“And who has deserved the worst?”
“Mamma, how can you go back in that way? We have agreed that that should be regarded as done and gone. He has been very unhappy, and now we see what remedy he proposes to himself for his misery. Do I flatter myself if I allow myself to look at it in that way?”
“Perhaps he thinks he is offering a remedy for your misery.”
As this was said Lily turned round slowly and looked up into her mother’s face. “Mamma,” she said, “that is very cruel. I did not think you could be so cruel. How can you, who believe him to be so selfish, think that?”
“It is very hard to judge of men’s motives. I have never supposed him to be so black that he would not wish to make atonement for the evil he has done.”
“If I thought that there certainly could be but one answer.”
“Who can look into a man’s heart and judge all the sources of his actions? There are mixed feelings there, no doubt. Remorse for what he has done; regret for what he has lost;—something, perhaps, of the purity of love.”
“Yes, something—I hope something—for his sake.”
“But when a horse kicks and bites, you know his nature and do not go near him. When a man has cheated you once, you think he will cheat you again, and you do not deal with him. You do not look to gather grapes from thistles, after you have found that they are thistles.”
“I still go for the roses though I have often torn my hand with thorns in looking for them.”
“But you do not pluck those that have become cankered in the blowing.”
“Because he was once at fault, will he be cankered always?”
“I would not trust him.”
“Now, mamma, see how different we are; or, rather, how different it is when one judges for oneself or for another. If it were simply myself, and my own future fate in life, I would trust him with it all tomorrow, without a word. I should go to him as a gambler goes to the gambling-table, knowing that if I lost everything I could hardly be poorer than I was before. But I should have a better hope than the gambler is justified in having. That, however, is not my difficulty. And when I think of him I can see a prospect of success for the gambler. I think so well of myself that, loving him, as I do;—yes, mamma, do not be uneasy;—loving him, as I do, I believe I could be a comfort to him. I think that he might be better with me than without me. That is, he would be so, if he could teach himself to look back upon the past as I can do, and to judge of me as I can judge of him.”
“He has nothing, at least, for which to condemn you.”
“But he would have, were I to marry him now. He would condemn me because I had forgiven him. He would condemn me because I had borne what he had done to me, and had still loved him—loved him through it all. He would feel and know the weakness;—and there is weakness. I have been weak in not being able to rid myself of him altogether. He would recognize this after awhile, and would despise me for it. But he would not see what there is of devotion to him in my being able to bear the taunts of the world in going back to him, and your taunts, and my own taunts. I should have to bear his also—not spoken aloud, but to be seen in his face and heard in his voice—and that I could not endure. If he despised me, and he would, that would make us both unhappy. Therefore, mamma, tell him not to come; tell him that he can never come; but, if it be possible, tell him this tenderly.” Then she got up and walked away, as though she were going out of the room; but her mother had caught her before the door was opened.
“Lily,” she said, “if you think you can be happy with him, he shall come.”
“No, mamma, no. I have been looking for the light ever since I read his letter, and I think I see it. And now, mamma, I will make a clean breast of it. From the moment in which I heard that that poor woman was dead, I have been in a state of flutter. It has been weak of me, and silly, and contemptible. But I could not help it. I kept on asking myself whether he would ever think of me now. Well; he has answered the question; and has so done it that he has forced upon me the necessity of a resolution. I have resolved, and I believe that I shall be the better for it.”
The letter which Mrs. Dale wrote to Mr. Crosbie, was as follows:—
“Mrs. Dale presents her compliments to Mr. Crosbie, and begs to assure him that it will not now be possible that he should renew the relations which were broken off three years ago, between him and Mrs. Dale’s family.”
It was very short, certainly, and it did not by any means satisfy Mrs. Dale. But she did not know how to say more without saying too much. The object of her letter was to save him the trouble of a futile perseverance, and them from the annoyance of persecution; and this she wished to do without mentioning her daughter’s name. And she was determined that no word should escape her in which there was any touch of severity, any hint of an accusation. So much she owed to Lily
