LITMIR.BIZ

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drooped with an intensified despair.

      “Here’s this cottage,” he said, pursuing some contracted argument.

       “We’ve lived here all our lives, you might say… . Clear out.

       At my age… . One can’t die in a slum.”

      I stood before him for a space, speculating what thoughts might fill the gaps between these broken words. I found his lethargy, and the dimly shaped mental attitudes his words indicated, abominable. I said abruptly, “You have her letter?”

      He dived into his breast-pocket, became motionless for ten seconds, then woke up again and produced her letter. He drew it clumsily from its envelope, and handed it to me silently.

      “Why!” he cried, looking at me for the first time, “What’s come to your chin, Willie?”

      “It’s nothing,” I said. “It’s a bruise;” and I opened the letter.

      It was written on greenish tinted fancy notepaper, and with all and more than Nettie’s usual triteness and inadequacy of expression. Her handwriting bore no traces of emotion; it was round and upright and clear as though it had been done in a writing lesson. Always her letters were like masks upon her image; they fell like curtains before the changing charm of her face; one altogether forgot the sound of her light clear voice, confronted by a perplexing stereotyped thing that had mysteriously got a hold upon one’s heart and pride. How did that letter run? —

      “MY DEAR MOTHER,

      “Do not be distressed at my going away. I have gone somewhere safe, and with some one who cares for me very much. I am sorry for your sakes, but it seems that it had to be. Love is a very difficult thing, and takes hold of one in ways one does not expect. Do not think I am ashamed about this, I glory in my love, and you must not trouble too much about me. I am very, very happy (deeply underlined).

      “Fondest love to Father and Puss.

      “Your loving

      “Nettie.”

      That queer little document! I can see it now for the childish simple thing it was, but at the time I read it in a suppressed anguish of rage. It plunged me into a pit of hopeless shame; there seemed to remain no pride for me in life until I had revenge. I stood staring at those rounded upstanding letters, not trusting myself to speak or move. At last I stole a glance at Stuart.

      He held the envelope in his hand, and stared down at the postmark between his horny thumbnails.

      “You can’t even tell where she is,” he said, turning the thing round in a hopeless manner, and then desisting. “It’s hard on us, Willie. Here she is; she hadn’t anything to complain of; a sort of pet for all of us. Not even made to do her share of the ‘ousework. And she goes off and leaves us like a bird that’s learnt to fly. Can’t TRUST us, that’s what takes me. Puts ‘erself — But there! What’s to happen to her?”

      “What’s to happen to him?”

      He shook his head to show that problem was beyond him.

      “You’ll go after her,” I said in an even voice; “you’ll make him marry her?”

      “Where am I to go?” he asked helplessly, and held out the envelope with a gesture; “and what could I do? Even if I knew — How could I leave the gardens?”

      “Great God!” I cried, “not leave these gardens! It’s your Honor, man! If she was my daughter — if she was my daughter — I’d tear the world to pieces!” . . I choked. “You mean to stand it?”

      “What can I do?”

      “Make him marry her! Horsewhip him! Horsewhip him, I say! — I’d strangle him!”

      He scratched slowly at his hairy cheek, opened his mouth, and shook his head. Then, with an intolerable note of sluggish gentle wisdom, he said, “People of our sort, Willie, can’t do things like that.”

      I came near to raving. I had a wild impulse to strike him in the face. Once in my boyhood I happened upon a bird terribly mangled by some cat, and killed it in a frenzy of horror and pity. I had a gust of that same emotion now, as this shameful mutilated soul fluttered in the dust, before me. Then, you know, I dismissed him from the case.

      “May I look?” I asked.

      He held out the envelope reluctantly.

      “There it is,” he said, and pointing with his garden-rough forefinger.

       “I.A.P.A.M.P. What can you make of that?”

      I took the thing in my hands. The adhesive stamp customary in those days was defaced by a circular postmark, which bore the name of the office of departure and the date. The impact in this particular case had been light or made without sufficient ink, and half the letters of the name had left no impression. I could distinguish —

      I A P A M P

      and very faintly below D.S.O.

      I guessed the name in an instant flash of intuition. It was Shaphambury. The very gaps shaped that to my mind. Perhaps in a sort of semi-visibility other letters were there, at least hinting themselves. It was a place somewhere on the east coast, I knew, either in Norfolk or Suffolk.

      “Why!” cried I — and stopped.

      What was the good of telling him?

      Old Stuart had glanced up sharply, I am inclined to think almost fearfully, into my face. “You — you haven’t got it?” he said.

      Shaphambury — I should remember that.

      “You don’t think you got it?” he said.

      I handed the envelope back to him.

      “For a moment I thought it might be Hampton,” I said.

      “Hampton,” he repeated. “Hampton. How could you make Hampton?” He turned the envelope about. “H.A.M. — why, Willie, you’re a worse hand at the job than me!”

      He replaced the letter in the envelope and stood erect to put this back in his breast pocket.

      I did not mean to take any risks in this affair. I drew a stump of pencil from my waistcoat pocket, turned a little away from him and wrote “Shaphambury” very quickly on my frayed and rather grimy shirt cuff.

      “Well,” said I, with an air of having done nothing remarkable.

      I turned to him with some unimportant observation — I have forgotten what.

      I never finished whatever vague remark I commenced.

      I looked up to see a third person waiting at the greenhouse door.

      Section 7

      It was old Mrs. Verrall.

      I wonder if I can convey the effect of her to you. She was a little old lady with extraordinarily flaxen hair, her weak aquiline features were pursed up into an assumption of dignity, and she was richly dressed. I would like to underline that “richly dressed,” or have the words printed in florid old English or Gothic lettering. No one on earth is now quite so richly dressed as she was, no one old or young indulges in so quiet and yet so profound a sumptuosity. But you must not imagine any extravagance of outline or any beauty or richness of color. The predominant colors were black and fur browns, and the effect of richness was due entirely to the extreme costliness of the materials employed. She affected silk brocades with rich and elaborate patterns, priceless black lace over creamy or purple satin, intricate trimmings through which threads and bands of velvet wriggled, and in the winter rare furs. Her gloves fitted exquisitely, and ostentatiously simple chains of fine gold and pearls, and a great number of bracelets, laced about her little person. One was forced to feel that the slightest article she wore cost more than all the wardrobe of a dozen girls like Nettie; her bonnet affected the simplicity that is beyond rubies.

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