own
Thornes of Ullathorne in the eastern division. Here they live
respected by their neighbours, and on terms of alliance both with
the Duke of Omnium and with Lady Lufton. "Of course those dear old
avenues will be very sad to me," said Mrs. Harold Smith, when at the
end of a London season she was invited down to Chaldicotes; and as
she spoke she put her handkerchief up to her eyes.

"Well, dear, what can I do?" said Mrs. Thorne. "I can't cut them
down; the doctor would not let me."

"Oh, no," said Mrs. Harold Smith, sighing; and in spite of her
feeling she did visit Chaldicotes.

But it was October before Lord Lufton was made a happy man;--that
is, if the fruition of his happiness was a greater joy than the
anticipation of it. I will not say that the happiness of marriage is
like the Dead Sea fruit--an apple which, when eaten, turns to bitter
ashes in the mouth. Such pretended sarcasm would be very false.
Nevertheless, is it not the fact that the sweetest morsel of love's
feast has been eaten, that the freshest, fairest blush of the flower
has been snatched and has passed away, when the ceremony at the altar
has been performed, and legal possession has been given? There is an
aroma of love, an undefinable delicacy of flavour, which escapes and
is gone before the church portal is left, vanishing with the maiden
name, and incompatible with the solid comfort appertaining to the
rank of wife. To love one's own spouse, and to be loved by her, is
the ordinary lot of man, and is a duty exacted under penalties. But
to be allowed to love youth and beauty that is not one's own--to know
that one is loved by a soft being who still hangs cowering from the
eye of the world as though her love were all but illicit--can it be
that a man is made happy when a state of anticipation such as this is
brought to a close? No; when the husband walks back from the altar,
he has already swallowed the choicest dainties of his banquet. The
beef and pudding of married life are then in store for him;--or
perhaps only the bread and cheese. Let him take care lest hardly a
crust remain--or perhaps not a crust. But before we finish, let us go
back for one moment to the dainties--to the time before the beef and
pudding were served--while Lucy was still at the parsonage, and Lord
Lufton still staying at Framley Court. He had come up one morning, as
was now frequently his wont, and, after a few minutes' conversation,
Mrs. Robarts had left the room--as n