After so great a shock time for reflection is, I think, most necessary.
I had hoped to be in England before this, but was held up at Genoa, for the ship that brought me was not ready to sail.
I believe I still have members of my own family, the Coryns, scattered about Cornwall, but knowing none of them I have no wish to intrude upon them. I would much prefer to be alone.
Possibly, after I have rested here a little, I may travel up to London, and then make further plans.
“I will await instruction from you what to do with my husband’s possessions.
“Most sincerely yours,
“RACHEL ASHLEY.”
I read the letter once, twice, perhaps three times, then gave it back to my godfather.
He waited for me to speak.
I did not say a word.
“You see,” he said at length, “that after all she has kept nothing.
Not so much as one book, or a pair of gloves.
They are all for you.”
I did not answer.
“She doesn’t even ask to see the house,” he went on, “the house that would have been her home had Ambrose lived.
That voyage she has just made, you realize, of course, that if things had been otherwise they would have made it together?
This would have been her homecoming.
What a difference, eh?
All the people on the estate to welcome her, the servants agog with excitement, the neighbors calling—instead of which, a lonely hostelry in Plymouth.
She may be pleasant or unpleasant—how can I tell, I have not met her.
But the point is, she asks nothing, she demands nothing.
Yet she is Mrs. Ashley.
I’m sorry, Philip.
I know your views, and you won’t be shaken.
But as Ambrose’s friend, as his trustee, I cannot sit here and do nothing when his widow arrives alone and friendless in this country.
We have a guest room in this house.
She is welcome to it until her plans are formed.”
I went and stood by the window.
Louise was not absent after all.
She had a basket on her arm, and was snipping off the heads of the dead flowers in the border.
She raised her head and saw me, waving her hand.
I wondered if my godfather had read the letter to her.
“Well, Philip?” he said. “You can write to her or not, just as you wish.
I don’t suppose you want to see her, and if she accepts my invitation I shall not ask you over whilst she is here.
But some sort of message at least is due from you, an acknowledgment of the things she has brought back for you.
I can put that in a postscript when I write.”
I turned away from the window, and looked back at him.
“Why should you imagine I don’t wish to see her?” I asked.
“I do wish to see her, very much.
If she is a woman of impulse, which she appears to be from that letter—I recollect Rainaldi telling me the same thing—then I can also act on impulse, which I propose to do.
It was impulse that took me to Florence in the first place, wasn’t it?”
“Well?” asked my godfather, his brows knitting, staring at me suspiciously.
“When you write to Plymouth,” I said, “say that Philip Ashley has already heard the news of Ambrose’s death.
That he went to Florence on receipt of two letters, went to the villa Sangalletti, saw her servants, saw her friend and adviser, Signor Rainaldi, and is now returned.
Say that he is a plain man, and lives in a plain fashion.
That he has no fine manners, no conversation, and is little used to the society of women, or indeed of anyone.
If, however, she wishes to see him and her late husband’s home—Philip Ashley’s house is at the disposal of his cousin Rachel, when she cares to visit it.”
And I placed my hand upon my heart, and bowed.
“I never thought,” said my godfather slowly, “to see you grow so hard.
What has happened to you?”