"Mamma ought to know," she said.
"But you haven't sent it"
"Yes, papa;--it is in the post"
Then it occurred to him that his wife would tell him that he should
have prevented the sending of the letter,--that he should have
destroyed it and altogether taken the matter with a high hand. "You
can't tell her yourself?" he asked.
"I would rather you did. Mamma has been so hard to me since I came
home."
He did tell his wife and she overwhelmed him by the violence of her
reproaches. He could never have been in earnest, or he would not
have allowed such a letter as that to pass through his hands. He
must be afraid of his own child. He did not know his own duty. He
had been deceiving her,--his wife,--from first to last. Then she
threw herself into a torrent of tears declaring that she had been
betrayed. There had been a conspiracy between them, and now
everything might go to the dogs, and she would not lift up her
hands again to save them. But before the evening came round she was
again on the alert, and again resolved that she would not even yet
give way. What was there in a letter more than in a spoken word?
She would tell Larry to disregard the letter. But first she made a
futile attempt to clutch the letter from the guardianship of the
Post Office, and she went to the Postmaster assuring him that there
had been a mistake in the family, that a wrong letter had been put
into a wrong envelope, and begging that the letter addressed to Mr.
Pages:
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350