'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 had 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; --who, for aught she knew, she could never cease to hate. And she could not bring herself to believe that Lily could 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 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 that 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 it over 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 Ifeel, 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 might remain alone with her for an hour or so. 'Mamma, sit there,' she said; 'I will sit down here, and then I can lean against you and be comfortable. You can bear as much of me as that--can't you, mamma?' Then Mrs Dale put her arm over Lily's shoulder, and embraced her daughter. 'And now, mamma, we will talk about 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 bring yourself 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--or that you will not go on caring about me more than anything else in the whole world ten times over--' And Lily as she spoke, tightened the embrace of her mother's arm round her neck. I'm not afraid you'll be hard in that way. But you must soften your heart so as to be able to mention his name and talk about him, and tell me what I ought to do. You must see with my eyes, and hear with my ears, and feel with my heart;--and then, when Iknow 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 blood from your breast, I should call you a hard pelican, unless you could give me also the sympathy which I demand from you. You see, mamma, we have 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 the mouth speaketh;--that is, the mouth does so, when the full heart is allowed to have its own 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 have known how good and gracious and sweet you have been. But I have often accused myself of cowardice because I have not allowed his name to cross my lips either to you or to Bell. To talk of forgetting such an accident as that is a farce. And as for fostering the memory of it--! Do you think that Ihave ever spent a night from that time to this without thinking of him?