Do you imagine that I have ever crossed our own lawn, or gone down through the garden-path there, without thinking of the times when he and I walked there together? There needs no fostering for such memories as those. They are weeds which will go rank and strong though nothing be done to foster them. There is the earth and the rain, and that is enough for them. You cannot kill them if you would, and they certainly will not die because 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 this non-fostering of memories, as you call it, has not been the real cause of our silence. We have not spoken of Mr Crosbie because we have not thought alike about him. Had you spoken you would have spoken with anger, and I could not endure to hear him abused. That has been it.'
'Partly so, Lily.'
'Now you must talk of him, and you must not abuse him. We must talk of him, because something must be done about his letter. Even it be left unanswered, it cannot be so left without discussion. And yet you must say no evil of him.'
'Am I to think he behaved well?'
'No, mamma; you are not to think that; but you are to look upon his fault as a fault that has been forgiven.'
'It cannot be forgiven, 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 your wickedness there. You won't be hated there, because you were this or that 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. That is the way in which we hope to be forgiven, and therefore it is the way 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 no injury.'
'But if you and I are forgiven only after that fashion we shall never get to heaven.' Lily paused for some further answer from her mother, but as Mrs Dale was silent she allowed that portion of the subject to pass as completed. 'And now, mamma, what answer do you think we ought to send to his letter?'
'My dear, how am I to say? You know I have said already that if I could 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 when you have brought yourself to speak. Do you think that you wish to see him 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 be considered--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 of us are concerned, at any rate; you, he, and I. I am thinking of him now.
We have all suffered, but I do believe that hitherto he has had the worst of it.'
'And who had 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 no 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.'