Chapter XIX--A Letter

by Bram Stoker

　　On Monday evening after dinner Mr. Everard and his son sat for awhile in silence. They had not met since morning; and in thepresence of the servants conversation had been scrupulously polite.Now, though they were both waiting to talk, neither liked to begin.The older man was outwardly placid, when Leonard, a little flushedand a little nervous of voice, began:'Have you had any more bills?' He had expected none, and thus hopedto begin by scoring against his father. It was something of a set-down when the latter, taking some papers from his breast-pocket,handed them to him, saying:'Only these!' Leonard took them in silence and looked at them. Allwere requests for payment of debts due by his son.In each case the full bill was enclosed. He was silent a while; buthis father spoke:'It would almost seem as if all these people had made up their mindsthat you were of no further use to them.' Then without pausing hesaid, but in a sharper voice:'Have you paid the jewellers? This is Monday!' Without speakingLeonard took leisurely from his pocket folded paper. This he opened,and, after deliberately smoothing out the folds, handed it to hisfather. Doubtless something in his manner had already convinced thelatter that the debt was paid. He took the paper in as leisurely away as it had been given, adjusted his spectacles, and read it.Seeing that his son had scored this time, he covered his chagrin withan appearance of paternal satisfaction.'Good!' For many reasons he was glad the debt was paid He washimself too poor a man to allow the constant drain his son's debts,and too careful of his position to be willing have such exposure aswould come with a County Court action against his son. All the same,his exasperation continued. Neither was his quiver yet empty. Heshot his next arrow:'I am glad you paid off those usurers!' Leonard did not like thedefinite way he spoke. Still in silence, he took from his pocket asecond paper, which he handed over unfolded. Mr. Everard read it,and returned it politely, with again one word:'Good!' For a few minutes there was silence. The father spokeagain:'Those other debts, have you paid them?' With a calm deliberation sofull of tacit rudeness that it made his father flush Leonardanswered:'Not yet, sir! But I shall think of them presently. I don't care tobe bustled by them; and I don't mean to!' It was apparent thatthough he spoke verbally of his creditors, his meaning was withregard to others also.'When will they be paid?' As his son hesitated, he went on:'I am alluding to those who have written to me. I take it that as myestate is not entailed, and as you have no income except from me, thecredit which has been extended to you has been rather on my accountthan your own. Therefore, as the matter touches my own name, I amentitled to know something of what is going on.' His manner as wellas his words was so threatening that Leonard was a little afraid. Hemight imperil his inheritance. He answered quickly:'Of course, sir, you shall know everything. After all, you know, myaffairs are your affairs!''I know nothing of the sort. I may of course be annoyed by youraffairs, even dishonoured, in a way, by them. But I accept noresponsibility whatever. As you have made your bed, so must you lieon it!''It's all right, sir, I assure you. All my debts, both those youknow of and some you don't, I shall settle very shortly.''How soon?' The question was sternly put.'In a few days. I dare say a week at furthest will see everythingstraightened out.'The elder man stood, saying gravely as he went to the door:'You will do well to tell me when the last of them is paid. There issomething which I shall then want to tell you!' Without waiting forreply he went to his study.Leonard went to his room and made a systematic, though unavailing,search for Stephen's letter; thinking that by some chance he mighthave recovered it from Harold and had overlooked it.The next few days he passed in considerable suspense. He did notdare go near Normanstand until he was summoned, as he knew he wouldbe when he was required.When Miss Rowly returned from her visit to London she told Stephenthat she had paid the bill at the jeweller's, and had taken theprecaution of getting a receipt, together with a duplicate for Mr.Everard. The original was by her own request made out as receivedfrom Miss Laetitia Rowly in settlement of the account of LeonardEverard, Esq.; the duplicate merely was 'recd. in settlement of theaccount of--,' etc. Stephen's brows bent hit thought as she said:'Why did you have it done that way, Auntie dear?' The other answeredquietly:'I had a reason, my dear; good reason! Perhaps I shall tell you allabout it some day; in the meantime I want you not to ask me anythingabout it. I have a reason for that too. Stephen, won't you trust mein this, blindfold?' There was something so sweet and loving in theway she made the request that Stephen was filled with emotion. Sheput her arms round her aunt's neck and hugged her tight. Then layingher head on her bosom she said with a sigh:'Oh, my dear, you can't know how I trust you; or how much your trustis to me. You never can know!'The next day the two women held a long consultation over the scheduleof Leonard's debts. Neither said a word of disfavour, or evencommented on the magnitude. The only remark touching on the subjectwas made by Miss Rowly:'We must ask for proper discounts. Oh, the villainy of thosetradesmen! I do believe they charge double in the hope of gettinghalf. As to jewellers . . . !' Then she announced her intention ofgoing up to town again on Thursday, at which visit she would arrangefor the payment of the various debts. Stephen tried to remonstrate,but she was obdurate. She held Stephen's hand in hers and stroked itlovingly as she kept on repeating:'Leave it all to me, dear! Leave it all to me! Everything shall bepaid as you wish; but leave it to me!'Stephen acquiesced. This gentle yielding was new in her; it touchedthe elder lady to the quick, even whilst it pained her. Well sheknew that some trouble must have gone to the smoothing of thatimperious nature.Stephen's inner life in these last few days was so bitterly sad thatshe kept it apart from all the routine of social existence. Into itnever came now, except as the exciting cause of all the evil, athought of Leonard. The saddening memory was of Harold. And of himthe sadness was increased and multiplied by a haunting fear. Sincehe had walked out of the grove she had not seen him nor heard fromhim. This was in itself strange; for in all her life, when she wasat home and he too, never a day passed without her seeing him. Shehad heard her aunt say that word had come of his having made a suddenjourney to London, from which he had not yet returned. She wasafraid to make inquiries. Partly lest she might hear bad news--thiswas her secret fear; partly lest she might bring some attention toherself in connection with his going. Of some things in connectionwith her conduct to him she was afraid to think at all. Thought, shefelt, would come in time, and with it new pains and new shames, ofwhich as yet she dared not think.One morning came an envelope directed in Harold's hand. The sightmade her almost faint. She rejoiced that she had been first down,and had opened the postbag with her own key. She took the letter toher room and shut herself in before opening it. Within were a fewlines of writing and her own letter to Leonard in its envelope. Herhead beat so hard that she could scarcely see; but gradually thewriting seemed to grow out of the mist:'The enclosed should be in your hands. It is possible that it maycomfort you to know that it is safe. Whatever may come, God love andguard you.'For a moment joy, hot and strong, blazed through her. The last wordswere ringing through her brain. Then came the cold shock, and thegloom of fear. Harold would never have written thus unless he wasgoing away! It was a farewell!For a long time she stood, motionless, holding the letter in herhand. Then she said, half aloud:'Comfort! Comfort! There is no more comfort in the world for me!Never, never again! Oh, Harold! Harold!'She sank on her knees beside her bed, and buried her face in her coldhands, sobbing in all that saddest and bitterest phase of sorrowwhich can be to a woman's heart: the sorrow that is dry-eyed andwithout hope.Presently the habit of caution which had governed her last days wokeher to action. She bathed her eyes, smoothed her hair, locked theletter and its enclosure in the little jewel-safe let into the wall,and came down to breakfast.The sense of loss was so strong on her that she forgot herself.Habit carried her on without will or voluntary effort, and, sofaithfully worked to her good that even the loving eyes of her aunt--and the eyes of love are keen--had no suspicion that any new eventhad come into her life.Not till she was alone in her room that night did Stephen dare to lether thoughts run freely. In the darkness her mind began to worktruly, so truly that she began at the first step of logical process:to study facts. And to study them she must question till she foundmotive.Why had Harold sent her the letter? His own words said that itshould be in her hands. Then, again, he said it might comfort her toknow the letter was safe. How could it comfort her? How did he getpossession of the letter?There she began to understand; her quick intuition and her oldknowledge of Harold's character and her new knowledge of Leonard's,helped her to reconstruct causes. In his interview with her he hadadmitted that Leonard had told him much, all. He would no doubt haverefused to believe him, and Leonard would have shown him, as proof,her letter asking him to meet her. He would have seen then, as shedid now, how much the possession of that letter might mean to anyone.Good God! to 'any one.' Could it have been so to Harold himself . .. that he thought to use it as an engine, to force her to meet hiswishes--as Leonard had already tried to do! The mistrust, founded onher fear, was not dead yet . . . No! no! no! Her whole beingresented such a monstrous proposition! Besides, there was proof.Thank God! there was proof. A blackmailer would have stayed close toher, and would have kept the letter; Harold did neither. Herrecognition of the truth was shown in her act, when, stretching outher arms in the darkness, she whispered pleadingly:'Forgive me, Harold!'And Harold, far away where the setting sun was lying red on the rimof the western sea, could not hear her. But perhaps God did.As, then, Harold's motive was not of the basest, it must have been ofthe noblest. What would be a man's noblest motive under suchcircumstances? Surely self-sacrifice!And yet there could be no doubt as to Harold's earnestness when hehad told her that he loved her . . .Here Stephen covered her face in one moment of rapture. But thegloom that followed was darker than the night. She did not pursuethe thought. That would come later when she should understand.And yet, so little do we poor mortals know the verities of things, soblind are we to things thrust before our eyes, that she understoodmore in that moment of ecstasy than in all the reasoning thatpreceded and followed it. But the reasoning went on:If he really loved, and told her so, wherein was the self-sacrifice?She had reproached him with coming to her with his suit hotfoot uponhis knowledge of her shameful proffer of herself to another man; ofher refusal by him. Could he have been so blind as not to have seen,as she did, the shameful aspect of his impulsive act? Surely, if hehad thought, he must have seen! . . . And he must have thought; therehad been time for it. It was at dinner that he had seen Leonard; itwas after breakfast when he had seen her . . . And if he had seenthen . . .In an instant it all burst upon her; the whole splendid truth. Hehad held back the expression of his long love for her, waiting forthe time when her maturity might enable her to understand truly andjudge wisely; waiting till her grief for the loss of her father hadbecome a story of the past; waiting for God knows what a man's mindsees of obstacles when he loves. But he had spoken it out when itwas to her benefit. What, then, had been his idea of her benefit?Was it that he wished to meet the desire that she had manifested tohave some man to--to love? . . . The way she covered her face withher hands whilst she groaned aloud made her answer to her own query aperfect negative.Was it, then, to save her from the evil of marrying Leonard in casehe should repent of his harshness, and later on yield himself to herwooing? The fierce movement of her whole body, which almost threwthe clothes from her bed, as the shameful recollection rolled overher, marked the measure of her self-disdain.One other alternative there was; but it seemed so remote, so far-fetched, so noble, so unlike what a woman would do, that she couldonly regard it in a shamefaced way. She put the matter to herselfquestioningly, and with a meekness which had its roots deeper thanshe knew. And here out of the depths of her humility came a noblethought. A noble thought, which was a noble truth. Through thedarkness of the night, through the inky gloom of her own soul camewith that thought a ray of truth which, whilst it showed her her ownshrivelled unworthiness, made the man whom she had dishonoured withinsults worse than death stand out in noble relief. In that instantshe guessed at, and realised, Harold's unselfish nobility of purpose,the supreme effort of his constant love. Knowing the humiliation shemust have suffered at Leonard's hands, he had so placed himself thateven her rejection of him might be some solace to her wounded spirit,her pride.Here at last was truth! She knew it in the very marrow of her bones.This time she did not move. She thought and thought of that noblegentleman who had used for her sake even that pent-up passion which,for her sake also, he had suppressed so long.In that light, which restored in her eyes and justified so fully theman whom she had always trusted, her own shame and wrongdoing, andthe perils which surrounded her, were for the time forgotten.And its glory seemed to rest upon her whilst she slept.