Set in Silver | Page 5

my ashes off the smoking altar.
It's all very well to make fun of the thing like that. But to be
serious--and goodness knows it's serious enough--what's to be done,
little mother? Ellaline has (because I insisted) given me till to-morrow
morning to answer. I explained that my consent must depend on your
consent. So that's why I haven't had anything to eat since breakfast. I
rushed home to write this immense letter to you, and get it off to catch
the post. It will arrive in the morning with your coffee and petits
pains--how I wish I were in its place! You can take half an hour to
make up your mind (I'm sure with your lightning wits you wouldn't ask
longer to decide the fate of the Great Powers of Europe) and then
telegraph me simply "Yes," or "No." I will understand.
For my own sake, naturally, I should prefer "No." That goes unsaid,
doesn't it? I should then be relieved of responsibility; for even Ellaline,
knowing that you and I are all in all to each other, could hardly expect
me to fly in your face, just to please her. But, on the other hand, if you
did think I could do this dreadful thing without thereby becoming
myself a Dreadful Thing, it would be a glorious relief to pay my debt of
gratitude to Ellaline, yes, and even over-pay it, perhaps. One likes to
over-pay a debt that's been owing a long time, for it's like adding an
accumulation of interest that one's creditor never expected to get.
When, gasping after the first shock, I pleaded that I'd do anything else,
make any other sacrifice for Ellaline's sake, except this one, she flashed
out (with the odd shrewdness which lurks in her childishness like a
bright little garter-snake darting its head from a bed of violets), saying
that was always the way with people. They were invariably ready to do
for their best friends, to whom they were grateful, anything on earth
except the only thing wanted.
Well, I had no answer to make; for it's true, isn't it? And then Ellaline
sobbed dreadfully, clutching at me with little, hot, trembling hands,
crying that she'd counted on me, that she'd been sure, after all my
promises, I wouldn't fail her. She'd felt so safe with me! Are you
surprised I hadn't the heart to refuse? I confess, dear, that if I were quite
alone in the world (though the world wouldn't be a world without you)

I should certainly have grovelled and consented then and there.
She says she won't close her eyes to-night, and I dare say she won't, in
which case she'll be as pathetic as a broken flower to-morrow. I don't
think I shall sleep much either, wondering what your verdict will be.
I really haven't the remotest idea whether it will be Yes or No. Usually
I imagine that I can pretty well guess what your opinion is likely to be,
but I can't this time. The thing to decide upon is in itself so fantastic, so
monstrous, that one moment I tell myself you won't even consider it.
The next minute I remember what a dear little "crank" you are on the
subject of gratitude--your "favourite virtue," as you used to write in
old-fashioned "Confession Albums" of provincial American friends
when I was a child.
If people do anything nice for you, you run your little high-heeled
shoes into holes to do something even nicer for them. If you're invited
out to tea, you ask your hostess to lunch or dinner, in return: that sort of
thing invariably; and you've brought me up with the same bee in my
bonnet. So what will your telegram be?
Whatever you say, you may count on a meek "Amen, so be it," from
Your most admiring subject,
Audrie.
P. S.--Of course, it isn't as if this man were an ordinary, nice,
inoffensive human man, is it? I do think that almost any treatment is
too good for such a cold-blooded, supercilious old Dragon. And you
needn't reprove me for "calling names." With singular justice
Providence has ticketed him as appropriately as his worst enemy would
have dared to do. They have such weird names in Cornwall, don't
they?--and it seems he's a Cornishman. Until lately he was plain Mister,
now he's Sir Lionel Pendragon. Somebody has been weak enough to
die and leave him a title, and also an estate (though not in Cornwall)
which he's returning to England in greedy haste to pounce upon. So
characteristic, after living away all these years; though Madame de

Maluet has tried to make Ellaline believe he's coming back to settle
down because of a letter she wrote, reminding him respectfully that
after nineteen it's almost indecent for a