you do not now think it wrong to do so. I have left it open, that you may read it.' Mrs Dale, however, had not yet read it, and she now concealed it beneath her handkerchief.
I will not repeat at length Crosbie's letter to Mrs Dale. It covered four sides of letter-paper, and was such a letter that any man who wrote it must have felt himself to be a rascal. We saw that he had difficulty in writing it, but the miracle was, that any man could have found it possible to write it. 'I know you will curse me,' said he; 'and I deserve to be cursed. I know that I shall be punished for this, and I must bear my punishment. My worst punishment will be this, that I never more shall hold up my head again.' And then, again, he said:—'My only excuse is my conviction that I should never make her happy. She has been brought up as an angel, with pure thoughts, with holy hopes, with a belief in all that is good, and high, and noble. I have been surrounded through my whole life by things low, and mean, and ignoble. How could I live with her, or she with me? I know now that this is so; but my fault has been that I did not know it when I was there with her. I choose to tell you all,' he continued, towards the end of the letter, 'and therefore I let you know that I have engaged myself to marry another woman. Ah! I can foresee how bitter will be your feelings when you read this: but they will not be so bitter as mine while I write it. Yes; I am already engaged to one who will suit me, and whom I may suit. You will not expect me to speak ill of her who is to be near and dear to me. But she is one with whom I may mate myself without an inward conviction that I shall destroy all her happiness by doing so. Lilian,' he said, 'shall always have my prayers; and I trust that she may soon forget, in the love of an honest man, that she ever knew one so dishonest as—Adolphus Crosbie.'
Of what like must have been his countenance as he sat writing such words of himself under the ghastly light of his own small, solitary lamp? Had he written his letter at his office, in the day-time, with men coming in and out of his room, he could hardly have written of himself so plainly. He would have bethought himself that the written words might remain, and be read hereafter by other eyes than those for which they were intended. But, as he sat alone, during the small hours of the night, almost repenting of his sin with true repentance, he declared to himself that he did not care who might read them. They should, at any rate, be true. Now they had been read by her to whom they had been addressed, and the daughter was standing before the mother to hear her doom.
'Tell me all at once,' Lily had said; but in what words was her mother to tell her?
'Lily,' she said, rising from her seat, and leaving the two letters on the couch; that addressed to the daughter was hidden beneath a handkerchief, but that which she had read she left open and in sight. She took both the girl's hands in hers as she looked into her face, and spoke to her. 'Lily, my child!' Then she burst into sobs, and was unable to tell her tale.
'Is it from him, mamma? May I read it? He cannot be—'
'It is from Mr Crosbie.'
'Is he ill, mamma? Tell me at once. If he is ill I will go to him.'
'No, my darling, he is not ill. Not yet;—do not read it yet. Oh, Lily! It brings bad news; very bad news.'
'Mamma, if he is not in danger, I can read it. Is it bad to him, or only bad to me?'
At this moment the servant knocked, and not waiting for an answer half opened the door.
'If you please, ma'am, Mr Bernard is below, and wants to speak to you.'
'Mr Bernard! ask Miss Bell to see him.'
'Miss Bell is with him, ma'am, but he says that he specially wants to speak to you.'
Mrs Dale felt that she could not leave Lily alone. She could not take the letter away, nor could she leave her child with the letter open.
'I cannot see him,' said Mrs Dale. 'Ask him what it is. Tell him I cannot come down just at present.' And then the servant went, and Bernard left his message with Bell.
'Bernard,' she had said, 'do you know of anything? Is there anything wrong about Mr Crosbie?' Then, in a few words, he told her all, and understanding why his aunt had not come down to him, he went back to the Great House. Bell, almost stupefied by the tidings, seated herself at the table unconsciously, leaning upon her elbows.
'It will kill her,' she said to herself. 'My Lily, my darling Lily! It will surely kill her!'
But the mother was still with the daughter, and the story was still untold.
'Mamma,' said Lily, 'whatever it is, I must, of course, be made to know it. I begin to guess the truth. It will pain you to say it. Shall I read the letter?'
