The discovery did not disturb Lily as it might once have done. She had passed beyond the phase of well-bred reciprocity, in which every demonstration must be scrupulously proportioned to the emotion it elicits, and generosity of feeling is the only ostentation condemned. But the sense of loneliness returned with redoubled force as she saw herself forever shut out from Selden’s inmost self. She had come to him with no definite purpose; the mere longing to see him had directed her; but the secret hope she had carried with her suddenly revealed itself in its death-pang.
“I must go,” she repeated, making a motion to rise from her chair. “But I may not see you again for a long time, and I wanted to tell you that I have never forgotten the things you said to me at Bellomont, and that sometimes–sometimes when I seemed farthest from remembering them–they have helped me, and kept me from mistakes; kept me from really becoming what many people have thought me.”
Strive as she would to put some order in her thoughts, the words would not come more clearly; yet she felt that she could not leave him without trying to make him understand that she had saved herself whole from the seeming ruin of her life.
A change had come over Selden’s face as she spoke. Its guarded look had yielded to an expression still untinged by personal emotion, but full of a gentle understanding.
“I am glad to have you tell me that; but nothing I have said has really made the difference. The difference is in yourself–it will always be there. And since it IS there, it can’t really matter to you what people think: you are so sure that your friends will always understand you.”
“Ah, don’t say that–don’t say that what you have told me has made no difference. It seems to shut me out–to leave me all alone with the other people.” She had risen and stood before him, once more completely mastered by the inner urgency of the moment. The consciousness of his half-divined reluctance had vanished. Whether he wished it or not, he must see her wholly for once before they parted.
Her voice had gathered strength, and she looked him gravely in the eyes as she continued. “Once–twice–you gave me the chance to escape from my life, and I refused it: refused it because I was a coward. Afterward I saw my mistake–I saw I could never be happy with what had contented me before. But it was too late: you had judged me–I understood. It was too late for happiness–but not too late to be helped by the thought of what I had missed. That is all I have lived on–don’t take it from me now! Even in my worst moments it has been like a little light in the darkness. Some women are strong enough to be good by themselves, but I needed the help of your belief in me. Perhaps I might have resisted a great temptation, but the little ones would have pulled me down. And then I remembered–I remembered your saying that such a life could never satisfy me; and I was ashamed to admit to myself that it could. That is what you did for me–that is what I wanted to thank you for. I wanted to tell you that I have always remembered; and that I have tried–tried hard . . .”
She broke off suddenly. Her tears had risen again, and in drawing out her handkerchief her fingers touched the packet in the folds of her dress. A wave of colour suffused her, and the words died on her lips. Then she lifted her eyes to his and went on in an altered voice.
“I have tried hard–but life is difficult, and I am a very useless person. I can hardly be said to have an independent existence. I was just a screw or a cog in the great machine I called life, and when I dropped out of it I found I was of no use anywhere else. What can one do when one finds that one only fits into one hole? One must get back to it or be thrown out into the rubbish heap–and you don’t know what it’s like in the rubbish heap!”