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Lord Lynedale came to my cousin's rooms next day George told me plainly that he made friends with those who would advance him when he was a clergyman and taking an interest in a self-educated author, bade me bring my poems to the Eagle and ask for Dean Winnstay. Lord Lynedale was to marry Dean Winnstay's niece.
No; at another place there is not a dean, true but a canon, or an archdeacon-something of that kind; and he has a pretty daughter, really; and his name begins not with W, but with Y; well, that's the last letter of Winnstay, if it is not the first: that must be the poor man! What a shame to have exposed his family secrets in that way!"
Then, at one of those places, they find there is dean not of the name of Winnstay, true "but his name begins with a W; and he has a pretty daughter no, a niece; well, that's very near it; it must be him.
"At all events," said Lord Lynedale, "a self-educated author is always interesting. Bring any of your poems, that you have with you, to the Eagle this afternoon, and leave them there for Dean Winnstay; and to-morrow morning, if you have nothing better to do, call there between ten and eleven o'clock."
After this, I had an invitation to tea in Lillian's own hand, and then came terrible news that Lord Ellerton had been killed by a fall from his horse, and that the dean and Miss Winnstay had left London; and for three years I saw them no more. What happened in those three years? Mackaye had warned me not to follow after vanity.
Lord Ellerton dead! and Lillian gone too! Something whispered that I should have cause to remember that day. My heart sunk within me. When should I see her again? That day was the 1st of June, 1845. On the 10th of April, 1848, I saw Lillian Winnstay again. Dare I write my history between those two points of time?
What could be the matter? It was full ten minutes before the door was opened; and then, at last, an old woman, her eyes red with weeping, made her appearance. My thoughts flew instantly to Lillian something must have befallen her. I gasped out her name first, and then, recollecting myself, asked for the dean. "They had all left town that morning," "Miss Miss Winnstay is she ill?" "No."
Week after week, month after month, summer after summer, I scored the days off, like a lonely schoolboy, on the pages of a calendar. Not till I was released did I learn from Sandy Mackaye that my cousin George was the vicar of his church, and that he was about to marry Lillian Winnstay. IV. In Exile