy, awkward, silent, ungainly, with a face unfinished, as it were, or unripe.  All this he knew, and knew also that there were Apollos in the world who would be only too ready to carry off Lily in their splendid cars.  But not the less did he make up his mind that having loved her once, it behoved him, as a true man, to love her on to the end.

One little word he had said to her when they parted, but it had been a word of friendship rather than of love.  He had strayed out after her on to the lawn, leaving Bell alone in the drawing-room.  Perhaps Lily had understood something of the boy’s feelings, and had wished to speak kindly to him at parting, or almost more than kindly.  There is a silent love which women recognise, and which in some silent way they acknowledge,—­giving gracious but silent thanks for the respect which accompanies it.