“Much in what way, Lily?”
“In the way of worship. I shall not be content that you should merely love him. If he has come here, as he must have done, to say that the moment of the world’s reproach is the moment he has chosen to ask you to be his wife, I think that you will owe him more than love.”
“I shall owe him more than love, and I will pay him more than love,” said Grace. There was something in the tone of her voice as she spoke which made Lily stop her and look up into her face. There was a smile there which Lily had never seen before, and which gave a beauty to her which was wonderful to Lily’s eyes. Surely this lover of Grace’s must have seen her smile like that, and therefore had loved her and was giving such wonderful proof of his love. “Yes,” continued Grace, standing and looking at her friend, “you may stare at me, Lily, but you may be sure that I will do for Major Grantly all the good that I can do for him.”
“What do you mean, Grace?”
“Never mind what I mean. You are very imperious in managing your own affairs, and you must let me be so equally in mine.”
“But I tell you everything.”
“Do you suppose that if—if—if in real truth it can possibly be the case that Major Grantly shall have come here to offer me his hand when we are all ground down into the dust, as we are, do you think that I will let him sacrifice himself? Would you?”
“Certainly. Why not? There will be no sacrifice. He will be asking for that which he wishes to get; and you will be bound to give it to him.”
“If he wants it, where is his nobility? If it be as you say, he will have shown himself noble, and his nobility will have consisted in this, that he has been willing to take that which he does not want, in order that he may succour one whom he loves. I also will succour one whom I love, as best I know how.” Then she walked on quickly before her friend, and Lily stood for a moment thinking before she followed her. They were now on a field-path, by which they were enabled to escape the road back to Allington for the greater part of the distance, and Grace had reached a stile, and had clambered over it before Lily had caught her.
“You must not go away by yourself,” said Lily.
“I don’t wish to go away by myself.”
“I want you to stop a moment and listen to me. I am sure you are wrong in this—wrong for both your sakes. You believe that he loves you?”
“I thought he did once; and if he has come here to see me, I suppose he does still.”
“If that be the case, and if you also love him—”
“I do. I make no mystery about that to you. I do love him with all my heart. I love him today, now that I believe him to be here, and that I suppose I shall see him, perhaps this very afternoon. And I loved him yesterday, when I thought that I should never see him again. I do love him. I do. I love him so well that I will never do him an injury.”
“That being so, if he makes you an offer you are bound to accept it. I do not think that you have an alternative.”
“I have an alternative, and I shall use it. Why don’t you take my cousin John?”
“Because I like somebody else better. If you have got as good a reason I won’t say another word to you.”
“And why don’t you take that other person?”
“Because I cannot trust his love; that is why. It is not very kind of you, opening my sores afresh, when I am trying to heal yours.”
“Oh, Lily, am I unkind—unkind to you, who have been so generous to me?”
“I’ll forgive you all that and a deal more if you will only listen to me and try to take my advice. Because this major of yours does a generous thing, which is for the good of you both—the infinite good of both of you—you are to emulate his generosity by doing a thing which will be for the good of neither of you. That is about it. Yes, it is, Grace. You cannot doubt that he has been meaning this for some time past; and of course, if he looks upon you as his own—and I daresay, if the whole truth is to be told, he does—”
“But I am not his own.”
“Yes, you are, in one sense; you have just said so with a great deal of energy. And if it is so—let me see, where was I?”
“Oh, Lily, you need not mind where you were.”
“But I do mind, and I hate to be interrupted in my arguments. Yes, just that. If he saw his cow sick, he’d try to doctor the cow in her sickness. He sees that you are sick, and of course he comes to your relief.”
“I am not Major Grantly’s cow.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Nor his dog, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor anything that is his, except—except, Lily, the dearest friend that he has on the face of the earth. He cannot have a
