“Pratt,” he said at last, “you are always hard to me.”
“I will say nothing more to you on the subject, if you wish me to be silent.”
“I do wish you to be silent about that.”
“That shall be enough,” said Pratt.
“You do not quite understand me. You do not know how thoroughly I have repented of the evil that I have done, or how far I would go to make retribution, if retribution were possible!”
Fowler Pratt, having been told to hold his tongue as regarded that subject, made no reply to this, and began to talk about the pictures.
Lily, leaning on her cousin’s arm, was out in the courtyard in front of the house before Mrs. Thorne or Siph Dunn. It was but for a minute, but still there was a minute in which Bernard felt that he ought to say a word to her.
“I hope you are not angry with me, Lily, for having spoken.”
“I wish, of course, that you had not spoken; but I am not angry. I have no right to be angry. I made the misfortune for myself. Do not say anything more about it, dear Bernard;—that is all.”
They had walked to the picture-gallery; but, by agreement, two carriages had come to take them away—Mrs. Thorne’s and Mrs. Harold Smith’s. Mrs. Thorne easily managed to send Emily Dunstable and Bernard away with her friend, and to tell Siph Dunn that he must manage for himself. In this way it was contrived that no one but Mrs. Thorne should be with Lily Dale.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Thorne, “it seemed to me that you were a little put out, and so I thought it best to send them all away.”
“It was very kind.”
“He ought to have passed on and not to have stood an instant when he saw you,” said Mrs. Thorne, with indignation. “There are moments when it is a man’s duty simply to vanish, to melt into the air, or to sink into the ground—in which he is bound to overcome the difficulties of such sudden self-removal, or must ever after be accounted poor and mean.”
“I did not want him to vanish;—if only he had not spoken to me.”
“He should have vanished. A man is sometimes bound in honour to do so, even when he himself has done nothing wrong;—when the sin has been all with the woman. Her femininity has still a right to expect that so much shall be done in its behalf. But when the sin has been all his own, as it was in this case—and such damning sin too—”
“Pray do not go on, Mrs. Thorne.”
“He ought to go out and hang himself simply for having allowed himself to be seen. I thought Bernard behaved very well, and I shall tell him so.”
“I wish you could manage to forget it all, and say no word more about it.”
“I won’t trouble you with it, my dear; I will promise you that. But, Lily, I can hardly understand you. This man who must have been and must ever be a brute—”
“Mrs. Thorne, you promised me this instant that you would not talk of him.”
“After this I will not; but you must let me have my way now for one moment. I have so often longed to speak to you, but have not done so from fear of offending you. Now the matter has come up by chance, and it was impossible that what has occurred should pass by without a word. I cannot conceive why the memory of that bad man should be allowed to destroy your whole life.”
“My life is not destroyed. My life is anything but destroyed. It is a very happy life.”
“But, my dear, if all that I hear is true, there is a most estimable young man, whom everybody likes, and particularly all your own family, and whom you like very much yourself; and you will have nothing to say to him, though his constancy is like the constancy of an old Paladin—and all because of this wretch who just now came in your way.”
“Mrs. Thorne, it is impossible to explain it all.”
“I do not want you to explain it all. Of course I would not ask any young woman to marry a man whom she did not love. Such marriages are abominable to me. But I think that a young woman ought to get married if the thing fairly comes in her way, and if her friends approve, and if she is fond of the man who is fond of her. It may be that some memory of what has gone before is allowed to stand in your way, and that it should not be so allowed. It sometimes happens that a morbid sentiment will destroy a life. Excuse me, then, Lily, if I say too much to you in my hope that you may not suffer after this fashion.”
“I know how kind you are, Mrs. Thorne.”
“Here we are at home, and perhaps you would like to go in. I have some calls which I must make.” Then the conversation was ended, and Lily was alone.
As if she had not thought of it all before! As if there was anything new in this counsel which Mrs. Thorne had given her! She had received the same advice from her mother, from her sister, from her uncle, and from Lady Julia, till she was sick of it. How had it come to pass that matters which with others are so private, should with her have become the public property of so large a circle? Any other girl would receive advice on such a subject from her mother alone, and there the secret would rest. But her secret had been published, as it were, by the town-crier in the High Street! Everybody knew that she had been jilted by Adolphus Crosbie, and that it was intended that she should
