“Oh!” said Theresa. “There was only one book, then? All three were the same book? Your brother’s and Richard’s, and the other of Richard’s that William kept? They were all just Richard’s old book?”
“Yes,” said Emily. “It sounds clever of Dickie, doesn’t it? You wouldn’t think one book would have to go so far. Dickie and Nicholas were both wonderful about managing things. You wouldn’t think they would find books so difficult. Poor Nicholas wanted a book so. And he knew Mr. Crabbe was dying and friendless, so that no one could have read his book. And it was typed, so that he couldn’t tell it by the handwriting. He thought it out so cleverly. Of course it makes it much worse of him. But perhaps he forgot all that. Criminals do forget something.”
“It was a shame!” said Theresa. “So you think that Richard remembered his book, and wrote it again? And then again, after your brother had—had taken it?”
“Yes,” said Emily. “He had a lot of trouble, hadn’t he? But it was his own book. That seems quite good and strange of him. And worth the trouble, really. He was always saying how his book went back to his youth. He almost told us. He was really rather honest, considering everything. And William had read the book, which isn’t like William. That must have been put into William’s heart. Because of course Dickie wasn’t doing quite rightly.”
“Suppose any one of them had begun to read it,” said Theresa.
“Oh, I was afraid you would begin to suppose that! To read it! How dreadfully you realize the thing! And your sinister notion that the book might begin to read itself! I believe in religion now, and about our never being given to bear what is beyond our strength. Anyhow we shouldn’t be on our birthday. If it had happened, Nicholas and Dickie and William and I, and Peter—but does Peter know?—could never have met again. And we none of us know anyone else.”
“Peter does not know,” said Theresa, firmly. “What a thing for your brother that you have never married, dear! But I have often thought you would both be happier. Your brother married, as well.”
“Nicholas and I happier married! You don’t think, Theresa. Wives can’t think. Married people reveal all their past to each other, don’t they? Peter must have had a lovely past. Nicholas couldn’t do that. He hadn’t ever a good past, not at marriageable age. And he certainly couldn’t now. And he is seventy. He would have to marry an old lady. And she would not like the noise of the school. And it would really be taking advantage of Mr. Merry, because old ladies have so many little extra wants.”
“Does William suspect anything about the books?” said Theresa.
“No, they none of them saw anything. Even Dickie and Nicholas each thought he was the only bad one. But they had enough to think of. So I know for certain that I could never marry William. For I find that I only like wickedness and penetration.”
“Shall you tell your brother that you know? Does he know you know?” said Theresa.
“I shall tell him nothing. If he thinks I know, or may know, we just shall not speak of it. Then that will be the same to him as my not knowing. Nicholas is like that. And what is adorable about him is, that he would think no less of Dickie. He never despises baseness. That is why it is so right of him to be base. I should appreciate him better, and owe him more, if I were more base.”
“No, it isn’t much good to you, dear.”
“No,” said Emily. “That is what I am saying. It hasn’t been quite fair to Nicholas.”
“Shall you tell him about Richard? Does he suspect?”
“I think he is not subtle enough, and was too absorbed in his own affairs. No wonder. Of course I shall not tell him. It is no business of mine. I am not even sure. I ought not to have said a word to you. I knew you couldn’t really know. They are none of them as base as me. I am quite a chance for Nicholas, if only he knew. But you won’t say a word, Theresa? Not a word.”
“Oh, no, dear,” said Theresa.
“I think I can trust you,” said Emily. “I know you don’t mind that kind of wickedness. So why should you reveal it?”
“What an extraordinary thing that they didn’t give themselves away!” said Theresa. “It all fell about in such a minute, too. It almost seems as if something must have been there to prevent it.”
“Hardly anything providential,” said Emily. “They couldn’t be thought to deserve that. But you and I certainly didn’t deserve its being spun out. Nicholas was afraid to read a thing that he couldn’t have written. Because of course he couldn’t have written Dickie’s book. He was always leading up to the shock of it. And it was natural for Dickie to tell us that he had had to rewrite his book. All that rewriting would have to make an impression. It was really unlucky that he hadn’t told us before. Things always happen so hardly on Nicholas.”
“But Richard might have begun to read his book,” said Theresa. “It was only William who by chance prevented him.”
“Yes,” said Emily. “If we are to persist in thinking unproved evil of Dickie, and of course we are to do that. That must have been providential, and I told you I had got religion from it. So organic too, for William to prevent it, when it was only he, who made the prevention necessary! William couldn’t have been so egotistic by himself. This may have happened to convince you how far he and I are from each other. Providential things seem to be circuitous, like that.”
“I can’t think why Richard couldn’t have said that his book was the old one,” said Theresa.
“When one book was
