The Last Chronicle of Barset

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  MISS LILY DALE'S RESOLUTION.

  The ladies at the Small House at Allington breakfasted always atnine,--a liberal nine; and the postman whose duty it was to deliverletters in that village at half-past eight, being also liberal inhis ideas as to time, always arrived punctually in the middle ofbreakfast, so that Mrs. Dale expected her letters, and Lily hers,just before their second cup of tea, as though the letters formeda part of the morning meal. Jane, the maid-servant, always broughtthem in, and handed them to Mrs. Dale,--for Lily had in these dayscome to preside at the breakfast-table; and then there would be anexamination of the outsides before the envelopes were violated, andas each knew pretty well all the circumstances of the correspondenceof the other, there would be some guessing as to what this or thatepistle might contain; and after that a reading out loud of passages,and not unfrequently of the entire letter. But now, at the timeof which I am speaking, Grace Crawley was at the Small House, andtherefore the common practice was somewhat in abeyance.

  On one of the first days of the new year Jane brought in the lettersas usual, and handed them to Mrs. Dale. Lily was at the time occupiedwith the teapot, but still she saw the letters, and had not her handsso full as to be debarred from the expression of her usual anxiety."Mamma, I'm sure I see two there for me," she said. "Only one foryou, Lily," said Mrs. Dale. Lily instantly knew from the tone ofthe voice that some letter had come, which by the very aspect ofthe handwriting had disturbed her mother. "There is one for you, mydear," said Mrs. Dale, throwing a letter across the table to Grace."And one for you, Lily, from Bell. The others are for me." "And whomare yours from, mamma?" asked Lily. "One is from Mrs. Jones; theother, I think, is a letter on business." Then Lily said nothingfurther, but she observed that her mother only opened one of herletters at the breakfast-table. Lily was very patient;--not bynature, I think, but by exercise and practice. She had, once inher life, been too much in a hurry; and having then burned herselfgrievously, she now feared the fire. She did not therefore follow hermother after breakfast, but sat with Grace over the fire, hemmingdiligently at certain articles of clothing which were intended foruse in the Hogglestock parsonage. The two girls were making a set ofnew shirts for Mr. Crawley. "But I know he will ask where they comefrom," said Grace; "and then mamma will be scolded." "But I hopehe'll wear them," said Lily. "Sooner or later he will," said Grace;"because mamma manages generally to have her way at last." Thenthey went on for an hour or so, talking about the home affairs atHogglestock. But during the whole time Lily's mind was intent uponher mother's letter.

  Nothing was said about it at lunch, and nothing when they walked outafter lunch, for Lily was very patient. But during the walk Mrs. Dalebecame aware that her daughter was uneasy. These two watched eachother unconsciously with a closeness which hardly allowed a glance ofthe eye, certainly not a tone of the voice, to pass unobserved. ToMrs. Dale it was everything in the world that her daughter should be,if not happy at heart, at least tranquil; and to Lily, who knew thather mother was always thinking of her, and of her alone, her motherwas the only human divinity now worthy of adoration. But nothing wassaid about the letter during the walk.

  When they came home it was nearly dusk, and it was their habit tosit up for a while without candles, talking, till the evening had intruth set in and the unmistakable and enforced idleness of remainingwithout candles was apparent. During this time, Lily, demandingpatience of herself all the while, was thinking what she would do, orrather what she would say, about the letter. That nothing could bedone or said in the presence of Grace Crawley was a matter of course,nor would she do or say anything to get rid of Grace. She would bevery patient; but she would, at last, ask her mother about theletter.

  And then, as luck would have it, Grace Crawley got up and left theroom. Lily still waited for a few minutes, and, in order that herpatience might be thoroughly exercised, she said a word or two abouther sister Bell; how the eldest child's whooping-cough was nearlywell, and how the baby was doing wonderful things with its firsttooth. But as Mrs. Dale had already seen Bell's letter, all this wasnot intensely interesting. At last Lily came to the point and askedher question. "Mamma, from whom was that other letter which you gotthis morning?"

  Our story will perhaps be best told by communicating the letter tothe reader before it was discussed with Lily. The letter was asfollows:--

  General Committee Office, -- January, 186--.

  I should have said that Mrs. Dale had not opened the letter till shehad found herself in the solitude of her own bedroom; and that then,before doing so, she had examined the handwriting with anxious eyes.When she first received it she thought she knew the writer, but wasnot sure. Then she had glanced at the impression over the fastening,and had known at once from whom the letter had come. It was from Mr.Crosbie, the man who had brought so much trouble into her house, whohad jilted her daughter; the only man in the world whom she had aright to regard as a positive enemy to herself. She had no doubtabout it, as she tore the envelope open; and yet, when the addressgiven made her quite sure, a new feeling of shivering came upon her,and she asked herself whether it might not be better that she shouldsend his letter back to him without reading it. But she read it.

  "MADAM," the letter began,--

  You will be very much surprised to hear from me, and I am quite aware that I am not entitled to the ordinary courtesy of an acknowledgment from you, should you be pleased to throw my letter on one side as unworthy of your notice. But I cannot refrain from addressing you, and must leave it to you to reply to me or not, as you may think fit.

  I will only refer to that episode of my life with which you are acquainted, for the sake of acknowledging my great fault and of assuring you that I did not go unpunished. It would be useless for me now to attempt to explain to you the circumstances which led me into that difficulty which ended in so great a blunder; but I will ask you to believe that my folly was greater than my sin.

  But I will come to my point at once. You are, no doubt, aware that I married a daughter of Lord De Courcy, and that I was separated from my wife a few weeks after our unfortunate marriage. It is now something over twelve months since she died at Baden-Baden in her mother's house. I never saw her since the day we first parted. I have not a word to say against her. The fault was mine in marrying a woman whom I did not love and had never loved. When I married Lady Alexandrina I loved, not her, but your daughter.

  I believe I may venture to say to you that your daughter once loved me. From the day on which I last wrote to you that terrible letter which told you of my fate, I have never mentioned the name of Lily Dale to human ears. It has been too sacred for my mouth,--too sacred for the intercourse of any friendship with which I have been blessed. I now use it for the first time to you, in order that I may ask whether it be possible that her old love should ever live again. Mine has lived always,--has never faded for an hour, making me miserable during the years that have passed since I saw her, but capable of making me very happy, if I may be allowed to see her again.

  You will understand my purpose now as well as though I were to write pages. I have no scheme formed in my head for seeing your daughter again. How can I dare to form a scheme, when I am aware that the chance of success must be so strong against me? But if you will tell me that there can be a gleam of hope, I will obey any commands that you can put upon me in any way that you may point out. I am free again,--and she is free. I love her with all my heart, and seem to long for nothing in the world but that she should become my wife. Whether any of her old love may still abide with her, you will know. If it do, it may even yet prompt her to forgive one who, in spite of falseness of conduct, has yet been true to her in heart.

  I have the honour to be, Madam, Your most obedient servant,

  ADOLPHUS CROSBIE.

  This was the letter which Mrs. Dale had received, and as to which shehad not as yet said a word to Lil
y, or even made up her mind whethershe would say a word or not. Dearly as the mother and daughter lovedeach other, thorough as was the confidence between them, yet thename of Adolphus Crosbie had not been mentioned between them oftener,perhaps, than half-a-dozen times since the blow had been struck.Mrs. Dale knew that their feelings about the man were altogetherdifferent. She, herself, not only condemned him for what he had done,believing it to be impossible that any shadow of excuse could beurged for his offence, thinking that the fault had shown the man tobe mean beyond redemption,--but she had allowed herself actually tohate him. He had in one sense murdered her daughter, and she believedthat she could never forgive him. But Lily, as her mother well knew,had forgiven this man altogether, had made excuses for him whichcleansed his sin of all its blackness in her own eyes, and was tothis day anxious as ever for his welfare and his happiness. Mrs. Dalefeared that Lily did in truth love him still. If it was so, was shenot bound to show her this letter? Lily was old enough to judge forherself,--old enough, and wise enough too. Mrs. Dale told herselfhalf-a-score of times that morning that she could not be justified inkeeping the letter from her daughter.

  But yet she much wished that the letter had never been written,and would have given very much to be able to put it out of the waywithout injustice to Lily. To her thinking it would be impossiblethat Lily should be happy in marrying such a man. Such a marriagenow would be, as Mrs. Dale thought, a degradation to her daughter.A terrible injury had been done to her; but such reparation as thiswould, in Mrs. Dale's eyes, only make the injury deeper. And yet Lilyloved the man; and, loving him, how could she resist the temptationof his offer? "Mamma, from whom was that letter which you got thismorning?" Lily asked. For a few moments Mrs. Dale remained silent."Mamma," continued Lily, "I think I know whom it was from. If youtell me to ask nothing further, of course I will not."

  "No, Lily; I cannot tell you that."

  "Then, mamma, out with it at once. What is the use of shivering onthe brink?"

  "It was from Mr. Crosbie."

  "I knew it. I cannot tell you why, but I knew it. And now, mamma;--amI 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 hadnever been written. It tells badly for the man, as I think of it. Icannot understand how any man could have brought himself to addresseither 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 readit."

  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 caseacknowledge it, and tell him that we have nothing more to say tohim."

  "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 theletter in her hand. "Mamma," she said, at last, "if you tell me notto read it, I will give it you back unread. If you bid me exercise myown judgment, I shall take it upstairs and read it."

  "You must exercise your own judgment," said Mrs. Dale. Then Lily gotup from her chair and walked slowly out of the room, and went to hermother's chamber. The thoughts which passed through Mrs. Dale's mindwhile her daughter was reading the letter were very sad. She couldfind no comfort anywhere. Lily, she told herself, would surely giveway to this man's renewed expressions of affection, and she, Mrs.Dale herself, would be called upon to give her child to a man whomshe could neither love nor respect;--whom, for aught she knew, shecould never cease to hate. And she could not bring herself to believethat Lily would be happy with such a man. As for her own life,desolate as it would be,--she cared little for that. Mothers knowthat their daughters will leave them. Even widowed mothers, motherswith but one child left,--such a one as was this mother,--are awarethat they will be left alone, and they can bring themselves towelcome the sacrifice of themselves with something of satisfaction.Mrs. Dale and Lily had, indeed, of late become bound togetherespecially, so that the mother had been justified in regarding thelink which joined them as being firmer than that by which mostdaughters are bound to their mothers;--but in all that she would havefound no regret. Even now, in these very days, she was hoping thatLily might yet be brought to give herself to John Eames. But shecould not, after all that was come and gone, be happy in thinkingthat Lily should be given to Adolphus Crosbie.

  When Mrs. Dale went upstairs to her own room before dinner Lily wasnot there; nor were they alone together again that evening, exceptfor a moment, when Lily, as was usual, went into her mother's roomwhen she was undressing. But neither of them then said a word aboutthe letter. Lily during dinner and throughout the evening had borneherself well, giving no sign of special emotion, keeping to herselfentirely her own thoughts about the proposition made to her. Andafterwards she had progressed diligently with the fabrication of Mr.Crawley's shirts, as though she had no such letter in her pocket. Andyet there was not a moment in which she was not thinking of it. ToGrace, just before she went to bed, she did say one word. "I wonderwhether it can ever come to a person to be so placed that there canbe no doing right, let what will be done;--that, do or not do, as youmay, 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 longenough I shall see the light."

  "I hope it will be a happy light at last," said Grace, who thoughtthat Lily was referring only to John Eames.

  At noon on the next day Lily had still said nothing to her motherabout the letter; and then what she said was very little. "When mustyou answer Mr. Crosbie, mamma?"

  "When, my dear?"

  "I mean how long may you take? It need not be to-day."

  "No;--certainly not to-day."

  "Then I will talk over it with you to-morrow. It wants somethinking;--does it not, mamma?"

  "It would not want much with me, Lily."

  "But then, mamma, you are not I. Believing as I believe, feeling asI feel, it wants some thinking. That's what I mean."

  "I wish I could help you, my dear."

  "You shall help me,--to-morrow." The morrow came and Lily was stillvery patient; but she had prepared herself, and had prepared the timealso, so that in the hour of the gloaming she was alone with hermother, and sure that she might remain alone with her for an hour orso. "Mamma, sit there," she said; "I will sit down here, and then Ican lean against you and be comfortable. You can bear as much of meas that,--can't you, mamma?" Then Mrs. Dale put her arm over Lily'sshoulder, and embraced her daughter. "And now, mamma, we will talkabout this wonderful letter."

  "I do not know, dear, that I have anything to say about it."

  "But you must have something to say about it, mamma. You must bringyourself to have something to say,--to have a great deal to say."

  "You know what I think as well as though I talked for a week."

  "That won't do, mamma. Come, you must not be hard with me."

  "Hard, Lily!"

  "I don't mean that you will hurt me, or not give me any food,--orthat you will not go on caring about me more than anything else inthe whole world ten times over;--" And Lily as she spoke tightenedthe embrace of her mother's arm round her neck. "I'm not afraidyou'll be hard in that way. But you must soften your heart so as tobe able to mention his name and talk about him, and tell me what Iought to do. You must see with my eyes, and hear with my ears, andfeel with my heart;--and then, when I know that you have done that,I must judge with your judgment."

  "I wish you to use your own."

  "Yes;--because you won't see with my eyes and hear with my ears.That's what I call being hard. Though you should feed me with bloodfrom your breast, I should call you a hard pelican, unl
ess you couldgive me also the sympathy which I demand from you. You see, mamma, wehave never allowed ourselves to speak of this man."

  "What need has there been, dearest?"

  "Only because we have been thinking of him. Out of the full heart themouth speaketh;--that is, the mouth does so when the full heart isallowed to have its own way comfortably."

  "There are things which should be forgotten."

  "Forgotten, mamma!"

  "The memory of which should not be fostered by much talking."

  "I have never blamed you, mamma; never, even in my heart. I haveknown how good and gracious and sweet you have been. But I have oftenaccused myself of cowardice because I have not allowed his name tocross my lips either to you or to Bell. To talk of forgetting such anaccident as that is a farce. And as for fostering the memory of it--!Do you think that I have ever spent a night from that time to thiswithout thinking of him? Do you imagine that I have ever crossedour own lawn, or gone down through the garden-path there, withoutthinking of the times when he and I walked there together? Thereneeds no fostering for such memories as those. They are weeds whichwill grow rank and strong though nothing be done to foster them.There is the earth and the rain, and that is enough for them. Youcannot kill them if you would, and they certainly will not diebecause you are careful not to hoe and rake the ground."

  "Lily, you forget how short the time has been as yet."

  "I have thought it very long; but the truth is, mamma, that thisnon-fostering of memories, as you call it, has not been the realcause of our silence. We have not spoken of Mr. Crosbie because wehave not thought alike about him. Had you spoken you would havespoken with anger, and I could not endure to hear him abused. Thathas been it."

  "Partly so, Lily."

  "Now you must talk of him, and you must not abuse him. We must talkof him, because something must be done about his letter. Even if itbe left unanswered, it cannot be so left without discussion. And yetyou must say no evil of him."

  "Am I to think that he behaved well?"

  "No, mamma; you are not to think that; but you are to look upon hisfault as a fault that has been forgiven."

  "It cannot be forgotten, dear."

  "But, mamma, when you go to heaven--"

  "My dear!"

  "But you will go to heaven, mamma, and why should I not speak of it?You will go to heaven, and yet I suppose you have been very wicked,because we are all very wicked. But you won't be told of yourwickedness there. You won't be hated there, because you were this orthat when you were here."

  "I hope not, Lily; but isn't your argument almost profane?"

  "No; I don't think so. We ask to be forgiven just as we forgive. Thatis the way in which we hope to be forgiven, and therefore it is theway in which we ought to forgive. When you say that prayer at night,mamma, do you ever ask yourself whether you have forgiven him?"

  "I forgive him as far as humanity can forgive. I would do him noinjury."

  "But if you and I are forgiven only after that fashion we shall neverget to heaven." Lily paused for some further answer from her mother,but as Mrs. Dale was silent she allowed that portion of the subjectto pass as completed. "And now, mamma, what answer do you think weought to send to his letter?"

  "My dear, how am I to say? You know I have said already that if Icould act on my own judgment, I would send none."

  "But that was said in the bitterness of gall."

  "Come, Lily, say what you think yourself. We shall get on better whenyou have brought yourself to speak. Do you think that you wish to seehim again?"

  "I don't know, mamma. Upon the whole, I think not."

  "Then in heaven's name let me write and tell him so."

  "Stop a moment, mamma. There are two persons here to beconsidered,--or rather, three."

  "I would not have you think of me in such a question."

  "I know you would not; but never mind, and let me go on. The three ofus are concerned, at any rate; you, and he, and I. I am thinking ofhim now. We have all suffered, but I do believe that hitherto he hashad the worst of it."

  "And who has deserved the worst?"

  "Mamma, how can you go back in that way? We have agreed that thatshould be regarded as done and gone. He has been very unhappy, andnow we see what remedy he proposes to himself for his misery. Do Iflatter 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 hermother's face. "Mamma," she said, "that is very cruel. I did notthink you could be so cruel. How can you, who believe him to be soselfish, think that?"

  "It is very hard to judge of men's motives. I have never supposed himto be so black that he would not wish to make atonement for the evilhe 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 hisactions? There are mixed feelings there, no doubt. Remorse for whathe has done; regret for what he has lost;--something, perhaps, of thepurity of love."

  "Yes, something,--I hope something,--for his sake."

  "But when a horse kicks and bites, you know his nature and do not gonear him. When a man has cheated you once, you think he will cheatyou again, and you do not deal with him. You do not look to gathergrapes from thistles, after you have found that they are thistles."

  "I still go for the roses though I have often torn my hand withthorns in looking for them."

  "But you do not pluck those that have become cankered in theblowing."

  "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 itis when one judges for oneself or for another. If it were simplymyself, and my own future fate in life, I would trust him with it allto-morrow, without a word. I should go to him as a gambler goes tothe gambling-table, knowing that if I lost everything I could hardlybe poorer than I was before. But I should have a better hope than thegambler is justified in having. That, however, is not my difficulty.And when I think of him I can see a prospect of success for thegambler. 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 acomfort to him. I think that he might be better with me than withoutme. That is, he would be so, if he could teach himself to look backupon 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 mebecause I had forgiven him. He would condemn me because I had bornewhat he had done to me, and had still loved him--loved him through itall. He would feel and know the weakness;--and there is weakness. Ihave been weak in not being able to rid myself of him altogether. Hewould recognize this after awhile, and would despise me for it. Buthe would not see what there is of devotion to him in my being able tobear 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 couldnot endure. If he despised me, and he would, that would make us bothunhappy. Therefore, mamma, tell him not to come; tell him that he cannever come; but, if it be possible, tell him this tenderly." Then shegot up and walked away, as though she were going out of the room; buther mother had caught her before the door was opened.

  "Lily," she said, "if you think you can be happy with him, he shallcome."

  "No, mamma, no. I have been looking for the light ever since I readhis letter, and I think I see it. And now, mamma, I will make a cleanbreast of it. From the moment in which I heard that that poor womanwas dead, I have been in a state of flutter. It has been weak ofme, and silly, and contemptible. But I could not help it. I kept onasking myself whether he would ever think of me now. Well; he hasanswered the question and has so done it that he has forced upon methe necessity of a resolution. I have resolved, and
I believe that Ishall 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 toassure him that it will not now be possible that he should renew therelations which were broken off three years ago, between him and Mrs.Dale's family." It was very short, certainly, and it did not by anymeans satisfy Mrs. Dale. But she did not know how to say more withoutsaying too much. The object of her letter was to save him the troubleof a futile perseverance, and them from the annoyance of persecutionand this she wished to do without mentioning her daughter's name. Andshe was determined that no word should escape her in which there wasany touch of severity, any hint of an accusation. So much she owed toLily in return for all that Lily was prepared to abandon. "There ismy note," she said at last, offering it to her daughter. "I did notmean to see it," said Lily, "and, mamma, I will not read it now. Letit go. I know you have been good and have not scolded him." "I havenot scolded him, certainly," said Mrs. Dale. And then the letter wassent.