Her father glanced at her and opened the letter.
“‘Dear Ninian,
I have a word to say to you, more honest than most women would say. I have now little feeling for my own life. The one I thought I had, has gone, as such feelings have gone before. So I have little to give, and little zest for giving it. But I will give it to you, if it is better than nothing for you. If it is not, do not answer this letter, and in a week I will put you and yours in a memory to be uncovered only by myself. Yours with regret and remembrance,
Teresa Chilton.’”
“Well, that is her offer,” said Selina. “So you may have what is left.”
“It has its own quality,” said Lavinia. “She has little to give, and so offers little. She does not evade the truth.”
“She offers all she has,” said Ninian. “I offered no more.”
“It seems a shadow of a letter, Father. It somehow has no substance.”
“It means what it does, as you have said.”
“Yes, we must give her her due. She is ending things as well as she can. Perhaps she could not do less. But she could not do more either.”
“I still do not want anyone’s opinion of her.”
“It is only mine, Father; not the same to you as any other,” said Lavinia, putting her hand on his. “And we share it, as we share everything.”
Ninian covered the hand with his own, but answered without looking at her.
“We will share what we can. Some things are only for ourselves.”
“I wish everything was,” said Hugo at once. “It is the first feeling I remembered. I was glad to grow up and no longer be reproached for it.”
“I feel the same,” said Egbert. “I love things to be all mine.”
“I am the opposite,” said his sister. “Nothing means anything without the further meaning.”
“What kind of things are you talking of?” said Selina.
“Of everything,” said Lavinia, lifting her hands. “Of feelings, thoughts, hopes, mistakes, troubles and joys, everything.”
“I did not know we were talking of so much,” said Ninian.
“Teresa writes like a man,” said Egbert, looking at the letter.
“I have noticed that,” said Selina. “I have thought her a little like a man in herself.”
“I should have said she was the pure feminine,” said Lavinia. “Herself and all to do with her. I don’t remember her writing. I don’t mean anything against her.”
“Why should you?” said Ninian. “What are you but feminine yourself?”
“Oh, not purely, Father. Either in myself or as I have been influenced. It is quite a different thing.”
“Well, something is different.”
“We think of a masculine woman as tall and strong,” said Egbert. “Teresa is neither.”
“I did not mean masculine in that sense,” said Selina.
“You don’t know what you mean, Grandma,” said Lavinia, smiling.
“I know what she meant,” said Ninian. “I have thought it myself.”
“Perhaps that is why Uncle Hugo could not meet her — her hopes, her instincts — we need not know what they were. There was not the attraction of opposites.”
“In your view there would have been.”
“If she had succeeded — met what she wished, we would have welcomed her in the new character.”
“That was hardly the issue of the matter for them.”
“I wonder why we talk so much about her.”
“It was natural, after the letter came to light.”
“Well it alters nothing, as you would not have answered it. You could only have been silent, as she seemed to know.”
“One difference is that I did not have the choice.”
“Cannot we leave the matter?” said Hugo. “You must know how embarrassed I am by it.”
“We are held by the human story,” said Egbert. “It is really better than a book.”
“It has not been a deep one,” said Lavinia. “And it is ended now.”
“Your opinion does not alter it, and neither does mine,” said Ninian. “But they are not the same.”
“Marry her, if you want to, my son,” said Selina. “It is what she would choose.”
“I do want to,” said Ninian, with a cry in his voice. “I want her presence, her companionship, the stake in the future. I will have it, if I can.”
There was a short silence.
“Then answer the letter, Father,” said Lavinia, in an urgent tone. “You may be in time. Do not let any passing uncertainty blight the hopes of your life. I will come and help you to put the answer into words.”
“No, I will do it myself,” said Ninian, going to the door. “But thank you, my dear. I hoped you would not fail me. I am glad you have not.”
“So the letter does its work!” said Egbert. “Suppose it had not been found!”
“It is as well that it has,” said Lavinia. “We must say it now. It was written to be read, and it has met its fate. As Father’s stepping-stone to happiness it must be accepted. More, it must be welcomed! It is the only thing.”
“So the change is to come,” said Selina. “I have only to be a witness of it. It is not the first time for me.”
“What shall I do?” said Hugo. “Stay in the house, or go?”
“Stay with me, my boy. I may need you. I must partly lose one son.”
“I was thinking of Teresa.”
“You need not be troubled there. A woman so placed would not turn to the man again.”
“‘Hell holds no fury’—” said Lavinia.
“There is nothing of that kind. We have heard the truth. And it is better that the change should come. It ends the threat of it. We shall soon accustom ourselves. And the habit may be as hard to break as any other.”
“How much wisdom you have, Grandma! I hope we can depend on it.”
“I have had time to gain it, and give it trial. You can have it too, if you accept it. There are things that do the work of time.”
Selina held out her hand, and her grand-daughter moved towards it, drew up short and ran out of the room.
“Poor child!” said Selina. “And poor old woman!”
“Poor man!” said Hugo, indicating himself.
“Poor youth!” said Egbert.
“Poor Ninian!” said Selina. “That is where the doubt lies. For the rest of us there is none. Go to your sister, my boy. You can be of help, and should be happy to know it.”
Egbert went up to Lavinia’s room and found her sitting by the window.
“It is cold in here,” he said. “The sun has gone.”
“Gone for ever,” she said, with a smile to make light of her words. “It will not come out again.”
“Whoever put that letter in the desk, did sorry work. What was the point of opening it, if it was to be put where it would be found?”’
“I suppose it would have been wrong to destroy it.”
“It was wrong to open it. When that was done, the thing might have been carried to its end.”
“He felt it was the lesser guilt to stop half-way. He we say. We seem to think it was a man. And it seems a man’s idea.”
“What man can it have been? Hardly Ainger; the thought is beyond him; and he was too little involved. And Uncle would have gone the whole way.”
“We can think of motives for Uncle, I suppose.”
“Or of motives for me. Or even more for you. But let us pursue the truth. The letter was to be found, and found too late. The full result with half the guilt. That might be a line of thought.”
“Perhaps it was a case of curiosity. That might lead to hiding the letter. And it gives us a wider range. It was a trivial gain for the risk involved. But wrong-doers may not reason. They would hardly be a high type.”
“We are all wrong-doers,” said Egbert. “We cannot argue from that. Did he think that Grandma would die, and that the guilt would be ascribed to her?”
“After her death? When she could not deny it? What a pleasing thought!”