‘And Goody Tilbury’s red cloak!’ cried Alma, smiling. ‘And the scowl of Summerhayes the grocer, and the good. Bishop’s blessing!’
‘Ah, but after all the life was a gentle one till I destroyed it. The poor souls loved me, till I became too much for them. And then, Alma, the days with you! Your first coming, like a ministering angel, to make this sordid earth seem like a heavenly dream! To-day, dearest, it almost seems as if my heaven was behind, and not before, me! I should like to live those blissful moments over again—every one!’
Alma laughed outright, for she had a vivid remembrance of her friend’s infinite vexations as a country clergyman.
‘That’s right,’ he said, smiling fondly; ‘laugh at me, if you please, but I am quite serious in what I say. Here, in the great world of London, though we see so much of one another, we do not seem quite so closely united as we did yonder.’
‘Not so united!’ she cried, all her sweet face clouded in a moment.
‘Well, united as before, but differently. In the constant storm and stress of my occupation, there is not the same pastoral consecration.
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
In those days, dearest,’ he added, sinking his voice to a whisper, ‘we used to speak oftener of love, we used to dream—did we not?—of being man and wife.’
She drooped her gentle eyes, which had been fixed upon him earnestly, and coloured softly; then, with a pretty touch of coquetry, laughed again.