The long, white envelope was from Mrs. Towne, the chocolate from Sue, the cream-colored from Dinah, the pale blue from Miss Jewett, the pink from Nan Gerard, and the square white from Laura Harrison. Mr. Hammerton had not once written; a kind message through her father or Dinah was all evidence he had given of remembrance. Mrs. Towne’s letter was opened before the others. What would Dine or Miss Jewett or Laura think of this? The faint perfume was the lady herself, so real was her presence that Tessa felt her arms about her as she read.
“Sue does not come to me as often as in the winter,” she wrote; “the Gesners, one and all, are proving themselves more alluring. Miss Gesner will be a good friend to her. If you could hear her laugh and talk, you would think of her as Sue Greyson and never as the widowed Mrs. Lake. She is Dr. Lake’s widow, certainly she is not his wife. Ralph growls about it in his kind way, but I think that he did not expect any thing deeper from her. Nan Gerard was with me all day yesterday; she was as sweet and shy as a wild flower. Nan’s heart is awake. Am I a silly old woman? I dream of you every night. I would be a washer-woman and live in Gesner’s Row, if I might have you for my daughter, never to leave me. Now I am a silly old woman and I will go to bed.”
The perfumed sheet was passed to the reader’s lips before the next envelope was torn open.
Dinah’s letter was a sheet of foolscap; it was written as a diary.
The first entry was merely an account of attending a concert with John; the second stated in a few strong words the failure of a bank. Old Mr. Hammerton had lost a large amount of money and had had a stroke of paralysis.
The third contained the history of a call from Sue; how tall and elegant she looked in her rich mourning, and how she had talked about her courtship and marriage all the time.
The fourth day their father had had an attack of pain, but it had not lasted as long as usual.
The last page was filled in Dine’s eager, story-telling style:
“Just to think, Tessa, now I know the end of my romance. It was dark last night just before tea, and I went into the front hall for something that I wanted to get out of the hat-stand drawer. The sitting-room door stood slightly ajar; I did not know that Gus was with father until I heard his voice. I did not listen, truly I did not; after I heard the first sentence I didn’t dare stir for fear of making my presence known. I moved off as easily and swiftly as I could, but I heard every word as plainly as if I had been in the room. It is queer that I should overhear the beginning and the ending of poor Gus’s only romance, isn’t it? I heard him say, ‘Every thing is changed in my plans; father is left with nothing but his good name, my mother is aged and feeble, my sister is a widow with a child; her money is gone, too. I am the sole support of four people. I could not marry, even if I desired to do so. And since I have definitely learned that she does not think of me, and never has thought of me, and that she thinks of some one else, the bachelor’s life will be no great hardship.’
“I had got to the parlor door by that time, so, of course, I never can know father’s answer. But isn’t it dreadful? I suppose that he is over the disappointment, for his voice sounded as cool as usual; too cold, I thought. I should have liked him better if he had been in a flutter. I shall never tell any body but John. Poor old, wise old, dear old Gus! He will pursue the even tenor of his unmarried way, and no one will ever guess that he has had a romance. Perhaps Felix Harrison has had one, too. Perhaps every body has.”