“In her letter, she said he was a gentleman. She did say he was a
gentleman.”
“In her letter. Has she written? Can I see her letter?”
“Her father took it.”
“But if she writes— When did she write?”
“It came this morning.”
“But where did it come from? You can tell—”
“She didn’t say. She said she was happy. She said love took one like a
storm—”
“Curse that! Where is her letter? Let me see it. And as for this
gentleman—”
She stared at me.
“You know who it is.”
“Willie!” she protested.
“You know who it is, whether she said or not?” Her eyes made a mute
unconfident denial.
“Young Verrall?”
She made no answer. “All I could do for you, Willie,” she began
presently.
“Was it young Verrall?” I insisted.
For a second, perhaps, we faced one another in stark understanding. . .
. Then she plumped back to the chest of drawers, and her wet
pocket-handkerchief, and I knew she sought refuge from my relentless
eyes.
My pity for her vanished. She knew it was her mistress’s son as well as
I! And for some time she had known, she had felt.
I hovered over her for a moment, sick with amazed disgust. I suddenly
bethought me of old Stuart, out in the greenhouse, and turned and went
downstairs. As I did so, I looked up to see Mrs. Stuart moving
droopingly and lamely back into her own room.
§ 6
Old Stuart was pitiful.
I found him still inert in the greenhouse where I had first seen him.
He did not move as I drew near him; he glanced at me, and then stared
hard again at the flowerpots before him.
“Eh, Willie,” he said, “this is a black day for all of us.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“The missus takes on so,” he said. “I came out here.”
“What do you mean to do?”
“What _is_ a man to do in such a case?”
“Do!” I cried, “why— Do!”
“He ought to marry her,” he said.
“By God, yes!” I cried. “He must do that anyhow.”
“He ought to. It’s—it’s cruel. But what am _I_ to do? Suppose he won’t?
Likely he won’t. What then?”
He drooped with an intensified despair.
“Here’s this cottage,” he said, pursuing some contracted argument.
“We’ve lived here all our lives, you might say. . . . Clear out. At my
age. . . . One can’t die in a slum.”
I stood before him for a space, speculating what thoughts might fill
the gaps between these broken words. I found his lethargy, and the
dimly shaped mental attitudes his words indicated, abominable. I said
abruptly, “You have her letter?”
He dived into his breast-pocket, became motionless for ten seconds,
then woke up again and produced her letter. He drew it clumsily from
its envelope, and handed it to me silently.
“Why!” he cried, looking at me for the first time, “What’s come to your
chin, Willie?”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “It’s a bruise;” and I opened the letter.
It was written on greenish tinted fancy note-paper, and with all and
more than Nettie’s usual triteness and inadequacy of expression. Her
handwriting bore no traces of emotion; it was round and upright and
clear as though it had been done in a writing lesson. Always her
letters were like masks upon her image; they fell like curtains before
the changing charm of her face; one altogether forgot the sound of her
light clear voice, confronted by a perplexing stereotyped thing that
had mysteriously got a hold upon one’s heart and pride. How did that
letter run?—
“MY DEAR MOTHER,
“Do not be distressed at my going away. I have gone somewhere safe,
and with some one who cares for me very much. I am sorry for your
sakes, but it seems that it had to be. Love is a very difficult
thing, and takes hold of one in ways one does not expect. Do not
think I am ashamed about this, I glory in my love, and you must not
trouble too much about me. I am very, very happy (deeply
underlined).
“Fondest love to Father and Puss.
“Your loving
“Nettie.”
That queer little document! I can see it now for the childish simple
thing it was, but at the time I read it in a suppressed anguish of
rage. It plunged me into a pit of hopeless shame; there seemed to
remain no pride for me in life until I had revenge. I stood staring at
those rounded upstanding letters, not trusting myself to speak or move.
At last I stole a glance at Stuart.
He held the envelope in his hand, and stared down at the postmark
between his horny thumbnails.
“You can’t even tell where she is,” he said, turning the thing round in
a hopeless manner, and then desisting. “It’s hard on us, Willie. Here
she is; she hadn’t anything to complain of; a sort of pet for all of
us. Not even made to do her share of the ‘ousework. And she goes off
and leaves us like a bird that’s learnt to fly. Can’t _trust_ us,
that’s what takes me. Puts ‘erself— But there! What’s to happen to
her?”
“What’s to happen to him?”
He shook his head to show that problem was beyond him.
“You’ll go after her,” I said in an even voice; “you’ll make him marry
her?”
“Where am I to go?” he asked helplessly, and held out the envelope with
a gesture; “and what could I do? Even if I knew— How could I leave the
gardens?”
“Great God!” I cried, “not leave these gardens! It’s your Honor, man!
If she was my daughter—if she was my daughter—I’d tear the world to
pieces!” . . I choked. “You mean to stand it?”
“What can I do?”
“Make him marry her! Horsewhip him! Horsewhip him, I say!—I’d strangle
him!”
He scratched slowly at his hairy cheek, opened his mouth, and shook his
head. Then, with an intolerable note of sluggish gentle wisdom, he
said, “People of our sort, Willie, can’t do things like that.”
I came near to raving. I had a wild impulse to strike him in the face.
Once in my boyhood I happened upon a bird terribly mangled by some cat,
and killed it in a frenzy of horror and pity. I had a gust of that same
emotion now, as this shameful mutilated soul fluttered in the dust,
before me. Then, you know, I dismissed him from the case.
“May I look?” I asked.
He held out the envelope reluctantly.
“There it is,” he said, and pointing with his garden-rough forefinger.
“I.A.P.A.M.P. What can you make of that?”
I took the thing in my hands. The adhesive stamp customary in those
days was defaced by a circular postmark, which bore the name of the
office of departure and the date. The impact in this particular case
had been light or made without sufficient ink, and half the letters of
the name had left no impression. I could distinguish—