CHAPTER LXV.

The blow that had fallen on my hearth effectually, inevitably killed all
the slander that might have troubled me in joy. Before the awe of a great
calamity the small passions of a mean malignity slink abashed. I had
requested Mrs. Ashleigh not to mention the vile letter which Lilian had
received. I would not give a triumph to the unknown calumniator, nor
wring forth her vain remorse, by the pain of acknowledging an indignity to
my darling's honour; yet, somehow or other, the true cause of Lilian's
affliction had crept out,--perhaps through the talk of servants,--and the
public shock was universal. By one of those instincts of justice that lie
deep in human hearts, though in ordinary moments overlaid by many a
worldly layer, all felt (all mothers felt especially) that innocence alone
could have been so unprepared for reproach. The explanation I had
previously given, discredited then, was now accepted without a question.
Lilian's present state accounted for all that ill nature had before
misconstrued. Her good name was restored to its maiden whiteness, by the
fate that had severed the ties of the bride. The formal dwellers on the
Hill vied with the franker, warmer-hearted households of Low Town in the
nameless attentions by which sympathy and respect are rather delicately
indicated than noisily proclaimed. Could Lilian have then recovered and
been sensible of its repentant homage, how reverently that petty world
would have thronged around her! And, ah! could fortune and man's esteem
have atoned for the blight of hopes that had been planted and cherished on
ground beyond their reach, ambition and pride might have been well
contented with the largeness of the exchange that courted their
acceptance. Patients on patients crowded on me. Sympathy with my sorrow