“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 today.”
“No;—certainly not today.”
“Then I will talk over it with you tomorrow. 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—tomorrow.” 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
