The Small House at Allington, Anthony Trollope [best ebook reader for chromebook .txt] 📗

It had been agreed between them that Crosbie should come down to the Small House on the next day after breakfast, and remain there till the time came for riding. But Lily determined to alter this arrangement, and accordingly put on her hat immediately after breakfast, and posted herself at the bridge, so as to intercept her lover as he came. He soon appeared with his friend Dale, and she at once told him her purpose.

“I want to have a talk with you, Adolphus, before you go in to mamma; so come with me into the field.”

“All right,” said he.

“And Bernard can finish his cigar on the lawn. Mamma and Bell will join him there.”

“All right,” said Bernard. So they separated; and Crosbie went away with Lily into the field where they had first learned to know each other in those haymaking days.

She did not say much till they were well away from the house; but answered what words he chose to speak⁠—not knowing very well of what he spoke. But when she considered that they had reached the proper spot, she began very abruptly.

“Adolphus,” she said, “I have something to say to you⁠—something to which you must listen very carefully.” Then he looked at her, and at once knew that she was in earnest.

“This is the last day on which I could say it,” she continued; “and I am very glad that I have not let the last day go by without saying it. I should not have known how to put it in a letter.”

“What is it, Lily?”

“And I do not know that I can say it properly; but I hope that you will not be hard upon me. Adolphus, if you wish that all this between us should be over, I will consent.”

“Lily!”

“I mean what I say. If you wish it, I will consent; and when I have said so, proposing it myself, you may be quite sure that I shall never blame you, if you take me at my word.”

“Are you tired of me, Lily?”

“No. I shall never be tired of you⁠—never weary with loving you. I did not wish to say so now; but I will answer your question boldly. Tired of you! I fancy that a girl can never grow tired of her lover. But I would sooner die in the struggle than be the cause of your ruin. It would be better⁠—in every way better.”

“I have said nothing of being ruined.”

“But listen to me. I should not die if you left me⁠—not be utterly brokenhearted. Nothing on earth can I ever love as I have loved you. But I have a God and a Saviour that will be enough for me. I can turn to them with content, if it be well that you should leave me. I have gone to them, and⁠—” But at this moment she could utter no more words. She had broken down in her effort, losing her voice through the strength of her emotion. As she did not choose that he should see her overcome, she turned from him and walked away across the grass.

Of course he followed her; but he was not so quick after her, but that time had been given to her to recover herself. “It is true,” she said. “I have the strength of which I tell you. Though I have given myself to you as your wife, I can bear to be divorced from you now⁠—now. And, my love, though it may sound heartless, I would sooner be so divorced from you, than cling to you as a log that must drag you down under the water, and drown you in trouble and care. I would;⁠—indeed I would. If you go, of course that kind of thing is over for me. But the world has more than that⁠—much more; and I would make myself happy;⁠—yes, my love, I would be happy. You need not fear that.”

“But, Lily, why is all this said to me here today?”

“Because it is my duty to say it. I understand all your position now, though it is only now. It never flashed on me till yesterday. When you proposed to me, you thought that I⁠—that I had some fortune.”

“Never mind that now, Lily.”

“But you did. I see it all now. I ought perhaps to have told you that it was not so. There has been the mistake, and we are both sufferers. But we need not make the suffering deeper than needs be. My love, you are free⁠—from this moment. And even my heart shall not blame you for accepting your freedom.”

“And are you afraid of poverty?” he asked her.

“I am afraid of poverty for you. You and I have lived differently. Luxuries, of which I know nothing, have been your daily comforts. I tell you I can bear to part with you, but I cannot bear to become the source of your unhappiness. Yes; I will bear it; and none shall dare in my hearing to speak against you. I have brought you here to say the word; nay, more than that⁠—to advise you to say it.”

He stood silent for a moment, during which he held her by the hand. She was looking into his face, but he was looking away into the clouds; striving to appear as though he was the master of the occasion. But during those moments his mind was wracked with doubt. What if he should take her at her word? Some few would say bitter things against him, but such bitter things had been said against many another man without harming him. Would it not be well for both if he should take her at her word? She would recover and love again, as other girls had done; and as for him, he would thus escape from the ruin at which he had been gazing for the last week past. For it was ruin⁠—utter ruin. He did love her; so he declared to himself. But was he a man who