'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 the 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 Imarried 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, ****** me miserable during the last years that have passed since I saw her, but capable of ****** 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 Idare 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 she had not as yet said a word to Lily, or even made up her mind whether she would say a word or not. Dearly as the mother and daughter loved each other, thorough as was the confidence between them, yet the name 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 altogether different. She, herself, not only condemned him for what he had done, believing it to be impossible that any shadow of excuse could be urged for his offence, thinking that the fault had shown the man to be mean beyond redemption--but she had allowed herself actually to hate him. He had in one sense murdered her daughter, and she believed that she could never forgive him. But, Lily, as her mother well knew, had forgiven this man altogether, had made excuses for him which cleansed his sin of all its blackness in her own eyes, and was to this day anxious as ever for his welfare and his happiness. Mrs Dale feared that Lily did in truth love him still. If it was so, was she not bound to show her this letter? Lily was old enough to judge for herself--old enough, and wise enough too.
Mrs Dale told herself half-a-score of times that morning that she could not be justified in keeping the letter from her daughter.
But yet much she wished that the letter had never been written, and would have given very much to be able to put it out of the way without injustice to Lily. To her thinking it would be impossible that Lily should be happy marrying such a man. Such a marriage now would be, as Mrs Dale thought, a degradation to her daughter. A terrible injury had been done to her; but such reparation as this would, in Mrs Dale's eyes, only make the injury deeper. And yet Lily loved the man; and, loving him, how could she resist the temptation of his offer? 'Mamma, from whom was that letter which you got this morning? Lily asked. For a few moments Mrs Dale remained silent. 'Mamma,' continued Lily, 'I think Iknow whom it was from. If you tell 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 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. Icannot 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 should 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 back to you unread. If you bid me exercise my own judgment, I shall take it upstairs and read it.'