This anabatic epistle was not arrived at until after several drafts. It had by then grown late, and Charles changed his mind about its immediate dispatch. She, by now, would have wept herself to sleep; he would let her suffer one more black night; but she should wake to joy. He re-read the letter several times; it had a little aftermath of the tone he had used, only a day or two before, in letters from London to Ernestina; but those letters had been agony to write, mere concessions to convention, which is why he had added that postscript. He still felt, as he had told Sarah, a stranger to himself; but now it was with a kind of awed pleasure that he stared at his face in the mirror. He felt a great courage in himself, both present and future—and a uniqueness, a having done something unparalleled. And he had his wish: he was off on a journey again, a journey made doubly delicious by its promised companion. He tried to imagine unknown Sarahs—a Sarah laughing, Sarah singing, Sarah dancing. They were hard to imagine, and yet not impossible… he remembered that smile when they had been so nearly discovered by Sam and Mary. It had been a clairvoyant smile, a seeing into the future. And that time he had raised her from her knees—with what infinite and long pleasure he would now do that in their life together!

If these were the thorns and the stones that threatened about him, he could bear them. He did think a moment of one small thorn: Sam. But Sam was like all servants, dismissable.

And summonable. Summoned he was, at a surprisingly early hour that next morning. He found Charles in his dressing gown, with a sealed letter and packet in his hands.

“Sam, I wish you to take these to the address on the envelope. You will wait ten minutes to see if there is an answer. If there is none—I expect none, but wait just in case—if there is none, you are to come straight back here. And hire a fast carriage. We go to Lyme.” He added, “But no baggage. We return here tonight.”

“Tonight, Mr. Charles! But I thought we was—“ “Never mind what you thought. Just do as I say.” Sam put on his footman face, and withdrew. As he went slowly downstairs it became clear to him that his position was intolerable. How could he fight a battle without information? With so many conflicting rumors as to the disposition of the enemy forces? He stared at the envelope in his hand. Its destination was flagrant: Miss Woodruff, at Endicott’s Family Hotel. And only one day in Lyme? With portmanteaux to wait here! He turned the small packet over, pressed the envelope.

It seemed fat, three pages at least. He glanced round surreptitously, then examined the seal. Sam cursed the man who invented wax.

And now he stands again before Charles, who has dressed.

“Well?”

“No answer, Mr. Charles.”

Charles could not quite control his face. He turned away.

“And the carriage?”

“Ready and waitin’, sir.”

“Very well. I shall be down shortly.”

Sam withdrew. The door had no sooner closed when Charles raised his hands to his head, then threw them apart, as if to an audience, an actor accepting applause, a smile of gratitude on his lips. For he had, upon his ninety-ninth re-reading of his letter that previous night, added a second postscript. It concerned that brooch we have already seen in Ernestina’s hands. Charles begged Sarah to accept it; and by way of a sign, to allow that her acceptance of it meant that she accepted his apologies for his conduct. This second postscript had ended: “The bearer will wait till you have read this. If he should bring the contents of the packet back… but I know you cannot be so cruel.”

Yet the poor man had been in agony during Sam’s absence.

And here Sam is again, volubly talking in a low voice, with frequent agonized looks. The scene is in the shadow of a lilac bush, which grows outside the kitchen door in Aunt Tranter’s garden and provides a kind of screen from the garden proper. The afternoon sun slants through the branches and first white buds. The listener is Mary, with her cheeks flushed and her hand almost constantly covering her mouth.

“’Tisn’t possible, ‘tisn’t possible.”

“It’s ‘is uncle. It’s turned ‘is “ead.”

“But young mistress—oh, what’ll ‘er do now, Sam?”

And both their eyes traveled up with dread, as if they thought to hear a scream or see a falling body, to the windows through the branches above.

“And bus, Mary. What’ll us do?”

“Oh Sam—‘tisn’t fair…”

“I love yer, Mary.”

“Oh Sam…”

“’Tweren’t just bein’ wicked. I’d as soon die as lose yer now.”

“Oh what’ll us do?”

“Don’t cry, my darling, don’t cry. I’ve ‘ad enough of hupstairs. They’re no better’n us,” He gripped her by the arms. “If ‘is lordship thinks like master, like servant, ‘e’s mistook, Mary. If it’s you or ‘im, it’s you.” He stiffened, like a soldier about to charge. “I’ll leave ‘is hemploy.”

“Sam!”

“I will. I’ll ‘aul coals. Hanything!”

“But your money—‘e woan’ give’ee that no more now!”

“’E ain’t got it to give.” His bitterness looked at her dismay. But then he smiled and reached out his hands. “But shall I tell yer someone who ‘as? If you and me play our cards right?”

50

They had arrived in Lyme just before two. For a few minutes Charles took possession of the room he had reserved. Again he paced up and down, but now in a nervous agony, steeling himself for the interview ahead. The existentialist terror invaded him again; perhaps he had known it would and so burned his boats by sending that letter to Sarah. He rehearsed again the thousand phrases he had invented on the journey from Exeter; but they fled through his mind like October leaves. He took a deep breath, then his hat, and went out.

Mary, with a broad grin as soon as she saw him, opened the door. He practiced his gravity on her.

“Good afternoon. Is Miss Ernestina at home?” But before she could answer Ernestina herself appeared at the end of the hall. She had a little smile.

“No. My duenna is out to lunch. But you may come in.”

She disappeared back into the sitting room. Charles gave his hat to Mary, set his lapels, wished he were dead, then went down the hall and into his ordeal. Ernestina, in sunlight, by a window overlooking the garden, turned gaily.

“I received a letter from Papa this… Charles! Charles? Is something wrong?”

And she came towards him. He could not look at her, but stared at the carpet. She stopped. Her frightened and his grave, embarrassed eyes met.

“Charles?”

“I beg you to sit down.”

“But what has happened?”

“That is… why I have come.”

“But why do you look at me like that?”

“Because I do not know how to begin to say what I must.”

Still looking at him, she felt behind her and sat on a chair by the window. Still he was silent. She touched a letter on the table beside her.

“Papa…” but his quick look made her give up her sentence.

“He was kindness itself… but I did not tell him the truth.”