III
When Lavinia and Judith were alone, the real purpose of the former’s early morning call revealed itself:
“I want you to tell me how far you can hold a person to a promise—a voluntary promise, written on paper and signed.”
“It depends—” Judith eyed her narrowly—“on the nature of the one who makes the promise. I wouldn’t give a fig for all the contracts that ink and paper could record, if there were no volition—”
“Yes, but I am sure—that is, I think I have a right to demand....” She swallowed hard and a hunted look invaded the black eyes. “Would it be all right for me to—to ask for some satisfaction, some decision? You can’t let things go on in uncertainty. You have to come to an understanding. I—that is, I don’t think my brother has treated me right. Would you send the letter?”
“Use your own judgment, mother. You know what a wretched failure I made of my former attempts to advise you.”
“No, Judith, that was what I wanted to say to you. I have thought it all out, and have come to the conclusion that—that I had to do everything just as it came about. Oh, I don’t know how to tell you—but I begin to see how good comes out of evil—how I had to suffer to gain my happiness.”
At the door she turned, to ask, as if she were consulting a sorceress: “Would you advise me to write the letter—a very plain one?”
“Suspense is deadly. I should relieve my mind, at any cost,” her daughter-in-law said dryly. It was Lavinia Trench’s self-justification, the mind that could mould the universe into a pedestal for the support of her righteousness. It would be this way to the end. Nothing would ever change her. David was dead, and a letter of condolence had come from Calvin Stone, a letter that all the world might read. In all likelihood there had been no other word from him, since Lavinia was free ... to make uncomfortable demands.
She went home and wrote. With her own hands she carried the letter to the office, to insure delivery. It had occurred to her to register it ... her feet tugging to free themselves from the quicksand of doubt that spread all around her. But Drusilla or Larimore might take the receipt from the postman’s hand. Besides, it would be a confession of the fear that was in her. She must not act as if there were any question of her right, in this matter. To Lavinia it was still “this matter.” She did not name it, even to herself.