"Cumly, _June_ 1, _19--_.
"Dear Captain Blair,
"As you say, I am bound in duty to thank you for the box.
"Considered as a box, it is a treasure indeed. It is so `worthy' of my
collection, that every other specimen looks in comparison poor and
tawdry. I have placed it on a little pinnacle of its own, where it
shines afar, leaving the lesser lights undimmed.
"Miss Beverley returns warm thanks to Captain Blair for his kindness in
remembering her collection, and adding to it so valuable and antique a
specimen.
"But--there remains Katrine, and Katrine's duty is so much more
complicated! She has written, as you prophesied, four separate letters,
all well spelt, and punctuated, and admirably composed, the sentences
rounded to a marvel, but alas! each separate one said a different thing,
and was afterwards torn up for a different reason.
"Number one was haughty and firm: firm, without a quaver of doubt.
`Miss Beverley was surprised that Captain Blair could suppose for a
moment, that etc., etc.. Miss Beverley could certainly not consent to
sacrifice the dignity and self-respect so dear to the heart of every
true etc.'
"So far, so good, but Katrine here came to the conclusion that Miss
Beverley was a hopeless prig, and effort number one was destroyed
forthwith. Number two was also firm, but more affable in tone.
"Miss Beverley had been duly amused by the perusal of Captain Blair's
letter. She realised that it had been written on the spur of an
impulse, and that he had not intended his suggestion to be taken
seriously. She would proceed to banish it from her mind, as she felt
sure he would now wish her to do.
"Here again Katrine interfered, rated Miss Beverley as a hypocrite,
declared that she believed nothing of the sort, and sent the second
missive packing after the first.
"The third and fourth attempts were destroyed for--er--_other_ reasons!
One flies at times from one extreme to another. Here now beginning the
fifth.
"If you are sure; if you are _quite_ sure that my letters would be a
help, I should like to say yes, but conscience pricks.--the Cranford
conscience which sees not only straight ahead, but round every
conceivable niche and corner.
"Take first your own point of view! Suppose a moment that I _did_
write, you might be horribly disappointed with my letters! You have
enjoyed my weekly effusions to Dorothea, but you must remember that she
and I are the friends of years, who have shared together all the big
experiences of our lives, so that we have a thousand mutual links and
interests. Also,--and the importance of this there is no denying--we
are both women! When writing to Dorothea I can be just as frivolous, as
morbid, as unreasonable as I please. She understands; she's been there
herself. But no mere man--
"Suppose my letters were insufferably flat and tame, what a position for
the Lonely Fellow to find himself bound to reply in kind! He ought
seriously to consider this point.
"Then there's my own position, and with myself goes irrevocably Martin,
my brother.
"Am I _quite_ justified in taking up any interest, which must more or
less engross my thoughts, and distract them from what is my real life
work?
"I am all that he has left. He turned to me in his trouble, and I must
always put him first. It's not the easiest thing in the world to live
with a literary man. The readers who praise his books and gush over his
lofty sentiments, would be surprised if they could live in the house for
a week, and listen to his flow of language over such a trifle, as, say,
a banging door! For the last eight years all my time, and all my
thought, have been devoted to the effort of pleasing Martin, and,--(one
can acknowledge things on paper more easily than in words!)--it isn't a
brilliant success!
"I thought that it was; no! I didn't think at all, I just complacently
took it for granted that he was very lucky to have me, and that I made
him as happy and comfortable as he possibly could be under the
circumstances, but just lately I've had an awakening.
"He _isn't_ happy; he isn't even content. I've been quite an efficient
Martha, but the Mary role seems to have been neglected, and we are
growing apart, rather than together. That must be stopped! I must give
more thought to him; not less.
"I am all he has left. I should be false to my trust if I deliberately
undertook anything which would separate me from Martin by so much as a
thought.
"Are you fine enough, honest enough, _man_ enough, to acknowledge that
I'm right, and to respect my decision?
"Lonely Man! I ought not to begin a regular correspondence with you.
Just occasionally, perhaps, I might write; for Christmas, or Easter, or
your birthday, and to receive a letter in reply would make a break in my
life, which as you so blightingly remark begins to show symptoms of
`cramp.' (How could my letters be `so delightful' if they were
`cramped'?) The very first thing you must do is to explain just how,
and in what way, you discern in me the fatal growth! I'm so down upon
it in other people; I imagined myself so immaculately free! The least
you can do is to warn me of the danger point, before the infection has
time to spread.
"Also,--as the aim and object of the correspondence is that I should
know your honourable self, let me in to some of the secrets which my
photograph understands so well, and most of all, tell me what makes my
eyes sorry? It seems a little hard to be shut out, when mere
photographs see so much!
"Miss Beverley presents her compliments to Captain Blair. She finds it
a very difficult thing to wind up a letter to a man whom she has never
seen. Miss Beverley will be obliged if Captain Blair will therefore
kindly consider this letter concluded in the manner which seems to him
the most graceful and appropriate."
Katrine carried the letter to the post in her own hands, the address
carefully turned inwards so as to be screened from the scrutiny of
peering eyes. Although the distance from the house to the post-office
was about an eighth of a mile, it was seldom that she could traverse it
without being accosted at least three or four times. This morning,
however, the ordinary gossip jarred upon every nerve; she realised with
a shiver of distaste that upon previous occasions she had enjoyed these
encounters, had looked forward to them as to one of the prized episodes
in the day; had been moved to excitement when she herself possessed a
tiny item of news to add to the general store. As she crossed the road
to the post-office, she debated with herself as to the cause of her
change of mind, and found it in the envelope clasped in her hand.
A real interest had come into her life, and in its presence she had no
room for trivial make-believes. Until now, for eight long years,
nothing had happened to reach the real heart of her, and make her feel.
Never, never once, a thrill, a surprise, a feeling that the great
procession of life had halted to give her place, until one short week
ago, when out of the void a voice had spoken, and across the world had
come a challenge, an appeal! She, who owned little, was asked for much;
at the moment when her own heart was starved, she was asked to fill
another. The voice had called; all that was vital within her sang a
reply.
The letter was held out in an extended hand, was pressed for one moment
between tightening fingers, then dropped deep into the box. She stood
motionless for a moment, overwhelmed by the irrevocability of the
action, then turned aside with the feeling of one facing a new life.
That evening Martin was conscious of a special attempt on Katrine's part
to be agreeable and sympathetic. The secret lying warm and fragrant at
her own heart made her especially tender over his loneliness, added to
which tenderness was a decided leaven of compunction. Theoretically,
she was ready to sacrifice all for Martin's sake; virtually, she had
stubbornly set herself to reject the one suggestion he had made for
months past. It had taken a whole week of valiant striving against self
to bring her to the point of giving in with a good grace. The prospect
of a visit from Grizel Dundas was distinctly unpleasant, despite the
fact that Grizel was a well-loved friend. Katrine searched her
conscience for a reason for this contradiction, at the same time
shutting a tight bolt over the one suggestion which endeavoured to make
itself heard. Jealous! Why should she be jealous? Even if Grizel were
a thousand times more attractive than herself, they moved in different
worlds, and owned entirely distinct circles of friends. Why, pray, need
she be jealous? The inner voice was sternly forbidden to mention
Martin's name in such a connection. Jealousy was out of the question
where Martin was concerned. His suggestion had been made out of
consideration for her own enjoyment; it lay on her conscience that she
had received the suggestion ungraciously. She swallowed the last doubt,
and said gravely:
"I've been thinking, Martin, that I _will_ ask Grizel for next month.
There's not much to do, but the garden is at its best, and she'll enjoy
that. I'll write to-night."
Martin crumbled his bread.
"Oh, well," he said slowly, "I wrote to her myself last night. I meant
to tell you. We have been growing rather dull, living so much alone.
It will do us good to have some fresh life."