Read Online The Sealed Letter by Emma Donoghue - Free Book Online Page B

into my own house, and I can hardly begin such a speech on the street, or in a carriage: what if he were to make a scene?"
    Fido frowns. "Surely he's too much of a gentleman—"
    "Yes, but he's a desperate man too." Helen turns, speaking in a thrilled murmur. "The things he's said, in the past few weeks—threats against his own life..."
    Fido clamps her teeth together. Vulgar, vulgar. "Very well, let it be here: if it were done when 'tis done, 'twere well it were done quickly," she quotes. "On what day am I to expect the colonel?"
    Helen glances at the clock on the mantel. "He should be here any minute."
    Fido recoils.
    "Four, I said in my note."
    "I don't want to be a party to such a scene!"
    "Dearest, I wouldn't ask that of you," Helen assures her, coming over to press Fido's hands between her own surprisingly cool ones. "Simply make some excuse and leave the room for half an hour."
    "But—"
    The doorbell chimes below. A pause, then Fido hears Johnson's heavy footsteps cross the hall. "You're a force of chaos," she growls. "My life has been infinitely calmer without you in it."
    Helen's eyes are glittering. "Don't be hard on me just now; I don't believe I can bear it. I'll need all my courage for this interview."
    "Bless you, then," says Fido, giving her a crushing hug, and a kiss on her bright hair.
    "Won't you go to the top of the stairs to receive the poor man?" asks Helen. "He thinks such a great deal of you."
    That's humbug, Fido knows: the officer's only met her twice. But yes, she does pity Anderson, despite her squeamishness; pities his state of enthralled fascination; pities his puppyish look as he hurries up the stairs, unaware of the coming blow. Falling in love with Helen has probably been the great drama of his life; it'll all be humdrum regimental routine from this point on. He should have kept his mouth shut, Fido decides; should have adored his beloved in manly silence, or consigned his feelings to bad verse and locked them up in his desk. But that kind of gallantry's dead and gone. And can Fido really blame him for speaking his love, when Helen—in her loneliness and, yes, vanity—has clearly been all too ready to hear it? (A prim old adage of her mother's runs through Fido's head as she's walking towards the stairs: A gentleman is always a gentleman unless a lady forgets to be a lady. )
    So she greets the colonel kindly, and brews fresh coffee, as he doesn't care for tea; she even offers him a little chasse-café from the brandy decanter, to cushion his spirits. She remarks on the delicious cooling of the weather; she speaks highly of Mr. Gladstone's speech on the secret ballot. "Perhaps its time has come. After all, they've adopted it in France and Italy already."
    "Exactly," says Anderson with a snort. "It's a Papist notion. A Briton casts his vote openly and without shame, in the sight of his neighbours."
    "A man of independent means, may, certainly," Fido concedes, "but too many voters are under the influence of their squires, or employers, or rich customers, so come Election Day they act as so many timid sheep. Wouldn't the secret ballot give them protection from reprisal—and the courage of their convictions?"
    Anderson makes a face. "To my mind there's something sneaking and unmanly about it."
    "But that's the paradox, isn't it, Colonel? In the case of democracy, it may take secrecy to bring about sincerity. Behind the veil, the truth will out!"
    His eyes are sliding away from her again, towards Helen, on the other sofa, pale as a marble.
    It's time. Fido stands and says quietly, "I've promised Mrs. Codrington to allow her to speak to you tête-à-tête, because I know she has something very important to say."
    Anderson blinks, jumps to his feet.
    There, Fido thinks, giving Helen a look over her shoulder, that should screw her courage to the sticking-place.
    Downstairs in her study, she can't settle to anything. She leafs through the September number of the English Woman's Journal, making a few