Chambers Robert William
The Common Law
Suddenly she heard Neville's voice—and a door opened, flooding her with yellow light where she stood swaying, dazed, deathly pale.
"Louis!" she said.
He sprang to her, caught her in his arms
"Good God! What is the matter?"
She rested against him, her eyes listlessly watching the people swiftly gathering in the dazzling light.
"Where in the world—how did you get here!—where have you been—" His stammered words made him incoherent as he caught sight of the mud and dust on her torn waist and skirt.
Her eyes had closed a moment; they opened now with an effort. Once more she looked blindly at the people clustering around her—recognised his sister and Stephanie—divined that it was his mother who stood gazing at her in pallid consternation—summoned every atom of her courage to spare him the insult which a man's world had offered to her—found strength to ignore it so that no shadow of the outrage should fall through her upon him or upon those nearest to him.
"I lost my way," she said. Her white lips tried to smile; she strove to stand upright, alone; caught mechanically at his arm, the fixed smile still stamped on her lips. "I am sorry to—disturb anybody…. I was lost—and it grew dark…. I don't know my way—very well—"
She turned, conscious of some one's arm supporting her; and Stephanie said, in a low, pitiful voice:
"Lean back on me. You must let me help you to the house."
"Thank you—I won't go in…. If I could rest—a moment—perhaps somebody—Mr. Neville—would help me to get home again—"
"Come with me, Miss West," whispered Stephanie, "I want you. Will you come to my room with me for a little while?"
She looked into Stephanie's eyes, turned and looked at Neville.
"Dearest," he whispered, putting his arm around her, "you must come with us."
She nodded and moved forward, steadily, between them both, and entered the house, head-carried high on the slender neck, but her face was colourless under the dark masses of her loosened hair, and she swayed at the foot of the stairs, reaching out blindly at nothing—falling forward.
It was a dead weight that Neville bore into Stephanie's room. When his mother turned him out and closed the door behind him he stood stupidly about until his sister, who had gone into the room, opened the door and bade him telephone for Dr. Ogilvy.
"What has happened to her?" he asked, as though dazed.
"I don't know. I think you'd better tell Quinn to bring around the car and go for Dr. Ogilvy yourself."
It was a swift rush to Dartford through the night; bareheaded he bent forward beside the chauffeur, teeth set, every nerve tense and straining as though his very will power was driving the machine forward. Then there came a maddening slowing down through Dartford streets, a nerve-racking delay until Sam Ogilvy's giant brother had stowed away himself and his satchel in the tonneau; then slow speed to the town limits; a swift hurling forward into space that whirled blackly around them as the great acetylenes split the darkness and chaos roared in their ears.
Under the lighted windows the big doctor scrambled out and stamped upstairs; and Neville waited on the landing.
His father appeared below, looking up at him, and started to say something; but apparently changed his mind and went back into the living room, rattling his evening paper and coughing.
Cameron passed through the hallway, looked at him, but let him alone.
After a while the door opened and Lily came out.
"I'm not needed," she said; "your mother and Stephanie have taken charge."
"Is she going to be very ill?"
"Billy Ogilvy hasn't said anything yet."
"Is she conscious?"
"Yes, she is now."
"Has she said anything more?"
"No."
Lily stood silent a moment, gazing absently down at the lighted hall below, then she looked at her brother as though she, too, were about to speak, but, like her father, she reconsidered the impulse, and went away toward the nursery.
Later his mother opened the door very softly, let herself and Stephanie out, and stood looking at him, one finger across her lips, while Stephanie hurried away downstairs.
"She's asleep, Louis. Don't raise your voice—" as he stepped quickly toward her.
"Is it anything serious?" he asked in a low voice.
"I don't know what Dr. Ogilvy thinks. He is coming out in a moment…." She placed one hand on her son's shoulder, reddening a trifle. "I've told William Ogilvy that she is a friend of—the family. He may have heard Sam talking about her when he was here last. So I thought it safer."
Neville brought a chair for his mother, but she shook her head, cautioning silence, and went noiselessly downstairs.
Half an hour later Dr. Ogilvy emerged, saw Neville—walked up and inspected him, curiously.
"Well, Louis, what do you know about this?" he asked, buttoning his big thick rain-coat to the throat.
"Absolutely nothing, Billy, except that Miss West, who is a guest of the Countess d'Enver at Estwich, lost her way in the woods. How is she now?"
"All right," said the doctor, dryly.
"Is she conscious?"
"Perfectly."
"Awake?"
"Yes. She won't be—long."
"Did she talk to you?"
"A little."
"What is the matter?"
"Fright. And I'm wondering whether merely being lost in the woods is enough to have terrified a girl like that? Because, apparently, she is as superb a specimen of healthy womanhood as this world manufactures once in a hundred years. How well do you know her?"
"We are very close friends."
"H'm. Did you suppose she was the kind of woman to be frightened at merely being lost in a civilised country?"
"No. She has more courage—of all kinds—than most women."
"Because," said the big doctor thoughtfully, "while she was unconscious it took me ten minutes to pry open her fingers and disengage a rather heavy dog-whip from her clutch…. And there was some evidences of blood on the lash and on the bone handle."
"What!" exclaimed Neville, amazed.
The doctor shrugged: "I don't know of any fierce and vicious dogs between here and Estwich, either," he mused.
"No, Cardemon keeps none. And its mostly his estate."
"Oh … Any—h'm!—vicious men—in his employment?"
"My God!" whispered Neville, "what do you mean, Billy?"
"Finger imprints—black and blue—on both arms. Didn't Miss West say anything that might enlighten you?"
"No … She only said she had been lost…. Wait a moment; I'm trying to think of the men Cardemon employs—"
He was ashy white and trembling, and the doctor laid a steadying hand on his arm.
"Hold on, Louis," he said sharply, "it was no worse than a fright. Do you understand?… And do you understand, too, that an innocent and sensitive and modest girl would rather die than have such a thing made public through your well-meant activity? So there's nothing for anybody to do—yet."
Neville could scarcely speak.
"Do you mean—she was attacked by some—man!"
"It looks like it. And—you'd better keep it from your family—because she did. She's game to the core—that little girl."
"But she—she'll tell me!" stammered Neville—she's got to tell me—"
"She won't if she can help it. Would it aid her any if you found out who it was and killed him?—ran for a gun and did a little murdering some pleasant morning—just to show your chivalrous consideration and devotion to her?"
"Are you asking me to let a beast like that go unpunished?" demanded Neville violently.
"Oh, use your brains, Louis. He frightened her and she slashed him well for it. And, womanlike—after there was no more danger and no more necessity for pluck—she got scared and ran; and the farther she ran the more scared she became. Look here, Louis; look at me—squarely." He laid both ponderous hands on Neville's shoulders:
"Sam has told me all about you and Miss West—and I can guess how your family takes it. Can't you see why she had the pluck to remain silent about this thing? It was because she saw in it the brutal contempt of the world toward a woman who stood in that world alone, unsupported, unprotected. And she would not have you and your family know how lightly the world held the woman whom you love and wish to marry—not for her own sake alone—but for the sake of your family's pride—and yours."
His hands dropped from Neville's shoulders; he stood considering him for a moment in silence.
"I've told you because, if you are the man I think you are, you ought to know the facts. Forcing her to the humiliation of telling you will not help matters; filling this pup full of lead means an agony of endless publicity and shame for her, for your family, and for you…. He'll never dare remain in the same county with her after this. He's probably skedaddled by this time anyway." … Dr. Ogilvy looked narrowly at Neville. "Are you pretty sane, now?"
"Yes."
"You realise that gun-play is no good in this matter?"
"Y-yes."
"And you really are going to consider Miss West before your own natural but very primitive desire to do murder?"
Neville nodded.
"Knowing," added the doctor, "that the unspeakable cur who affronted her has probably taken to his heels?"
Neville, pale and silent, raised his eyes:
"Do you suspect anybody?"
"I don't know," said the doctor carelessly;—"I'll just step over to the telephone and make an inquiry of Penrhyn Cardemon—"
He walked to the end of the big hall, unhooked the receiver, asked for Cardemon's house, got it.
Neville heard him say:
"This is Dr. Ogilvy. Is that you, Gelett? Isn't your master at home?"
* * * * *
"What? Had to catch a train?"
* * * * *
"Oh! A sudden matter of business."
* * * * *
"I see. He's had a cable calling him to London. How long will he be away, Gelett?"
* * * * *
"Oh, I see. You don't know. Very well. I only called up because I understood he required medical attention."
* * * * *
"Yes—I understood he'd been hurt about the head and face, but I didn't know he had received such a—battering."
* * * * *
"You say that his horse threw him in the big beech-woods? Was he really very much cut up?"
* * * * *
"Pretty roughly handled, eh! All right. When you communicate with him tell him that Dr. Ogilvy and Mr. Neville, Jr., were greatly interested to know how badly he was injured. Do you understand? Well, don't forget. And you may tell him, Gelett, that as long as the scars remain, he'd better remain, too. Get it straight, Gelett; tell him it's my medical advice to remain away as long as he can—and a little longer. This climate is no good for him. Good-bye."
He turned from the telephone and sauntered toward Neville, who regarded him with a fixed stare.
"You see," he remarked with a shrug; and drew from his pocket a slightly twisted scarf pin—a big horse-shoe set with sapphires and diamonds—the kind of pin some kinds of men use in their riding-stocks.
"I've often seen him wearing it," he said carelessly. "Curious how it could have become twisted and entangled in Miss West's lace waist."
He held out the pin, turning it over reflectively as the facets of the gems caught and flashed back the light from the hall brackets.
"I'll drop it into the poor-box I think," he mused. "Cardemon will remain away so long that this pin will be entirely out of fashion when he returns."
After a few moments Neville drew a long, deep breath, and his clenched hands relaxed.
"Sure," commented the burly doctor. "That's right—feeling better—rush of common sense to the head. Well, I've got to go."
"Will you be here in the morning?"
"I think not. She'll be all right. If she isn't, send over for me."
"You don't think that the shock—the exhaustion—"
"Naw," said the big doctor with good-natured contempt; "she's going to be all right in the morning…. She's a lovely creature, isn't she? Sam said so. Sam has an eye for beauty. But, by jinks! I was scarcely prepared for such physical perfection—h'm!—or such fine and nice discrimination—or for such pluck…. God knows what people's families want these days. If the world mated properly our best families would be extinct in another generation…. You're one of 'em; you'd better get diligent before the world wakes up with a rush of common sense to its doddering old head." He gave him both hands, warmly, cordially: "Good-bye, Louis."
Neville said: "I want you to know that I'd marry her to-morrow if she'd have me, Billy."
The doctor lifted his eyebrows.
"Won't she?"
"No."
"Then probably you're not up to sample. A girl like that is no fool. She'll require a lot in a man. However, you're young; and you may make good yet."
"You don't understand, Billy—"
"Yes, I do. She wears a dinky miniature of you against her naked heart. Yes, I guess I understand…. And I guess she's that kind of a girl all unselfishness and innocence, and generous perversity and—quixotic love…. It's too bad, Louis. I guess you're up against it for fair."
He surveyed the younger man, shook his head:
"They can't stand for her, can they?"
"No."
"And she won't stand for snaking you out of the fold. That's it, I fancy?"
"Yes."
"Too bad—too bad. She's a fine woman—a very fine little woman. That's the kind a man ought to marry and bother the Almighty with gratitude all the rest of his life. Well—well! Your family is your own after all; and I live in Dartford, thank God!—not on lower Fifth Avenue or Tenth Street."
He started away, halted, came back:
"Couldn't you run away with her?" he asked anxiously.
"She won't," replied Neville, unsmiling.
"I mean, violently. But she's too heavy to carry, I fancy—and I'll bet she's got the vigour of little old Diana herself. No—you couldn't do the Sabine act with her—only a club and the cave-man's gentle persuasion would help either of you…. Well—well, if they see her at breakfast it may help some. You know a woman makes or breaks herself at breakfast. That's why the majority of woman take it abed. I'm serious, Louis; no man can stand 'em—the majority."
Once more he started away, hesitated, came back.
"Who's this Countess that Sam is so crazy about?"
"A sweet little woman, well-bred, and very genuine and sincere."
"Never heard of her in Dartford," muttered the doctor.
Neville laughed grimly:
"Billy, Tenth Street and lower Fifth Avenue and Greenwich Village and Chelsea and Stuyvesant Square—and Syringa Avenue, Dartford, are all about alike. Bird Centre is just as stupid as Manhattan; and there never was and never will be a republic and a democracy in any country on the face of this snob-cursed globe."
The doctor, very red, stared at him.
"By jinks!" he said, "I guess I'm one after all. Now, who in hell would suspect that!—after all the advice I've given you!"
"It was another fellow's family, that's all," said Neville wearily. "Theories work or they don't; only few care to try them on themselves or their own families—particularly when they devoutly believe in them."
"Gad! That's a stinger! You've got me going all right," said the doctor, wincing, "and you're perfectly correct. Here I've been practically counselling you to marry where your inclination led you, and let the rest go to blazes; and when it's a question of Sam doing something similar, I retire hastily across the river and establish a residence in Missouri. What a rotten, custom-ridden bunch of snippy-snappy-snobbery we are after all!… All the same—who is the Countess?"
Neville didn't know much about her.
"Sam's such an ass," said his brother, "and it isn't all snobbery on my part."
"The safest thing to do," said Neville bitterly, "is to let a man in love alone."
"Right. Foolish—damned foolish—but right! There is no greater ass than a wise one. Those who don't know anything at all are the better asses—and the happier."
And he went away down the stairs, muttering and gesticulating.
Mrs. Neville came to the door as he opened it to go out. They talked in low voices for a few moments, then the doctor went out and Mrs. Neville called to Stephanie.
The girl came from the lighted drawing-room, and, together, the two women ascended the stairs.
Stephanie smiled and nodded to Neville, then continued on along the hall; but his mother stopped to speak to him.
"Go and sit with your father a little while," she said. "And don't be impatient with him, dear. He is an old man—a product of a different age and a simpler civilisation—perhaps a narrower one. Be patient and gentle with him. He really is fond of you and proud of you."
"Very well, mother…. Is anybody going to sit up with Valerie?"
"Stephanie insists on sleeping on the couch at the foot of her bed. I offered to sit up but she wouldn't let me…. You'll see that I'm called if anything happens, won't you?"
"Yes. Good-night, mother."
He kissed her, stood a moment looking at the closed door behind which lay Valerie—tried to realise that she did lie there under the same roof-tree that sheltered father, mother, and sister—then, with a strange thrill in his heart, he went downstairs.
Cameron passed him, on his upward way to slumberland.
"How's Miss West?" he asked cheerfully.
"Asleep, I think. Billy Ogilvy expects her to be all right in the morning."
"Good work! Glad of it. Tell your governor; he's been inquiring."
"Has he?" said Neville, with another thrill, and went into the living room where his father sat alone before the whitening ashes of the fire.
"Well, father!" he said, smiling.
The older man turned his head, then turned it away as his son drew up a chair and laid a stick across the andirons.
"It's turned a little chilly," he said.
"I have known of many a frost in May," said his father.
There was a silence; then his father slowly turned and gazed at him.
"How is—Miss West?" he asked stiffly.
"Billy Ogilvy says she will be all right to-morrow, father."
"Was she injured by her unfortunate experience?"
"A little briar-torn, I'm afraid. Those big beech woods are rather a puzzle to anybody who is not familiar with the country. No wonder she became frightened when it grew dark."
"It was—very distressing," nodded his father.
They remained silent again until Mr. Neville rose, took off his spectacles, laid aside The Evening Post, and held out his hand.
"Good-night, my son."
"Good-night, father."
"Yes—yes—good-night—good-night—to many, many things, my son; old-fashioned things of no value any more—of no use to me, or you, or anybody any more."
He retained his son's hand in his, peering at him, dim-eyed, without his spectacles:
"The old order passes—the old ideas, the old beliefs—and the old people who cherished them—who know no others, needed no others…. Good-night, my son."
But he made no movement to leave, and still held to his son's hand:
"I've tried to live as blamelessly as my father lived, Louis—and as God has given me to see my way through life…. But—the times change so—change so. The times are perplexing; life grows noisier, and stranger and more complex and more violent every day around us—and the old require repose, Louis. Try to understand that."
"Yes, father."
The other looked at him, wearily:
"Your mother seems to think that your happiness in life depends on—what we say to you—this evening. Stephanie seems to believe it, too…. Lily says very little…. And so do I, Louis—very little … only enough to—to wish you—happiness. And so—good-night."
CHAPTER XV
It was barely daylight when Valerie awoke. She lay perfectly still, listening, remembering, her eyes wandering over the dim, unfamiliar room. Through thin silk curtains a little of the early light penetrated; she heard the ceaseless chorus of the birds, cocks crowing near and far away, the whimpering flight of pigeons around the eaves above her windows, and their low, incessant cooing.
Suddenly, through the foot-bars of her bed she caught sight of Stephanie lying sound asleep on the couch, and she sat up—swiftly, noiselessly, staring at her out of wide eyes from which the last trace of dreams had fled.
For a long while she remained upright among her pillows, looking at Stephanie, remembering, considering; then, with decision, she slipped silently out of bed, and went about her dressing without a sound.
In the connecting bath-room and dressing-room beyond she found her clothing gathered in a heap, evidently to be taken away and freshened early in the morning. She dared not brush it for fear of awakening Stephanie; her toilet was swift and simple; she clothed herself rapidly and stepped out into the hall, her rubber-soled walking shoes making no noise.
Below, the side-lights of the door made unbolting and unchaining easy; it would be hours yet before even the servants were stirring, but she moved with infinite caution, stepping out onto the veranda and closing the door behind her without making the slightest noise.
Dew splashed her shoes as she hastened across the lawn. She knew the Estwich road even if there had been no finger-posts to point out her way.
The sun had not yet risen; woods were foggy; the cattle in the fields stood to their shadowy flanks in the thin mist; and everywhere, like the cheery rush of a stream, sounded the torrent of bird-music from bramble patch and alder-swale, from hedge and orchard and young woodland.
It was not until she had arrived in sight of Estwich Corners that she met the first farmer afield; and, as she turned into the drive, the edge of the sun sent a blinding search-light over a dew-soaked world, and her long-shadow sprang into view, streaming away behind her across the lawn.
To her surprise the front door was open and a harnessed buck-board stood at the gate; and suddenly she recollected with a hot blush that the household must have been amazed and probably alarmed by her non-appearance the night before.
Hélène's farmer and her maid came out as she entered the front walk, and, seeing her, stood round-eyed and gaping.
"I got lost and remained over night at Mrs. Collis's," she said, smiling. "Now, I'd like a bath if you please and some fresh clothing for travelling, because I am obliged to go to the city, and I wish to catch the earliest train."
When at last it was plain to them that she was alive and well, Hélène's maid, still trembling, hastened to draw a bath for her and pack the small steamer trunk; and the farmer sat down on the porch and waited, still more or less shaken by the anxiety which had sent him pottering about the neighbouring woods and fields with a lantern the night before, and had aroused him to renewed endeavour before sunrise.
Bathed and freshly clothed, Valerie hastened into the pretty library, seated herself at the desk, pushed up her veil, and wrote rapidly:
"MY DEAR MRS. COLLIS: My gratitude to you, to Mrs. Neville, and to Miss Swift is none the less real because I am acknowledging it by letter. Besides, I am very certain that you would prefer it so.
"You and your family have been kindness itself to me in my awkward and painful dilemma; you have sheltered me and provided medical attendance; and I am deeply in your debt.
"Had matters been different I need scarcely say that it would have been a pleasure for me to personally acknowledge to you and your family my grateful appreciation.
"But I am very sure that I could show my gratitude in no more welcome manner than by doing what I have done this morning and by expressing that obligation to you in writing.
"Before I close may I ask you to believe that I had no intention of seeking shelter at your house? Until I heard Mr. Neville's voice I had no idea where I was. I merely made my way toward the first lighted windows that I saw, never dreaming that I had come to Ashuelyn.
"I am sorry that my stupid misadventure has caused you and your family so much trouble and annoyance. I feel it very keenly—more keenly because of your kindness in making the best of what must have been to you and your family a most disagreeable episode.
"May I venture to express to you my thanks to Miss Swift who so generously remained in my room last night? I am deeply sensible of her sweetness to an unwelcome stranger—and of Mrs. Neville's gentle manner toward one who, I am afraid, has caused her much anxiety.
"To the very amiable physician who did so much to calm a foolish and inexcusable nervousness, I am genuinely grateful. If I knew his name and address I would write and properly acknowledge my debt.
"There is one thing more before I close: I am sorry that I wrote you so ungraciously after receiving your last letter. It would have been perfectly easy to have thanked you courteously, whatever private opinion I may have entertained concerning a matter about which there may be more than my own opinion.
"And now, please believe that I will never again voluntarily cause you and your family the slightest uneasiness or inconvenience; and believe me, too, if you care to. Very gratefully yours,
"VALERIE WEST."
She directed and sealed the letter, then drew toward her another sheet of paper:
"DEAREST: I could die of shame for having blundered into your family circle. I dare not even consider what they must think of me now. You will know how innocently and unsuspiciously it was done—how utterly impossible it would have been for me to have voluntarily committed such an act even in the last extremity. But what they will think of my appearance at your door last night, I don't know and I dare not surmise. I have done all I could; I have rid them of me, and I have written to your sister to thank her and your family for their very real kindness to the last woman in the world whom they would have willingly chosen to receive and entertain.
"Dear, I didn't know I had nerves; but this experience seems to have developed them. I am perfectly well, but the country here has become distasteful to me, and I am going to town in a few minutes. I want to get away—I want to go back to my work—earn my living again—live in blessed self-respect where, as a worker, I have the right to live.
"Dearest, I am sorry about not meeting you at the station and going back to town with you. But I simply cannot endure staying here after last night. I suppose it is weak and silly of me, but I feel now as though your family would never be perfectly tranquil again until I am out of their immediate vicinity. I cannot convey to you or to them how sorry and how distressed I am that this thing has occurred.
"But I can, perhaps, make you understand that I love you, dearly—love you enough to give myself to you—love you enough to give you up forever.
"And it is to consider what is best, what to do, that I am going away quietly somewhere by myself to think it all out once more—and to come to a final decision before the first of June.
"I want to search my heart, and let God search it for any secret selfishness and unworthiness that might sway me in my choice—any overmastering love for you that might blind me. When I know myself, you shall know me. Until then I shall not write you; but sometime before the first of June—or on that day, you shall know and I shall know how I have decided wherein I may best serve you—whether by giving or withholding—whether by accepting or refusing forever all that I care for in the world—you, Louis, and the love you have given me.
"VALERIE WEST."
She sealed and directed this, laid it beside the other, and summoned the maid:
"Have these sent at once to Ashuelyn," she said; "let Jimmy go on his bicycle. Are my things ready? Is the buck-board still there? Then I will leave a note for the Countess."
And she scribbled hastily:
"HÉLÈNE DEAR: I've got to go to town in a hurry on matters of importance, and so I am taking a very unceremonious leave of you and of your delightful house.
"They'll tell you I got lost in the woods last night, and I did. It was too stupid of me; but no harm came of it—only a little embarrassment in accepting a night's shelter at Ashuelyn among people who were everything that was hospitable, but who must have been anything but delighted to entertain me.
"In a few weeks I shall write you again. I have not exactly decided what to do this summer. I may go abroad for a vacation as I have saved enough to do so in an economical manner; and I should love to see the French cathedrals. Perhaps, if I so decide, you might be persuaded to go with me.
"However, it is too early to plan yet. A matter of utmost importance is going to keep me busy and secluded for a week or so. After that I shall come to some definite decision; and then you shall hear from me.
"In the meanwhile—I have enjoyed Estwich and you immensely. It was kind and dear of you to ask me. I shall never forget my visit.
"Good-bye, Hélène dear.
"VALERIE WEST."
This note she left on Hélène's dresser, then ran downstairs and sprang into the buck-board.
They had plenty of time to catch the train; and on the train she had plenty of leisure for reflection. But she could not seem to think; a confused sensation of excitement invaded her mind and she sat in her velvet armed chair alternately shivering with the memory of Cardemon's villainy, and quivering under the recollection of her night at Ashuelyn.
Rita was not at home when she came into their little apartment. The parrot greeted her, flapping his brilliant wings and shrieking from his perch; the goldfish goggled his eyes and swam 'round and 'round. She stood still in the centre of her room looking vacantly about her. An immense, overwhelming sense of loneliness came over her; she turned as the rush of tears blinded her and flung herself full length among the pillows of her bed.
* * * * *
Her first two or three days in town were busy ones; she had her accounts to balance, her inventories to take, her mending to do, her modest summer wardrobe to acquire, letters to write and to answer, engagements to make, to fulfill, to postpone; friends to call on and to receive, duties in regard to the New Idea Home to attend to.
Also, the morning after her arrival came a special delivery letter from Neville:
"It was a mistake to go, dear, because, although you could not have known it, matters have changed most happily for us. You were a welcome guest in my sister's house; you would have been asked to remain after your visit at Estwich was over. My family's sentiments are changing—have changed. It requires only you yourself to convince them. I wish you had remained, although your going so quietly commanded the respect of everybody. They all are very silent about it and about you, yet I can see that they have been affected most favourably by their brief glimpse of you.
