MISS LILY DALE'S RESOLUTION.
[Illustration]
The ladies at the Small House at Allington breakfasted always at
nine,--a liberal nine; and the postman whose duty it was to deliver
letters in that village at half-past eight, being also liberal in
his ideas as to time, always arrived punctually in the middle of
breakfast, so that Mrs. Dale expected her letters, and Lily hers,
just before their second cup of tea, as though the letters formed
a part of the morning meal. Jane, the maid-servant, always brought
them in, and handed them to Mrs. Dale,--for Lily had in these days
come to preside at the breakfast-table; and then there would be an
examination of the outsides before the envelopes were violated, and
as each knew pretty well all the circumstances of the correspondence
of the other, there would be some guessing as to what this or that
epistle might contain; and after that a reading out loud of passages,
and not unfrequently of the entire letter. But now, at the time
of which I am speaking, Grace Crawley was at the Small House, and
therefore the common practice was somewhat in abeyance.
On one of the first days of the new year Jane brought in the letters
as usual, and handed them to Mrs. Dale. Lily was at the time occupied
with the teapot, but still she saw the letters, and had not her hands
so full as to be debarred from the expression of her usual anxiety.
"Mamma, I'm sure I see two there for me," she said. "Only one for
you, Lily," said Mrs. Dale. Lily instantly knew from the tone of
the voice that some letter had come, which by the very aspect of
the handwriting had disturbed her mother. "There is one for you, my
dear," said Mrs. Dale, throwing a letter across the table to Grace.
"And one for you, Lily, from Bell. The others are for me." "And whom
are yours from, mamma?" asked Lily. "One is from Mrs. Jones; the
other, I think, is a letter on business." Then Lily said nothing
further, but she observed that her mother only opened one of her
letters at the breakfast-table. Lily was very patient;--not by
nature, I think, but by exercise and practice. She had, once in
her life, been too much in a hurry; and having then burned herself
grievously, she now feared the fire. She did not therefore follow her
mother after breakfast, but sat with Grace over the fire, hemming
diligently at certain articles of clothing which were intended for
use in the Hogglestock parsonage. The two girls were making a set of
new shirts for Mr. Crawley. "But I know he will ask where they come
from," said Grace; "and then mamma will be scolded." "But I hope
he'll wear them," said Lily. "Sooner or later he will," said Grace;
"because mamma manages generally to have her way at last." Then
they went on for an hour or so, talking about the home affairs at
Hogglestock. But during the whole time Lily's mind was intent upon
her mother's letter.
Nothing was said about it at lunch, and nothing when they walked out
after lunch, for Lily was very patient. But during the walk Mrs. Dale
became aware that her daughter was uneasy. These two watched each
other unconsciously with a closeness which hardly allowed a glance of
the eye, certainly not a tone of the voice, to pass unobserved. To
Mrs. Dale it was everything in the world that her daughter should be,
if not happy at heart, at least tranquil; and to Lily, who knew that
her mother was always thinking of her, and of her alone, her mother
was the only human divinity now worthy of adoration. But nothing was
said about the letter during the walk.
When they came home it was nearly dusk, and it was their habit to
sit up for a while without candles, talking, till the evening had in
truth set in and the unmistakable and enforced idleness of remaining
without candles was apparent. During this time, Lily, demanding
patience of herself all the while, was thinking what she would do, or
rather what she would say, about the letter. That nothing could be
done or said in the presence of Grace Crawley was a matter of course,
nor would she do or say anything to get rid of Grace. She would be
very patient; but she would, at last, ask her mother about the
letter.
And then, as luck would have it, Grace Crawley got up and left the
room. Lily still waited for a few minutes, and, in order that her
patience might be thoroughly exercised, she said a word or two about
her sister Bell; how the eldest child's whooping-cough was nearly
well, and how the baby was doing wonderful things with its first
tooth. But as Mrs. Dale had already seen Bell's letter, all this was
not intensely interesting. At last Lily came to the point and asked
her question. "Mamma, from whom was that other letter which you got
this morning?"
Our story will perhaps be best told by communicating the letter to
the reader before it was discussed with Lily. The letter was as
follows:--
General Committee Office, -- January, 186--.
I should have said that Mrs. Dale had not opened the letter till she
had found herself in the solitude of her own bedroom; and that then,
before doing so, she had examined the handwriting with anxious eyes.
When she first received it she thought she knew the writer, but was
not sure. Then she had glanced at the impression over the fastening,
and had known at once from whom the letter had come. It was from Mr.
Crosbie, the man who had brought so much trouble into her house, who
had jilted her daughter; the only man in the world whom she had a
right to regard as a positive enemy to herself. She had no doubt
about it, as she tore the envelope open; and yet, when the address
given made her quite sure, a new feeling of shivering came upon her,
and she asked herself whether it might not be better that she should
send his letter back to him without reading it. But she read it.
"MADAM," the letter began,--
You will be very much surprised to hear from me, and I
am quite aware that I am not entitled to the ordinary
courtesy of an acknowledgment from you, should you be
pleased to throw my letter on one side as unworthy of your
notice. But I cannot refrain from addressing you, and must
leave it to you to reply to me or not, as you may think
fit.
I will only refer to that episode of my life with which
you are acquainted, for the sake of acknowledging my great
fault and of assuring you that I did not go unpunished. It
would be useless for me now to attempt to explain to you
the circumstances which led me into that difficulty which
ended in so great a blunder; but I will ask you to believe
that my folly was greater than my sin.
But I will come to my point at once. You are, no doubt,
aware that I married a daughter of Lord De Courcy, and
that I was separated from my wife a few weeks after our
unfortunate marriage. It is now something over twelve
months since she died at Baden-Baden in her mother's
house. I never saw her since the day we first parted. I
have not a word to say against her. The fault was mine in
marrying a woman whom I did not love and had never loved.
When I married Lady Alexandrina I loved, not her, but your
daughter.
I believe I may venture to say to you that your daughter
once loved me. From the day on which I last wrote to you
that terrible letter which told you of my fate, I have
never mentioned the name of Lily Dale to human ears. It
has been too sacred for my mouth,--too sacred for the
intercourse of any friendship with which I have been
blessed. I now use it for the first time to you, in order
that I may ask whether it be possible that her old love
should ever live again. Mine has lived always,--has never
faded for an hour, making me miserable during the years
that have passed since I saw her, but capable of making me
very happy, if I may be allowed to see her again.
You will understand my purpose now as well as though I
were to write pages. I have no scheme formed in my head
for seeing your daughter again. How can I dare to form a
scheme, when I am aware that the chance of success must be
so strong against me? But if you will tell me that there
can be a gleam of hope, I will obey any commands that
you can put upon me in any way that you may point out. I
am free again,--and she is free. I love her with all my
heart, and seem to long for nothing in the world but that
she should become my wife. Whether any of her old love may
still abide with her, you will know. If it do, it may even
yet prompt her to forgive one who, in spite of falseness
of conduct, has yet been true to her in heart.
I have the honour to be, Madam,
Your most obedient servant,
ADOLPHUS CROSBIE.
This was the letter which Mrs. Dale had received, and as to which she
had not as yet said a word to Lily, or even made up her mind whether
she would say a word or not. Dearly as the mother and daughter loved
each other, thorough as was the confidence between them, yet the
name of Adolphus Crosbie had not been mentioned between them oftener,
perhaps, than half-a-dozen times since the blow had been struck.
Mrs. Dale knew that their feelings about the man were altogether
different. She, herself, not only condemned him for what he had done,
believing it to be impossible that any shadow of excuse could be
urged for his offence, thinking that the fault had shown the man to
be mean beyond redemption,--but she had allowed herself actually to
hate him. He had in one sense murdered her daughter, and she believed
that she could never forgive him. But Lily, as her mother well knew,
had forgiven this man altogether, had made excuses for him which
cleansed his sin of all its blackness in her own eyes, and was to
this day anxious as ever for his welfare and his happiness. Mrs. Dale
feared that Lily did in truth love him still. If it was so, was she
not bound to show her this letter? Lily was old enough to judge for
herself,--old enough, and wise enough too. Mrs. Dale told herself
half-a-score of times that morning that she could not be justified in
keeping the letter from her daughter.
But yet she much wished that the letter had never been written,
and would have given very much to be able to put it out of the way
without injustice to Lily. To her thinking it would be impossible
that Lily should be happy in marrying such a man. Such a marriage
now would be, as Mrs. Dale thought, a degradation to her daughter.
A terrible injury had been done to her; but such reparation as this
would, in Mrs. Dale's eyes, only make the injury deeper. And yet Lily
loved the man; and, loving him, how could she resist the temptation
of his offer? "Mamma, from whom was that letter which you got this
morning?" Lily asked. For a few moments Mrs. Dale remained silent.
"Mamma," continued Lily, "I think I know whom it was from. If you
tell me to ask nothing further, of course I will not."
"No, Lily; I cannot tell you that."
"Then, mamma, out with it at once. What is the use of shivering on
the brink?"
"It was from Mr. Crosbie."
"I knew it. I cannot tell you why, but I knew it. And now, mamma;--am
I to read it?"
"You shall do as you please, Lily."
"Then I please to read it."
"Listen to me a moment first. For myself, I wish that the letter had
never been written. It tells badly for the man, as I think of it. I
cannot understand how any man could have brought himself to address
either you or me, after having acted as he acted."
"But, mamma, we differ about all that, you know."
"Now he has written, and there is the letter,--if you choose to read
it."
Lily had it in her hand, but she still sat motionless, holding it.
"You think, mamma, I ought not to read it?"
"You must judge for yourself, dearest."
"And if I do not read it, what shall you do, mamma?"
"I shall do nothing;--or, perhaps, I should in such a case
acknowledge it, and tell him that we have nothing more to say to
him."
"That would be very stern."
"He has done that which makes some sternness necessary."
Then Lily was again silent, and still she sat motionless, with the
letter in her hand. "Mamma," she said, at last, "if you tell me not
to read it, I will give it you back unread. If you bid me exercise my
own judgment, I shall take it upstairs and read it."
"You must exercise your own judgment," said Mrs. Dale. Then Lily got
up from her chair and walked slowly out of the room, and went to her
mother's chamber. The thoughts which passed through Mrs. Dale's mind
while her daughter was reading the letter were very sad. She could
find no comfort anywhere. Lily, she told herself, would surely give
way to this man's renewed expressions of affection, and she, Mrs.
Dale herself, would be called upon to give her child to a man whom
she could neither love nor respect;--whom, for aught she knew, she
could never cease to hate. And she could not bring herself to believe
that Lily would be happy with such a man. As for her own life,
desolate as it would be,--she cared little for that. Mothers know
that their daughters will leave them. Even widowed mothers, mothers
with but one child left,--such a one as was this mother,--are aware
that they will be left alone, and they can bring themselves to
welcome the sacrifice of themselves with something of satisfaction.
Mrs. Dale and Lily had, indeed, of late become bound together
especially, so that the mother had been justified in regarding the
link which joined them as being firmer than that by which most
daughters are bound to their mothers;--but in all that she would have
found no regret. Even now, in these very days, she was hoping that
Lily might yet be brought to give herself to John Eames. But she
could not, after all that was come and gone, be happy in thinking
that Lily should be given to Adolphus Crosbie.
When Mrs. Dale went upstairs to her own room before dinner Lily was
not there; nor were they alone together again that evening, except
for a moment, when Lily, as was usual, went into her mother's room
when she was undressing. But neither of them then said a word about
the letter. Lily during dinner and throughout the evening had borne
herself well, giving no sign of special emotion, keeping to herself
entirely her own thoughts about the proposition made to her. And
afterwards she had progressed diligently with the fabrication of Mr.
Crawley's shirts, as though she had no such letter in her pocket. And
yet there was not a moment in which she was not thinking of it. To
Grace, just before she went to bed, she did say one word. "I wonder
whether it can ever come to a person to be so placed that there can
be no doing right, let what will be done;--that, do or not do, as you
may, it must be wrong?"
"I hope you are not in such a condition," said Grace.
"I am something near it," said Lily, "but perhaps if I look long
enough I shall see the light."
"I hope it will be a happy light at last," said Grace, who thought
that Lily was referring only to John Eames.
At noon on the next day Lily had still said nothing to her mother
about the letter; and then what she said was very little. "When must
you answer Mr. Crosbie, mamma?"
"When, my dear?"
"I mean how long may you take? It need not be to-day."
"No;--certainly not to-day."
"Then I will talk over it with you to-morrow. It wants some
thinking;--does it not, mamma?"
"It would not want much with me, Lily."
"But then, mamma, you are not I. Believing as I believe, feeling as
I feel, it wants some thinking. That's what I mean."
"I wish I could help you, my dear."
"You shall help me,--to-morrow." The morrow came and Lily was still
very patient; but she had prepared herself, and had prepared the time
also, so that in the hour of the gloaming she was alone with her
mother, and sure that she might remain alone with her for an hour or
so. "Mamma, sit there," she said; "I will sit down here, and then I
can lean against you and be comfortable. You can bear as much of me
as that,--can't you, mamma?" Then Mrs. Dale put her arm over Lily's
shoulder, and embraced her daughter. "And now, mamma, we will talk
about this wonderful letter."
"I do not know, dear, that I have anything to say about it."
"But you must have something to say about it, mamma. You must bring
yourself to have something to say,--to have a great deal to say."
"You know what I think as well as though I talked for a week."
"That won't do, mamma. Come, you must not be hard with me."
"Hard, Lily!"
"I don't mean that you will hurt me, or not give me any food,--or
that you will not go on caring about me more than anything else in
the whole world ten times over;--" And Lily as she spoke tightened
the embrace of her mother's arm round her neck. "I'm not afraid
you'll be hard in that way. But you must soften your heart so as to
be able to mention his name and talk about him, and tell me what I
ought to do. You must see with my eyes, and hear with my ears, and
feel with my heart;--and then, when I know that you have done that,
I must judge with your judgment."
"I wish you to use your own."
"Yes;--because you won't see with my eyes and hear with my ears.
That's what I call being hard. Though you should feed me with blood
from your breast, I should call you a hard pelican, unless you could
give me also the sympathy which I demand from you. You see, mamma, we
have never allowed ourselves to speak of this man."
"What need has there been, dearest?"
"Only because we have been thinking of him. Out of the full heart the
mouth speaketh;--that is, the mouth does so when the full heart is
allowed to have its own way comfortably."
"There are things which should be forgotten."
"Forgotten, mamma!"
"The memory of which should not be fostered by much talking."
"I have never blamed you, mamma; never, even in my heart. I have
known how good and gracious and sweet you have been. But I have often
accused myself of cowardice because I have not allowed his name to
cross my lips either to you or to Bell. To talk of forgetting such an
accident as that is a farce. And as for fostering the memory of it--!
Do you think that I have ever spent a night from that time to this
without thinking of him? Do you imagine that I have ever crossed
our own lawn, or gone down through the garden-path there, without
thinking of the times when he and I walked there together? There
needs no fostering for such memories as those. They are weeds which
will grow rank and strong though nothing be done to foster them.
There is the earth and the rain, and that is enough for them. You
cannot kill them if you would, and they certainly will not die
because you are careful not to hoe and rake the ground."
"Lily, you forget how short the time has been as yet."
"I have thought it very long; but the truth is, mamma, that this
non-fostering of memories, as you call it, has not been the real
cause of our silence. We have not spoken of Mr. Crosbie because we
have not thought alike about him. Had you spoken you would have
spoken with anger, and I could not endure to hear him abused. That
has been it."
"Partly so, Lily."
"Now you must talk of him, and you must not abuse him. We must talk
of him, because something must be done about his letter. Even if it
be left unanswered, it cannot be so left without discussion. And yet
you must say no evil of him."
"Am I to think that he behaved well?"
"No, mamma; you are not to think that; but you are to look upon his
fault as a fault that has been forgiven."
"It cannot be forgotten, dear."
"But, mamma, when you go to heaven--"
"My dear!"
"But you will go to heaven, mamma, and why should I not speak of it?
You will go to heaven, and yet I suppose you have been very wicked,
because we are all very wicked. But you won't be told of your
wickedness there. You won't be hated there, because you were this or
that when you were here."
"I hope not, Lily; but isn't your argument almost profane?"
"No; I don't think so. We ask to be forgiven just as we forgive. That
is the way in which we hope to be forgiven, and therefore it is the
way in which we ought to forgive. When you say that prayer at night,
mamma, do you ever ask yourself whether you have forgiven him?"
"I forgive him as far as humanity can forgive. I would do him no
injury."
"But if you and I are forgiven only after that fashion we shall never
get to heaven." Lily paused for some further answer from her mother,
but as Mrs. Dale was silent she allowed that portion of the subject
to pass as completed. "And now, mamma, what answer do you think we
ought to send to his letter?"
"My dear, how am I to say? You know I have said already that if I
could act on my own judgment, I would send none."
"But that was said in the bitterness of gall."
"Come, Lily, say what you think yourself. We shall get on better when
you have brought yourself to speak. Do you think that you wish to see
him again?"
"I don't know, mamma. Upon the whole, I think not."
"Then in heaven's name let me write and tell him so."
"Stop a moment, mamma. There are two persons here to be
considered,--or rather, three."
"I would not have you think of me in such a question."
"I know you would not; but never mind, and let me go on. The three of
us are concerned, at any rate; you, and he, and I. I am thinking of
him now. We have all suffered, but I do believe that hitherto he has
had the worst of it."
"And who has deserved the worst?"
"Mamma, how can you go back in that way? We have agreed that that
should be regarded as done and gone. He has been very unhappy, and
now we see what remedy he proposes to himself for his misery. Do I
flatter myself if I allow myself to look at it in that way?"
"Perhaps he thinks he is offering a remedy for your misery."
As this was said Lily turned round slowly and looked up into her
mother's face. "Mamma," she said, "that is very cruel. I did not
think you could be so cruel. How can you, who believe him to be so
selfish, think that?"
"It is very hard to judge of men's motives. I have never supposed him
to be so black that he would not wish to make atonement for the evil
he has done."
"If I thought that there certainly could be but one answer."
"Who can look into a man's heart and judge all the sources of his
actions? There are mixed feelings there, no doubt. Remorse for what
he has done; regret for what he has lost;--something, perhaps, of the
purity of love."
"Yes, something,--I hope something,--for his sake."
"But when a horse kicks and bites, you know his nature and do not go
near him. When a man has cheated you once, you think he will cheat
you again, and you do not deal with him. You do not look to gather
grapes from thistles, after you have found that they are thistles."
"I still go for the roses though I have often torn my hand with
thorns in looking for them."
"But you do not pluck those that have become cankered in the
blowing."
"Because he was once at fault, will he be cankered always?"
"I would not trust him."
"Now, mamma, see how different we are; or, rather, how different it
is when one judges for oneself or for another. If it were simply
myself, and my own future fate in life, I would trust him with it all
to-morrow, without a word. I should go to him as a gambler goes to
the gambling-table, knowing that if I lost everything I could hardly
be poorer than I was before. But I should have a better hope than the
gambler is justified in having. That, however, is not my difficulty.
And when I think of him I can see a prospect of success for the
gambler. I think so well of myself that, loving him, as I do;--yes,
mamma, do not be uneasy;--loving him, as I do, I believe I could be a
comfort to him. I think that he might be better with me than without
me. That is, he would be so, if he could teach himself to look back
upon the past as I can do, and to judge of me as I can judge of him."
"He has nothing, at least, for which to condemn you."
"But he would have, were I to marry him now. He would condemn me
because I had forgiven him. He would condemn me because I had borne
what he had done to me, and had still loved him--loved him through it
all. He would feel and know the weakness;--and there is weakness. I
have been weak in not being able to rid myself of him altogether. He
would recognize this after awhile, and would despise me for it. But
he would not see what there is of devotion to him in my being able to
bear the taunts of the world in going back to him, and your taunts,
and my own taunts. I should have to bear his also,--not spoken aloud,
but to be seen in his face and heard in his voice,--and that I could
not endure. If he despised me, and he would, that would make us both
unhappy. Therefore, mamma, tell him not to come; tell him that he can
never come; but, if it be possible, tell him this tenderly." Then she
got up and walked away, as though she were going out of the room; but
her mother had caught her before the door was opened.
"Lily," she said, "if you think you can be happy with him, he shall
come."
"No, mamma, no. I have been looking for the light ever since I read
his letter, and I think I see it. And now, mamma, I will make a clean
breast of it. From the moment in which I heard that that poor woman
was dead, I have been in a state of flutter. It has been weak of
me, and silly, and contemptible. But I could not help it. I kept on
asking myself whether he would ever think of me now. Well; he has
answered the question; and has so done it that he has forced upon me
the necessity of a resolution. I have resolved, and I believe that I
shall be the better for it."
The letter which Mrs. Dale wrote to Mr. Crosbie, was as follows:--
"Mrs. Dale presents her compliments to Mr. Crosbie, and begs to
assure him that it will not now be possible that he should renew the
relations which were broken off three years ago, between him and Mrs.
Dale's family." It was very short, certainly, and it did not by any
means satisfy Mrs. Dale. But she did not know how to say more without
saying too much. The object of her letter was to save him the trouble
of a futile perseverance, and them from the annoyance of persecution;
and this she wished to do without mentioning her daughter's name. And
she was determined that no word should escape her in which there was
any touch of severity, any hint of an accusation. So much she owed to
Lily in return for all that Lily was prepared to abandon. "There is
my note," she said at last, offering it to her daughter. "I did not
mean to see it," said Lily, "and, mamma, I will not read it now. Let
it go. I know you have been good and have not scolded him." "I have
not scolded him, certainly," said Mrs. Dale. And then the letter was
sent.