I should never marry…
Dinner over, I went and sat in the library.
I lit my pipe, and put my feet up on the fire-irons, and composed myself to that after dinner slumber that can be sweet and consoling upon occasion, but tonight lacked every charm.
I had become used to the sight of her in the chair opposite my own, her shoulders turned so that the light fell upon her work, and Don at her feet; now the chair looked strangely empty. Well, to hell with it, that a woman could so disturb the close of day.
I got up and found a book upon the shelves, and turned the pages.
Then I must have dozed, because when I looked up again the hands of the clock in the corner were a little short of nine.
To bed then, and to sleep. No sense in sitting on, with the fire gone out.
I took the dogs round to the kennels—the weather had changed, it was blowing and spitting rain—and then bolted up and went to my room.
I was just about to throw my coat off on the chair when I saw a note, placed beside the bowl of flowers on the table next to my bed.
I went over to the table, and picked up the note and read it.
It was from my cousin Rachel.
“Dear Philip,” it said, “if you can bring yourself to do so, please forgive me for my rudeness to you tonight.
It was unpardonable of me to behave so in your house.
I have no excuse, except that I am not entirely myself these days; emotion lies too near the surface.
I have written to your guardian, thanking him for his letter and accepting the allowance.
It was generous and dear of you both to think of me.
Good night.
Rachel.”
I read the letter twice, and then put it in my pocket.
Was her pride spent then, and the anger too?
Did these feelings dissolve with the tears?
A load went from me, that she had accepted the allowance.
I had visualized another visit to the bank, and further explanations, countermanding my first orders; and then interviews with my godfather, and arguments, and the whole business ending most wretchedly with my cousin Rachel sweeping out of the house and taking herself to London, there to live in lodgings giving Italian lessons.
Had it cost her much to write that note, I wondered?
The swing from pride to humility?
I hated the fact that she had to do so.
For the first time since he had died, I found myself blaming Ambrose for what had happened.
Surely he might have taken some thought for the future.
Illness and sudden death can come to anyone.
He must have known that by making no provision he left his wife to our mercy, to our charity.
A letter home to my godfather would have spared all this.
I had a vision of her sitting down in aunt Phoebe’s boudoir and writing me this note.
I wondered if she had left the boudoir yet and gone to bed.
I hesitated for a moment, and then went along the corridor and stood under the archway by her rooms.
The door of the boudoir was open, the door of the bedroom shut.
I knocked upon the bedroom door.
For a moment no answer came, and then she said,
“Who is it?”
I did not answer
“Philip.” I opened the door, and went inside.
The room was in darkness, and the light from my candle showed the curtains of the bed to be partly drawn. I could see the outline of her form under the coverlet.
“I have just read your note,” I said.
“I wanted to thank you for it, and to say good night.”
I thought she might sit up and light her candle, but she did not do so. She lay just as she was, on her pillows, behind the curtains.
“I wanted you to know also,” I said, “that I had no idea of patronizing you.
Please believe that.”
The voice that came from the curtains was strangely quiet and subdued.
“I never thought you had,” she answered.
We were both silent an instant, and then she said,
“It would not worry me to give Italian lessons.