Six months, a year, or longer?
Had Ambrose started upon a letter to me which never reached its destination; or were there other bits of paper, part of the same letter, which for some unknown reason were still lying between the pages of a book?
The letter must have been written before his illness.
The writing was firm and clear.
Therefore last winter, last autumn possibly… I was swept by a kind of shame.
What business was it of mine to probe back into that past, to wonder about a letter that had never reached me?
It was not my affair.
I wished to heaven I had not come upon it.
All afternoon Seecombe and I sorted the clothes, and he put them into packages while I wrote notes of explanation to go with them.
He suggested that the parcels should be given out at Christmas, which seemed to me a sound idea, and one that would appeal to the tenants.
When we had finished I went downstairs again to the library, and put the books into the shelves.
I found myself shaking the leaves of each volume, before I placed it on the shelf; and as I did so I felt furtive, like someone guilty of a petty crime.
“… a disease, of course, like kleptomania, or some other malady…” Why did I have to remember those words?
What did Ambrose mean?
I reached for a dictionary, and looked up kleptomania.
“An irresistible tendency to theft in persons not tempted to do it by needy circumstances.”
That was not his accusation.
His accusation was one of prodigality, of extravagance.
How could extravagance be a malady?
It was totally unlike Ambrose, the most generous of men, to accuse anyone of such a habit. As I put the dictionary back upon the shelf the door opened, and my cousin Rachel came into the room.
I felt as guilty as if she had caught me in deceit.
“I have just finished putting away the books,” I said, and I wondered if my voice sounded as false to her as it did to me.
“So I see,” she answered, and she went and sat down by the fire.
She was ready changed for dinner.
I had not realized it was so late.
“We have sorted the clothes,” I said.
“Seecombe was very helpful.
We think it a good plan, if you approve, that the things should be given out at Christmas.”
“Yes,” she said, “so he told me just now.
I think it most appropriate.”
I did not know if it was my manner, or hers, but there was a kind of constraint between us.
“It hasn’t ceased raining for the day,” I said.
“No,” she answered.
I glanced at my hands, dusty from the books.
“If you will excuse me,” I said, “I will go and wash, and change for dinner.”
I went upstairs, and dressed, and when I came down again dinner was upon the table.
We took our places in silence.
Seecombe, from long habit, would break in upon our conversation very often, at dinnertime, when he had something that he wished to say, and tonight, when we had nearly finished, he said to my cousin Rachel,
“Have you shown Mr. Philip the new coverings, madam?”
“No, Seecombe,” she answered, “there hasn’t yet been time.
But if he cares to see them I can do so after dinner.
Perhaps John would carry them down to the library.”
“Coverings?” I said, puzzled.
“What covers are they?”
“Don’t you remember?” she answered.
“I told you I had ordered coverings for the blue bedroom.
Seecombe has seen them, and is very much impressed.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, “yes, I remember now.”
“I have seen nothing like them in my life, sir,” said Seecombe, “certainly no mansion in these parts has any furnishings to touch them.”
“Ah, but then the stuff is imported from Italy, Seecombe,” said my cousin Rachel.