Of course I quite see your point of view. Indeed I absolutely agree in
a sense with every word that you have written to me. We have done
wrong in allowing ourselves to love one another, and when I say “we” I
really mean I Roger Gretorex, not you, Ivy Lexton. You were, you are,
the purest and best woman I have ever known.
I can swear before God that, had you been even moderately happy, I
would have killed myself rather than have disturbed your peace. My
only excuse, not for having loved you--of that I am not at all
ashamed--but for having let you know that I loved you, is that when we
first met you had begun to find how bitter a loveless life can be.
You say you feel you ought never to come again to Ferry Place. I bow
to your decision, dearest, and I will say that you are right in having
come to that decision, even though it causes me agony. Thank you for
saying I may still write to you, and that you will sometimes telephone
to me.
Your devoted
Roger Gretorex.
Berwick read the letter right through. Then he handed it to his wife.
“Janey? I want you to tell me what you think of this! Both of the
writer, I mean, and of the woman to whom this letter was written?”
Slowly, with her husband closely watching her, and feeling, it must be
admitted, ashamed of what she was doing, Janey Berwick read Roger
Gretorex’s letter to Ivy Lexton right through.
Then she looked across at her husband, and her face bore an expression
that a little surprised him. He had expected it to be filled with the
wrath and disgust he felt himself.
“This is written with a man’s heart’s blood,” she said at last. “There
must be more in this little Mrs. Lexton than you think, Angus. Surely
this letter cannot be in answer to one sent by a silly, frivolous
woman?”
“I wonder,” he said gloomily, “what their real relations have been.
This letter might, of course, mean one of two things.”
She was reading the letter once more, slowly and carefully. At last
she looked up. “I am inclined to think----” then she stopped and
exclaimed, “I don’t know what to think, Angus!”
“What were you going to say just now?” he asked quickly.
“I was going to say that I’m inclined to think that their friendship
has not been innocent. That was what I was going to say; but even in
these last few moments I’ve turned right round! Now I would say in all
sincerity, my dear, that I think it very probable that there’s been
nothing but passionate love on his side, and I suppose grateful
affection on hers. She evidently doesn’t care for her husband; so much
is quite clear.”
“No one would ever think so, from her way of speaking of him. The only
time I’ve ever seen them together they seemed on the most affectionate
terms. He was calling her ‘darling’ all the time, and she called him
‘dear old boy,’ and seemed genuinely very much worried about him.”
“At any rate she’s now made up her mind to do the right thing,” said
Janey Berwick gravely. “One can’t but honour her for that, when one
remembers----”
She smiled, a curious little smile.
“Yes, my dear? Out with it!”
“After all, it is very delightful to be loved,” she said softly, “and
this poor young chap evidently adores her.”
“Now comes a difficult question: what am I to do with this letter? I
wonder if I ought to send it back to her----”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t send it back to her. If she’s the sort of
woman you’ve described her to be, it’s quite likely she’ll never
discover that she sent it you by mistake.”
“Ought I to put it in the fire?”
“I don’t think you ought to do that. It doesn’t belong to you. You’ve
no right to destroy it. Wait a day or two, dearest, and see what
happens. She may ask you if you have got the letter? Then you can give
it back to her. I’ll keep it if you like, Angus. We’ll put it in an
envelope and I’ll address it to myself. If I keep it in the secret
drawer of my old desk over there, only you and I will know where it
is.”