He hastened downstairs feeling like a thief in his own house. He resented the fact of Hemming's quite natural presence in the hall, where the servant was busy removing the sticks, wet gloves, etc., which he had discarded upon his return home. He disappeared into his study, and sat down, wondering how his nefarious purpose could be best achieved, as there was no fire and no spirit-kettle handy. At first he thought he would have to wait until the following morning; but he believed that he should not sleep unless he had snatched the knowledge he so inordinately desired.
He dined morosely, and there was sympathy in the kitchen for his lack of appetite. It was not surprising to Hemming when he brought coffee to find it declined, and to be ordered to bring in the small spirit-kettle and the whisky decanter.
Alone at last, with the desired jet of steam, the monomaniac once more settled himself to his novel pursuit of tampering with seals. He had done so this morning without scruple. The letter he now held seemed to him far more sacred than the other. The blood rushed to his face, and his heart beat heavily as he peeled back the flap of the envelope. He felt almost as he might have felt had he intruded upon Virginia herself, as if he violated something pure and intact.
The letter was withdrawn. It lay under his relentless gaze. He took a peep into his wife's very soul.
Mother! Mother!
If you had known how it would hurt, you could not have written to me so! What can I say to you? Can I reproach my own mother with injustice? Yet I feel I cannot let you write as you do without telling you how unkind it sounds.
What I have done is wrong. I know that now. I half knew it all the time. But what else was there for me to do? I believe God knows I did it for the best. I was at the very end of all my own strength; I was at the very end of all our money; I had you all dependent upon me; and I knew I was going to break down.
I felt I had to serve you, and, oh, mother, you can't, you simply mustn't, deny that I have done that. Don't, for pity's sake, talk of my going off to be rich, and leaving you to the slavery that I found unbearable. That is not just, it is not true, but all the same it is torture to me that you should say it.
The unfairness of it gives me strength to write what perhaps I might not dare if I were not so indignant, but it has to be said. Never, never, under any circumstances, will I ask Osbert to do more for you than he has already done. Please understand that that is my last word. Last year we lived on less than £200, including Tony's school bills, which you will not now have to pay. With care, you ought to be quite comfortable on what you have.
I do not know whether Osbert means to make me any allowance. He has said nothing about it yet, and I cannot ask him. If he does, you shall have anything I can spare, you know how little I want myself. At least, I ought to be able to keep Tony in pocket-money, the darling has suffered so from not having any. At this moment I have five shillings in the world, which I must use to buy materials to embroider a kimono for my Pansy. I promised her that! It is to be blue, with pale pink embroidery. Tell her I have not forgotten; I will get it next time I go out shopping.