Mrs Dale was astonished at her calmness. It could not be that she had guessed the truth, or she would not stand like that, with tearless eyes and unquelled courage before her.
'You shall read it, but I ought to tell you first. Oh, my child, my own one!' Lily was now leaning against the bed, and her mother was standing over her, caressing her.
'Then tell me,' said she. 'But I know what it is. He has thought it all over while away from me, and he finds that it must not be as we have supposed. Before he went I offered to release him, and now he knows that he had better accept my offer. Is it so, mamma?' In answer to this Mrs Dale did not speak, but Lily understood from her signs that it was so.
'He might have written it to me, myself,' said Lily very proudly. 'Mamma, we will go down to breakfast. He has sent nothing to me, then?'
'There is a note. He bids me read it, but I have not opened it. It is here.'
'Give it me,' said Lily, almost sternly. 'Let me have his last words to me;' and she took the note from her mother's hands.
'Lily,' said the note, 'your mother will have told you all. Before you read these few words you will know that you have trusted one who was quite untrustworthy. I know that you will hate me. I cannot even ask you to forgive me. You will let me pray that you may yet be happy.—A. C.'
She read these few words, still leaning against the bed. Then she got up, and walking to a chair, seated herself with her back to her mother. Mrs Dale moving silently after her stood over the back of the chair, not daring to speak to her. So she sat for some five minutes, with her eyes fixed upon the open window, and with Crosbie's note in her hand.
'I will not hate him, and I do forgive him,' she said at last, struggling to command her voice, and hardly showing that she could not altogether succeed in her attempt. 'I may not write to him again, but you shall write and tell him so. Now we will go down to breakfast.' And so saying, she got up from her chair.
Mrs Dale almost feared to speak to her, her composure was so complete, and her manner so stern and fixed. She hardly knew how to offer pity and sympathy, seeing that pity seemed to be so little necessary, and that even sympathy was not demanded. And she could not understand all that Lily had said. What had she meant by the offer to release him? Had there, then, been some quarrel between them before he went? Crosbie had made no such allusion in his letter. But Mrs Dale did not dare to ask any questions.
'You frighten me, Lily,' she said. 'Your very calmness frightens me.'
'Dear mamma!' and the poor girl absolutely smiled a she embraced her mother. 'You need not be frightened by my calmness. I know the truth well. I have been very unfortunate;—very. The brightest hopes of my life are all gone;—and I shall never again see him whom I love beyond all the world!' Then at last she broke down, and wept in her mother's arms.
There was not a word of anger spoken then against him who had done all this. Mrs Dale felt that she did not dare to speak in anger against him, and words of anger were not likely to come from poor Lily. She, indeed, hitherto did not know the whole of his offence, for she had not read his letter.
'Give it me, mamma,' she said at last. 'It has to be done sooner or later.'
'Not now, Lily. I have told you all—all that you need know at present.'
'Yes; now, mamma,' and again that sweet silvery voice became stern. 'I will read it now, and there shall be an end.' Whereupon Mrs Dale gave her the letter and she read it in silence. Her mother, though standing somewhat behind her, watched her narrowly as she did so. She was now lying over upon the bed, and the letter was on the pillow, as she propped herself upon her arm. Her tears were running, and ever and again she would stop to dry her eyes. Her sobs, too, were very audible, but she went on steadily with her reading till she came to the line on which Crosbie told that he had already engaged himself to another woman. Then her mother could see that she paused suddenly, and that a shudder slightly convulsed all her limbs.
'He has been very quick,' she said, almost in a whisper; and then she finished the letter. 'Tell him, mamma,' she said, 'that I do forgive him, and I will not hate him. You will tell him that,—from me; will you not?' And then she raised herself from the bed.
Mrs Dale would give her no such assurance. In her present mood her feelings against Crosbie were of a nature which she herself hardly could understand or analyse. She felt that if he were present she could almost fly at him as would a tigress. She had never hated before as she now hated this man. He was to her a murderer, and worse than a murderer. He had made his way like a wolf into her little fold, and torn her ewe-lamb and left her maimed and mutilated for
