“Nita! Where’s that letter?”
“I’ll get it.” She went across the room to her writing-table.
The Baxter girl twisted her head.
“I say! He’s coming down the stairs.”
“If she read aloud that draft——” the blonde lady’s drawl had
disappeared. She glittered like an excited schoolgirl—“he might
recognize——”
“You mean——?” Mr. Flood raised his eyebrows but Anita, fumbling with her
keys, did not hear.
“It would be nice to be sure,” said the blonde lady.
“It’s rather cruel, isn’t it?” said Miss Howe uneasily.
“Why? It’ll be printed in the _Life_. Besides, it may not have been
written to him.”
“That’s why,” said Miss Howe.
“It would be nice to be _quite_ sure,” said the blonde lady again. And
as she spoke Kent Rehan came into the room.
At once I got up, with some blind, blundering idea, I believe, of
stopping him, of frustrating them, but Anita was nearer to him than I.
“Is she asleep? Very good of you, Kent. Sit here, Kent. Jenny, is the
window open in the passage? Very cold. I never knew such a draught.”
I went out to see. I had to do as I was told. Besides, how could I have
stopped them or him? Yet I was shaking with anger and disgust at them,
and at myself for my hateful tongue-tied youth and insignificance. An
older woman would have known what to do. Shaking with cold too—Anita was
right—it was bitter cold in the passage. I could hardly see my way to
the window for the fog. It was open an inch at the bottom, and at my
touch it rattled down with a bang that echoed oddly. For an instant I
thought it was a knock at the hall door. I stood a minute, quite
startled, peering down into the black well of the hall. But there was no
second knock, only the fog-laden draught of the passage came rushing up
at me again, and again Anita called to me to come in and shut the door.
I did so: and because it rattled, wedged it with the screw of paper that
lay near it on the floor, the crumpled telegram that Kent Rehan had
dropped when he first came in. Then, still shivering a little, I sat
down where I was. I didn’t want to go nearer. I knew my face was
tell-tale. I didn’t want to have the Baxter girl looking at me, and
maybe saying something. I could hear them in the other room well enough.
Anita’s voice seemed to cut through the thick air. There was a letter in
her hand. She was twisting it about as if she couldn’t find the first
page.
“—obviously a draft.” She held it away from her. Anita was long-sighted.
“Dear—dear——
Then it breaks off and begins again. You see?” She displayed it to them.
“Dearest——”
“Why, how clearly it’s written!” The Baxter girl peered at it. “That’s
quite a beautiful hand. That’s not Madala’s scrawl.”
The blonde lady looked at them through half-shut lids.
“Ah! It’s been written slowly——”
“As if she loved writing it!” The Baxter girl flushed. “Did _she_ know
about that sort of thing—that sentimental sort of thing? I should have
thought her too—oh, too splendid, removed—you know what I mean.”
“I don’t suppose she talked about it,” said Anita coldly. “She was not
of your generation.” And then, to the others—“I assure you, this letter
shook me. Even I never dreamed of this side of her. Listen.” She read
aloud in her measured voice—
“Dearest—
I wanted your letter so. I reckoned out the posts, and the
distances, and your busyness. I thought that in two days you
would probably write, and then I gave you another day’s grace
because you hate writing letters, and because I thought you
couldn’t dream how much I missed you—how much, how _soon_, I
wanted to hear. And then to get your letter the very next day,
before I could begin to look for it (but I did look!). Why, you
must have written as soon as the train was out of the station!
You missed me just as much then?
But it’s a mad letter, you know. It makes me laugh and cry. It’s
so sensible—and so silly. ‘Fame,’ ‘career,’ ‘reputation,’
‘position’—why do you fling these words at me? _I_ am making a
sacrifice? Darling, haven’t you eyes? Don’t you understand that
you’re my world? All these other things, since I’ve known you,
they’re shadows, they’re toys, I don’t want them. The reviews of
my new book—I’ve never been so delighted at getting any—but why?
D’you know why? To show them to you—to watch you shake with
laughter as you read them. When a flattering letter turns up, I
save it to show you as if it were gold, because I think—‘Perhaps
it’ll make him think more of me.’ Isn’t it idiotic? But I do.
And all the while I glory in the knowledge that all these
things, all the fuss and fame, don’t mean a brass button to
you—or to me, my dear, or to me.
And yet you write me a solemn letter about ‘making a sacrifice,’
‘abdicating a position.’
Don’t be—humble. And yet I like you in this mood. Because it
won’t last! I won’t _let_ it. It’s I who am not good enough. If
you knew how I tip-toe sometimes. You’re so much bigger than I
am. I lie in bed at nights, and all the things I’ve done wrong
in my life, all the twisty, tortuous, feminine things, all the
lies and cowardices and conceits, come and sting me. I’m so
bitterly ashamed of them. I feel I’ve got to tell you about them
all, and yet that if I do you’ll turn me out of your heart. If
you did that—if you were disappointed—if you got tired of me—it
turns me sick with fear.
I’m a fool to tear myself. I know you love me. And when you’re
with me I forget all that. I’m just happy. When you’re there
it’s like being in the blazing sunshine. Can ‘celebrity’ give me
that sunshine? Can ‘literature’ All my emptiness? Are the books
I write children to love me with your eyes? Oh, you fool!
Oh, of course, I know you don’t mean it. It’s just that you
think you ought to protest. But suppose I took you at your word?
Suppose I said that, on careful consideration, I felt that I
wanted to lead my own life instead of yours? that—how does the
list run?—my Work, my Circle of Friends, my Career, were too
much to give up for—you? What would you say—no, do? for even I,
(and the sun’s in my eyes) even I can’t call you eloquent! But
what would you do if I wouldn’t come to you?
Oh, my darling, my darling, you needn’t be afraid. I’d rather be
a door-keeper in the house of my God——
I’m changed. What have you done to me? Other people notice it.
My friends are grown critical of me. Only yesterday someone (no
one you know) sneered at me—‘In love? Oh well, you’ll get over
it. It’s a phase.’ You know, they don’t understand. I’m not ‘in
love,’ but I love you. There’s the difference. I love you. I
shall love you till I die. Till——? As if death could blot you
out for me! I used to believe in death. I used to believe it
ended everything. But now, since I’ve known you, I can never
die. You’ve poured into me an immortal spirit——”
“Go on,” breathed the Baxter girl.
“It breaks off there. It’s not signed. It was never sent.”
“She had that much wisdom, then.” The blonde lady’s laughter came to us
over Mr. Flood’s shoulder. “That’s not the letter to send to any man.
Giving herself away?—giving us all away——”
“To any man? To what man? There’s the point. You see the importance.
It’s the heart of the secret. Who is it? For whom was she ready to give
up, in her own words, name, friends, career——?”
“Well, practically she did that, didn’t she, when she married Carey? She
buried herself in the country. She didn’t write a line. You said
yourself that she put her career behind her. Why shouldn’t it be written
to Carey?”
“Oh, don’t be absurd. It’s Carey that makes it impossible. How could
Carey have written a letter needing such an answer? Little he cared.
What was her genius to him? Isn’t it obvious, isn’t it plain as print,
that Carey happened, Carey and all he stands for, _after_ the writing of
this letter, because of some hitch? Why wasn’t the letter sent? What
happened? What folly? What misunderstanding? What disillusionment? What
realization of danger?—to send her, with that letter half written, into
Carey’s arms? Carey, that stick, that ordinary man! And on the top of it
_The Resting-place_ comes out, the _cri du cœur_—or, if you like, Lila,
the satire—(for I’m beginning to believe you’re right) the satire of
_The Resting-place_. I tell you, I smell tragedy.”
“It’s supposition, it’s mere supposition,” said Miss Howe impatiently.
“Isn’t all detective work supposition to begin with? Wait till I’ve made
my book. Wait till I’ve sifted my evidence, till I’ve ranged it, stick
and brick, step by step, up, up, up, to the letter.”