‘You mean that it is a result of general carelessness,’ said Lily; ‘I know I have been in an odd idle way for some time; I have often resolved, but I seem to have no power over myself.’
‘May I ask you one question, Lily? How have you been spending this Lent?’
‘Robert, you are right,’ cried Lily; ‘you may well ask. I know I have not gone to church properly, but how could you guess the terrible way in which I have been indulging myself, and excusing myself every unpleasant duty that came in my way? That was the very reason of this dreadful neglect; well do I deserve to be miserable at Easter, the proper time for joy. Oh! how different it will be.’
‘It will be, I hope, an Easter marked by repentance and amendment,’ said the Rector.
‘No, Robert, do not begin to be kind to me yet, you do not know how very bad I have been,’ said Lily; ‘it all began from just after Eleanor’s wedding. A mad notion came into my head and laid hold of me. I fancied Eleanor stern, and cold, and unlovable; I was ingratitude itself. I made a foolish theory, that regard for duty makes people cold and stern, and that feeling, which I confused with Christian love, was all that was worth having, and the more Claude tried to cure me, the more obstinate I grew; I drew Emily over to my side, and we set our follies above everything. Justified ourselves for idling, neglecting the children, indulging ourselves, calling it love, and so it was, self-love. So my temper has been spoiling, and my mind getting worse and worse, ever since we lost Eleanor. At last different things showed me the fallacy of my principle, but then I do believe I was beyond my own management. I felt wrong, and could not mend, and went on recklessly. You know but too well what mischief I have done in the village, but you can never know what harm I have done at home. I have seen more and more that I was going on badly, but a sleep, a spell was upon me.’
‘Perhaps the pain you now feel may be the means of breaking the spell.’
‘But is it not enough to drive me mad to think that improvement in me should be bought at such a price—the widow’s only child?’
‘You forget that the loss is a blessing to her.’
‘Still I may pray that my punishment may not be through them,’ said Lily.
‘Surely,’ was the answer, ‘it is grievous to see that dear child cut off; and her patient mother left desolate—yet how much more grievous it would be to see that spotless innocence defiled.’