Caroline was holding the letter out to her in a hand that shook.
‘Look!’ she said, and her voice shook too. ‘Look! the thing’s got our names on it.’
It had. On the square parchment face were the three names written in a strange yet readable handwriting, in ink that was faded as with the slow fading of many many years.
To
Caroline,
Charlotte, and
Charles.
‘You open it, Caro,’ said Charlotte; and Charles, who had come across from his favourite mandarin, said, ‘Yes, Caro; you open it.’
It seemed a pity to break the green seals, and they were glad that the plaited silk slipped off easily when the letter was folded a little. But the second green seal had to be broken. The parchment, crackling in Caroline’s uncertain hands, was unfolded, and within was writing—lines in that same strange but clear hand, that same dim, faded ink.
At eight of the clock, lean on this marble table and gaze in the mirror and you shall see and speak with me. But look only in the mirror, uttering no word, and wear the pink verbena stuck behind your ears and the roses on your hearts.—Your kinswoman,
Eleanour.
‘Then I didn’t spoil it,’ Charles spoke first; ‘not even for myself. Because it’s addressed to me the same as to you.’
‘Yes,’ said Caroline; ‘you’d better be between us two, though, Charles, and you must not look round.’