CHAPTER VIII
關燈
小
中
大
veningMargarettookdecisiveaction.Thehousewasveryquiet,andthefog—weareinNovembernow—pressedagainstthewindowslikeanexcludedghost.FriedaandHelenandalltheirluggageshadgone.Tibby,whowasnotfeelingwell,laystretchedonasofabythefire.Margaretsatbyhim,thinking.Herminddartedfromimpulsetoimpulse,andfinallymarshalledthemallinreview.Thepracticalperson,whoknowswhathewantsatonce,andgenerallyknowsnothingelse,willaccuseherofindecision.Butthiswasthewayhermindworked.Andwhenshedidact,noonecouldaccuseherofindecisionthen.Shehitoutaslustilyasifshehadnotconsideredthematteratall.TheletterthatshewroteMrs.Wilcoxglowedwiththenativehueofresolution.Thepalecastofthoughtwaswithherabreathratherthanatarnish,abreaththatleavesthecoloursallthemorevividwhenithasbeenwipedaway.
“DEARMRS.WILCOX,
“Ihavetowritesomethingdiscourteous.Itwouldbebetterifwedidnotmeet.Bothmysisterandmyaunthavegivendispleasuretoyourfamily,and,inmysister’scase,thegroundsfordispleasuremightrecur.SofarasIknowshenolongeroccupiesherthoughtswithyourson.Butitwouldnotbefair,eithertoherortoyou,iftheymet,anditisthereforerightthatouracquaintance,whichbegansopleasantly,shouldend.
“Ifearthatyouwillnotagreewiththisindeed,Iknowthatyouwillnot,sinceyouhavebeengoodenoughtocallonus.Itisonlyaninstinctonmypart,andnodoubttheinstinctiswrong.Mysisterwould,undoubtedly,saythatitiswrong.Iwritewithoutherknowledge,andIhopethatyouwillnotassociateherwithmydiscourtesy.
“Believeme,
“Yourstruly,
“M.J.SCHLEGEL.”
Margaretsentthisletterroundbythepost.Nextmorningshereceivedthefollowingreplybyhand:
“DEARMISSSCHLEGEL,
“Youshouldnothavewrittenmesuchaletter.IcalledtotellyouthatPaulhasgoneabroad.
“RUTHWILCOX.”
Margaret’scheeksburnt.Shecouldnotfinishherbreakfast.Shewasonfirewithshame.HelenhadtoldherthattheyouthwasleavingEngland,butotherthingshadseemedmoreimportant,andshehadforgotten.Allherabsurdanxietiesfelltotheground,andintheirplacearosethecertaintythatshehadbeenrudetoMrs.Wilcox.RudenessaffectedMargaretlikeabittertasteinthemouth.Itpoisonedlife.Attimesitisnecessary,butwoetothosewhoemployitwithoutdueneed.Sheflungonahatandshawl,justlikeapoorwoman,andplungedintothefog,whichstillcontinued.Herlipswerecompressed,theletterremainedinherhand,andinthisstateshecrossedthestreet,enteredthemarblevestibuleoftheflats,eludedtheconcierges,andranupthestairstillshereachedthesecondfloor.Shesentinhername,andtohersurprisewasshownstraightintoMrs.Wilcox’sbedroom.
“Oh,Mrs.Wilcox,Ihavemadethebaddestblunder.Iammore,moreashamedandsorrythanIcansay.”
Mrs.Wilcoxbowedgravely.Shewasoffended,anddidnotpretendtothecontrary.Shewassittingupinbed,writinglettersonaninvalidtablethatspannedherknees.Abreakfasttraywasonanothertablebesideher.Thelightofthefire,thelightfromthewindow,andthelightofacandle-lamp,whichthrewa
