“Not either as yet, Father. Or not allowed to be. The threat is not recognised, but it is there. It is best to be open about it. I decided to speak the truth.”
“Well, it can seldom be hidden,” said Eliza. “In this case it could not be. What has happened to the money we gave? It must have been put to some use.”
“Much of it has gone on Miss Murdoch’s debts. They were more than I knew. And more than she knew or would know. It was made over to her in payment for my part in the goodwill. I had no control over it. It was not mine.”
“No, it was never yours. It was your father’s and meant for you all. What a tale for you to tell, and for Angus and Roberta to hear! Are you glad to see them?”
“More than they can be to see me, the tale being as you tell it.”
“I was impressed by it,” said Angus. “I have a great respect for failure. For letting things pass to other people and having nothing oneself. It is a thing we can speak of openly. It is so much less furtive than success.”
“People never speak of that,” said Roberta. “And they pretend it is not in their thoughts. There is something shamefaced about it.”
“There are other things,” said Eliza. “And other things too about failure. I fear that Hermia will find it.”
“It is a serious threat,” said Sir Robert. “But we took the risk with open eyes. It is of no use to regret it. It is a thing we must sometimes do. But do all you can, Hermia. Try to see Miss Murdoch’s point of view. Don’t be too sure of your own. The future is largely in your hands.”
“It is almost wholly out of them. And it is Miss Murdoch’s point of view that is bringing disaster, not mine. It is no good to say any more. You would not be any wiser. There are other matters under the sun. It seems that the post is here.”
“With a letter for each of us,” said Angus, handing them round. “It is not often so fair.”
“Mine is a bill,” said Sir Robert. “And it is not at all fair. I have paid it.”
“Mine is also a bill,” said Roberta. “And it is quite fair. I have omitted to pay it.”
“Mine is just from a friend,” said Madeline, closing her lips and her letter after the words in a way that had become accepted.
“Whom is yours from, Hermia?” said Eliza, speaking as one who had a right to ask. “You seem quite lost in it.”
“So perhaps she can’t emerge from it,” said Roberta.
“She must know whom it is from. She can read the signature.”
“That seems the end of our duty to a letter,” said Angus.
“It is not of her duty to me. Any letters that come to this house are in a sense mine. I have a right to know who is writing, if not what is written. I really have a right to know the whole. Whom is the letter from, Hermia?”
“Just from a friend, as Madeline’s is,” said Sir Robert, in a light tone. “That is true of most letters.”
“Hardly of this,” said his daughter, with her eyes still on it. “It is from Hamilton Grimstone.”
“Hamilton Grimstone? Mrs. Grimstone’s son?” said Eliza. “Why, you don’t know him. You can hardly have met. Why does he write to you?”
“He gives his reason.”
“Well, what is it? It can’t be anything. He is almost a stranger to you.”
“He comes with his mother to things at the school. Her grand-child, his niece, is a pupil there. We have talked once or twice, but not in a way to lead to anything.”
“To lead to what? Don’t make it such a mystery. It can be nothing that matters. Anyhow it is not a secret.”
“It might be; perhaps it should be. Some people would make it one, I daresay most people. I shall not. It is a proposal.”
“Of marriage? Oh, it can’t be. You are making a mistake. You are reading it wrongly. It is out of the question. Let me see the words.”
“No, it should perhaps be more of a secret than that. But it is as I said. There can be no doubt.”
“Well, if it is, it is a sudden thing. You must have made a conquest. It does happen suddenly sometimes.”
Eliza looked at her step-daughter with new eyes. “You did make use of your time, and so did he. Well, it was wise of you both, if you knew your minds. Let me see the letter.”
“No, it is surely only for Hermia’s eyes,” said Sir Robert.
But Hermia put it into Eliza’s hands as if she had no personal concern with it, and Eliza read it in a low tone, as though judging of the words. Hermia moved to check her, but desisted and heard with the rest.
‘My dear Miss Heriot,
You will be surprised by my writing to you, and even more surprised by what I write. I should be held to know you very little. But I seem to myself to know you well. And I am venturing to ask you if you will be my wife.
I can offer material ease, a suitable settlement, and all my feeling.
If you do not accept my offer I will ask simply and openly that my mother shall not know of it.
Yours in devotion, if hardly in hope,
Hamilton Grimstone.’
“Well, so it is the truth. What do you feel about it? I think I like the way he writes. It is a good letter, simple and open and to the point. What do you find your feeling is? I daresay you want time to think.”
“No, I know what it is. It is what it would be, a want of it. I am surprised, and I suppose I am grateful, but nothing more. I hardly know him. I don’t even like him much. He has shown an interest in me, but I have felt nothing on my side.”
“Well, don’t decide in haste. Your feelings may respond to his. That is a thing that can happen. This is not a chance that comes every day. You may not have so many. As far as I know you have had very few. You have not been happy of late. You were dissatisfied at home, and the school scheme is hardly a success. It does not leave you with much. And this offers you your own life at a time when you need it, and know your need. You should think and think again. Your tastes may be simple, but you are dependent and used to ease. And we don’t know what the future may bring.”
“We know enough,” said Sir Robert. “There is nothing that necessitates her accepting a man against her will. I have provided for my daughters. Her feelings are the only question. She must judge for herself.”
“I have judged, Father, or I have not had to. I could not have a moment’s doubt. My surprise at the offer adds to the certainty. I will answer the letter and forget the whole thing as he will wish it forgotten.”
“It is a light way to deal with a matter of this moment,” said Eliza. “It is a step you can’t retrace. You may realise what you are losing, when it is too late. Do not make light of my words. I am not saying them lightly. It is the advice I would give to my own daughter.”
“I daresay it is, and it may be sound on the surface. But it has no depth or meaning. Nothing that would count is there.”
“How do you feel about it, Madeline?”
“As Hermia does, Mater. There can be no question.”
“There can be none,” said Sir Robert. “The matter can fall into the past.”
“Well, we will leave you to discuss it by yourselves,” said Eliza, going to the door. “I don’t know what your conclusion will be. We can hear it later.”
“She does not know,” said Hermia, “though we may think she has been told. She is so used to imposing her view that she can believe in nothing else. And there is the chance of my being disposed of. I see it is becoming a problem.”
“Oh, that could only be a secondary thought,” said Madeline.
“It may have been, but it was there.”
“I look up to you, Hermia,” said Roberta. “It is hard to believe in your history. You have escaped from home, a mighty effort, imposed a levy on the family a mightier, met a reverse with quiet courage, won a good man’s love and risen to the height of refusing it. Suppose we all lived as fully?”