Chapter Seventeen.Lettice is Obstinate.Miss Carr’s surmise proved correct, for even as she spoke the door opened and Lettice appeared on the threshold. No longer the Lettice of short skirts and flowing locks, but an elegant young lady who swept forward with a rustle of silken skirts, and held up the sweetest pink and white face in the world to receive her father’s kiss of greeting. “Lovely Lettice,” indeed, lovelier than ever in the first bloom of womanhood. As her father held her from him at arm’s length, the slim figure was almost as tall as his own, and the golden head dropped before the grave, scrutinising glance. Lettice knew that her lover had called during her absence, and Miss Carr’s silence, her father’s unusual solemnity, added to her natural nervousness. The grey eyes roved from one face to another with a scared, helpless look which they were quick to understand.“Yes,” said Mr Bertrand, “we know all about it by this time, Lettice. Mr Newcome has interviewed Miss Carr. She was intensely surprised; I also; but she has had more opportunity of seeing you together, and she tells me that you have shown no special signs of interest in this young fellow. Tell me, my dear—speak frankly, we are only thinking of your happiness—have you allowed yourself to be persuaded against your own judgment? It is a pity if that is the case, but it can be remedied. There is no engagement as yet, and I can easily explain to Mr Newcome that you have made a mistake.”Lettice had seated herself opposite her father and busied herself pulling off her long suede gloves. She avoided her father’s glance, but the answer came in a little, breathless gasp—“Oh, no, no! I don’t want—”“No—you sayno? Lettice, this is a serious matter. Do you mean to tell me that you love Arthur Newcome, and wish to marry him? Think well, my dear. You know what it means—that you are content to spend your life with this man, to give up everything for him, to say good-bye to friends and relations—”“Father, Miss Carr is here; you are all coming up for the winter; he lives here. I should not have to leave you!”“You can’t count on that, Lettice. Mr Newcome’s business arrangements might make it necessary for him to leave London at any time, and it would be your duty to follow. Do you care for him enough to make such a sacrifice? If you love him you will not hesitate; butdoyou love him? That is what I want to hear! Come, Lettice, speak; I am waiting for your answer.”“I—I—father, I do like him! I promised I would. I think he is very kind!”The two elders exchanged glances of baffled helplessness. There was silence for a few minutes, then Mr Bertrand seated himself by Lettice’s side and took her hand in his.“My dear little girl, let us understand each other. Of course he is ‘kind’; of course you ‘like him,’ but that is not enough; you must do something more than ‘like’ the man who is to be your husband. Do you care for him more than for me and Miss Carr, and your sisters and brothers all together? If he were on one side of the scale and we on the other, which would you choose? That is the way to face the question. You must not be satisfied with less. My dear, you are very young yet; I think you had better let me tell Mr Newcome that he is not to mention this matter again for the next two years, until you are twenty-one. By that time you will know your own mind, and, if you still wished it, I should have no more to say. You would be willing to leave it in that way, wouldn’t you, dear?”But Lettice did not look at all willing. She drew her hand away from her father’s grasp, and turned her shoulder on him with a pettish gesture which was strangely unlike her usual sweet demeanour.“Why should I wait? There is nothing to wait for! I thought you would be pleased. It’s very unkind to spoil it all! Other girls are happy when they are engaged, and people are kind to them. You might let me be happy too—”Mr Bertrand sat bolt upright in his seat, staring at his daughter with incredulous eyes. Could it be possible that the girl was in earnest after all, that she was really attached to this most heavy and unattractive young man? He looked appealingly at his old friend, who, so far, had taken no part in the conversation, and she took pity on his embarrassment and came to the rescue. Two years’ constant companionship with Lettice had shown her that there was a large amount of obstinacy hidden beneath the sweetness of manner, and for the girl’s sake, as well as her father’s, she thought the present interview had better come to an end.“Suppose you go to the library and have a smoke, Austin, while Lettice and I have a quiet talk together,” she said soothingly, and Mr Bertrand shrugged his shoulders with a gesture of nervous irritation, and strode from the room.No sooner had the door closed behind him than Lettice produced a little lace-edged handkerchief from her pocket, and began to sob and cry.“Father is cruel; why won’t he believe me? Why may I not get engaged like other girls? I am nineteen. I was so happy—and now I’m miserable!”“Come here, Lettice, and for pity’s sake, child, stop crying, and behave like a reasonable creature. There are one or two questions I want to ask you. How long have you known that Arthur Newcome was in love with you?”“I don’t know. At least, he was always nice. That summer at Windermere, he always walked with me, and brought me flowers, and—”“That was three years ago—the summer you came to me. So long as that! But, Lettice, whatever your feelings may be now, you have certainly not cared for him up to a very recent period. I don’t need to remind you of the manner in which you have spoken about him. When you saw that lit; was growing attached to you, did you try to show that you did not appreciate his attentions?”Lettice bent her head and grew crimson over cheek and neck.“I was obliged to be polite! He was always with Madge, and I did like—”Miss Carr shut her lips in tight displeasure.“Yes, my dear, you ‘liked’ his attentions, and you were too vain and selfish to put an end to them, though you did not care for the man himself. Oh, Lettice, this is what I have feared! this is what I have tried to prevent! My poor, foolish child, what trouble you have brought upon us all! Arthur Newcome will have every reason to consider himself badly treated; his people will take his part; you will have alienated your best friends.”“I am not going to treat him badly. You are very unkind.Hewould not be unkind to me. I wish he were here, I do! He would not let you be so cruel.” And Lettice went off into a paroxysm of sobbing, while Miss Carr realised sorrowfully that she had made a false move.“My dear child, you know very well I don’t mean to be cruel. I am too anxious for your happiness. Lettice, Mr Newcome is very much in love just now, and is excited and moved out of himself; but though he may not be less devoted to you, in the course of time he will naturally fall back into his old quiet ways. When you think of a life with him, you must not imagine him as he was yesterday, but as you have seen him at home any time during the last three years. You have mimicked him to me many times over, my dear. Can you now feel content to spend your life in his company?”It was of no use. Lettice would do nothing but sob and cry, reiterate that everyone was unkind, that she was miserable, that it was a shame that she could not be happy like other girls, until at last Miss Carr, in despair, sent her upstairs to her bedroom, and went to rejoin Mr Bertrand.“Well?” he said, stopping short in his pacings up and down, and regarding her with an anxious gaze, “what luck?”Miss Carr gave a gesture of impatience.“Oh, none—none at all! She will do nothing but cry and make a martyr of herself. She will not acknowledge that she has made a mistake, and yet I know, I feel, it is not the right thing! You must speak to Arthur Newcome yourself to-morrow, and try to make him consent to a few months’ delay.”“I was thinking of that myself. I’ll try for six, but he won’t consent. I can’t say I should myself under the circumstances. When Lettice has accepted him and cries her eyes out at the idea of giving him up, you can hardly expect the young fellow to be patient. Heigho, these daughters! A nice time of it I have before me, with four of them on my hands.”Punctually at eleven o’clock next morning Arthur Newcome arrived for his interview with Mr Bertrand. They were shut up together for over half-an-hour, then Mr Bertrand burst open the door of the room where Miss Carr and his daughter were seated, and addressed the latter in tones of irritation such as she had seldom heard from those kindly lips.“Lettice, go to the drawing-room and see Mr Newcome. He will tell you what we have arranged. In ten minutes from now, come back to me here.”Lettice dropped her work and glided out of the room, white and noiseless as a ghost, and her father clapped his hands together in impatience.“Bah, what a man! He drives me distracted! To think that fate should have been so perverse as to saddle me with a fellow like that for a son-in-law! Oh dear, yes, perfectly polite, and all that was proper and well-conducted, but I have no chance against him—none! I lose my head and get excited, and he is so abominably cool. He will wait a month as a concession to my wishes before making the engagement public, and during that time she is to be left alone. He is neither to come here, nor to write to her, and we will say nothing about it at home, so that there may be as little unpleasantness as possible if it ends as we hope it may. I had really no decent objection to make when he questioned me on the subject. He is in a good position; his people are all we could wish; his character irreproachable. He wishes to be married in the autumn, and if he persists I shall have to give in; I know I shall—you might as well try to fight with a stone wall.”“Autumn!” echoed Miss Carr in dismay. “Autumn! Oh, my poor Lettice! my poor, dear child! But we have a month, you say; a great deal may be done in a month. Ah, well, Austin, we must just hope for the best, and do everything in our power to prevent an engagement.”
Miss Carr’s surmise proved correct, for even as she spoke the door opened and Lettice appeared on the threshold. No longer the Lettice of short skirts and flowing locks, but an elegant young lady who swept forward with a rustle of silken skirts, and held up the sweetest pink and white face in the world to receive her father’s kiss of greeting. “Lovely Lettice,” indeed, lovelier than ever in the first bloom of womanhood. As her father held her from him at arm’s length, the slim figure was almost as tall as his own, and the golden head dropped before the grave, scrutinising glance. Lettice knew that her lover had called during her absence, and Miss Carr’s silence, her father’s unusual solemnity, added to her natural nervousness. The grey eyes roved from one face to another with a scared, helpless look which they were quick to understand.
“Yes,” said Mr Bertrand, “we know all about it by this time, Lettice. Mr Newcome has interviewed Miss Carr. She was intensely surprised; I also; but she has had more opportunity of seeing you together, and she tells me that you have shown no special signs of interest in this young fellow. Tell me, my dear—speak frankly, we are only thinking of your happiness—have you allowed yourself to be persuaded against your own judgment? It is a pity if that is the case, but it can be remedied. There is no engagement as yet, and I can easily explain to Mr Newcome that you have made a mistake.”
Lettice had seated herself opposite her father and busied herself pulling off her long suede gloves. She avoided her father’s glance, but the answer came in a little, breathless gasp—“Oh, no, no! I don’t want—”
“No—you sayno? Lettice, this is a serious matter. Do you mean to tell me that you love Arthur Newcome, and wish to marry him? Think well, my dear. You know what it means—that you are content to spend your life with this man, to give up everything for him, to say good-bye to friends and relations—”
“Father, Miss Carr is here; you are all coming up for the winter; he lives here. I should not have to leave you!”
“You can’t count on that, Lettice. Mr Newcome’s business arrangements might make it necessary for him to leave London at any time, and it would be your duty to follow. Do you care for him enough to make such a sacrifice? If you love him you will not hesitate; butdoyou love him? That is what I want to hear! Come, Lettice, speak; I am waiting for your answer.”
“I—I—father, I do like him! I promised I would. I think he is very kind!”
The two elders exchanged glances of baffled helplessness. There was silence for a few minutes, then Mr Bertrand seated himself by Lettice’s side and took her hand in his.
“My dear little girl, let us understand each other. Of course he is ‘kind’; of course you ‘like him,’ but that is not enough; you must do something more than ‘like’ the man who is to be your husband. Do you care for him more than for me and Miss Carr, and your sisters and brothers all together? If he were on one side of the scale and we on the other, which would you choose? That is the way to face the question. You must not be satisfied with less. My dear, you are very young yet; I think you had better let me tell Mr Newcome that he is not to mention this matter again for the next two years, until you are twenty-one. By that time you will know your own mind, and, if you still wished it, I should have no more to say. You would be willing to leave it in that way, wouldn’t you, dear?”
But Lettice did not look at all willing. She drew her hand away from her father’s grasp, and turned her shoulder on him with a pettish gesture which was strangely unlike her usual sweet demeanour.
“Why should I wait? There is nothing to wait for! I thought you would be pleased. It’s very unkind to spoil it all! Other girls are happy when they are engaged, and people are kind to them. You might let me be happy too—”
Mr Bertrand sat bolt upright in his seat, staring at his daughter with incredulous eyes. Could it be possible that the girl was in earnest after all, that she was really attached to this most heavy and unattractive young man? He looked appealingly at his old friend, who, so far, had taken no part in the conversation, and she took pity on his embarrassment and came to the rescue. Two years’ constant companionship with Lettice had shown her that there was a large amount of obstinacy hidden beneath the sweetness of manner, and for the girl’s sake, as well as her father’s, she thought the present interview had better come to an end.
“Suppose you go to the library and have a smoke, Austin, while Lettice and I have a quiet talk together,” she said soothingly, and Mr Bertrand shrugged his shoulders with a gesture of nervous irritation, and strode from the room.
No sooner had the door closed behind him than Lettice produced a little lace-edged handkerchief from her pocket, and began to sob and cry.
“Father is cruel; why won’t he believe me? Why may I not get engaged like other girls? I am nineteen. I was so happy—and now I’m miserable!”
“Come here, Lettice, and for pity’s sake, child, stop crying, and behave like a reasonable creature. There are one or two questions I want to ask you. How long have you known that Arthur Newcome was in love with you?”
“I don’t know. At least, he was always nice. That summer at Windermere, he always walked with me, and brought me flowers, and—”
“That was three years ago—the summer you came to me. So long as that! But, Lettice, whatever your feelings may be now, you have certainly not cared for him up to a very recent period. I don’t need to remind you of the manner in which you have spoken about him. When you saw that lit; was growing attached to you, did you try to show that you did not appreciate his attentions?”
Lettice bent her head and grew crimson over cheek and neck.
“I was obliged to be polite! He was always with Madge, and I did like—”
Miss Carr shut her lips in tight displeasure.
“Yes, my dear, you ‘liked’ his attentions, and you were too vain and selfish to put an end to them, though you did not care for the man himself. Oh, Lettice, this is what I have feared! this is what I have tried to prevent! My poor, foolish child, what trouble you have brought upon us all! Arthur Newcome will have every reason to consider himself badly treated; his people will take his part; you will have alienated your best friends.”
“I am not going to treat him badly. You are very unkind.Hewould not be unkind to me. I wish he were here, I do! He would not let you be so cruel.” And Lettice went off into a paroxysm of sobbing, while Miss Carr realised sorrowfully that she had made a false move.
“My dear child, you know very well I don’t mean to be cruel. I am too anxious for your happiness. Lettice, Mr Newcome is very much in love just now, and is excited and moved out of himself; but though he may not be less devoted to you, in the course of time he will naturally fall back into his old quiet ways. When you think of a life with him, you must not imagine him as he was yesterday, but as you have seen him at home any time during the last three years. You have mimicked him to me many times over, my dear. Can you now feel content to spend your life in his company?”
It was of no use. Lettice would do nothing but sob and cry, reiterate that everyone was unkind, that she was miserable, that it was a shame that she could not be happy like other girls, until at last Miss Carr, in despair, sent her upstairs to her bedroom, and went to rejoin Mr Bertrand.
“Well?” he said, stopping short in his pacings up and down, and regarding her with an anxious gaze, “what luck?”
Miss Carr gave a gesture of impatience.
“Oh, none—none at all! She will do nothing but cry and make a martyr of herself. She will not acknowledge that she has made a mistake, and yet I know, I feel, it is not the right thing! You must speak to Arthur Newcome yourself to-morrow, and try to make him consent to a few months’ delay.”
“I was thinking of that myself. I’ll try for six, but he won’t consent. I can’t say I should myself under the circumstances. When Lettice has accepted him and cries her eyes out at the idea of giving him up, you can hardly expect the young fellow to be patient. Heigho, these daughters! A nice time of it I have before me, with four of them on my hands.”
Punctually at eleven o’clock next morning Arthur Newcome arrived for his interview with Mr Bertrand. They were shut up together for over half-an-hour, then Mr Bertrand burst open the door of the room where Miss Carr and his daughter were seated, and addressed the latter in tones of irritation such as she had seldom heard from those kindly lips.
“Lettice, go to the drawing-room and see Mr Newcome. He will tell you what we have arranged. In ten minutes from now, come back to me here.”
Lettice dropped her work and glided out of the room, white and noiseless as a ghost, and her father clapped his hands together in impatience.
“Bah, what a man! He drives me distracted! To think that fate should have been so perverse as to saddle me with a fellow like that for a son-in-law! Oh dear, yes, perfectly polite, and all that was proper and well-conducted, but I have no chance against him—none! I lose my head and get excited, and he is so abominably cool. He will wait a month as a concession to my wishes before making the engagement public, and during that time she is to be left alone. He is neither to come here, nor to write to her, and we will say nothing about it at home, so that there may be as little unpleasantness as possible if it ends as we hope it may. I had really no decent objection to make when he questioned me on the subject. He is in a good position; his people are all we could wish; his character irreproachable. He wishes to be married in the autumn, and if he persists I shall have to give in; I know I shall—you might as well try to fight with a stone wall.”
“Autumn!” echoed Miss Carr in dismay. “Autumn! Oh, my poor Lettice! my poor, dear child! But we have a month, you say; a great deal may be done in a month. Ah, well, Austin, we must just hope for the best, and do everything in our power to prevent an engagement.”
Chapter Eighteen.Lettice Decides.For the next month, Lettice saw nothing of Arthur Newcome. He had packed up his traps and gone to spend the weeks of probation in Norway, where he would be out of the way of temptation, and have his mind distracted by novel surroundings.No such change, however, fell to Lettice’s share. Mr Bertrand would not allow the ordinary summer visit to Clearwater to be anticipated. He had forbidden Lettice to mention the proposed engagement to her sisters as he was sanguine that a month’s reflection would be more than enough to convince the girl of her mistake, when the less that was known about the matter the better for all concerned. As Arthur Newcome was out of town he could see no objection to Lettice remaining where she was, and Miss Carr agreed the more readily in this decision as she had made a number of engagements which it would have been difficult to forego. Both were thinking only of the girl’s welfare; but alas! the best-meaning people make mistakes at times, and this arrangement was the most unfortunate which could have been made, considering the object which they had in view. Lettice had nothing to distract her mind from the past, no novelty of any kind to keep her from dwelling on the gratifying remembrance of Arthur Newcome’s devotion. On the contrary, her life was less bright than usual, for the Newcomes were naturally displeased at Mr Bertrand’s objections to the engagement, and would not hold any communication with Miss Carr’s household until the matter was decided. Thus Lettice was deprived of the society of her best friend, and was forbidden the house in which she had been accustomed to spend her happiest hours.Miss Carr did her best to provide interest and amusement, but there was a constraint between the old lady and her ward, which was as new as it was painful. Lettice was conscious that she was in disgrace. When her father fumed and fidgeted about the room, she guessed, without being told, that he was thinking of the proposed engagement; when Miss Carr sighed, and screwed up her face until it looked nothing but a network of wrinkles, she knew that the old lady was blaming herself for negligence in the past, and pondering what could still be done to avert the marriage, and a most unpleasant knowledge it was. Lettice had lived all her life in the sunshine of approval. As a little child everyone had petted and praised her because of her charming looks; as a schoolgirl she had reigned supreme among her fellows; her short experience of society had shown that she had no less power in the new sphere. Cold looks and reproachful glances were a new experience, and instead of moving her to repentance, they had the effect of making her think constantly of her lover, and long more and more for his return. Miss Carr thought she was vain and selfish—Arthur said she was the best and sweetest of women; her father called her a “foolish little girl”—Arthur called her his queen and goddess; Miss Carr sat silent the whole of the afternoon, sighing as if her heart was broken—Arthur had walked across London many times over for the chance of a passing word. Other people were disappointed in her, but Arthur declared that she was perfect, without possibility of improvement! Lettice would take refuge in the solitude of her bedroom, cry to herself, and look out of the window wondering in which direction Norway lay, what Arthur was doing, and if he were half as miserable at being separated from her as she was at being left alone in London. Then she would recall the afternoon on the river, when he had asked her to be his wife. How terribly in earnest he had seemed. She had tried to say no, because, though she enjoyed his attentions, she had never really intended to marry him; but the sight of his face had frightened her, and when he had said in that awful voice, “Lettice, do you mean it? Is there no hope? Have you been making a fool of me for all these years?”—she had been ready to promise anything and everything in the world if he would only smile again. And he had been very “kind.” It was “nice” being engaged. She had been quite happy until her father came, and was so cross.If Miss Carr could have been her own cheery, loving self, and talked to the girl in a natural, kindly manner, still better, if she could have had half-an-hour’s conversation with outspoken Norah, all might have been well; but Miss Carr was under the mistaken impression that it was her duty to show her disapproval by every act and look, and the result was disastrous. Every morning Lettice awoke with the doleful question, “How am I to get through the day?” Every night she went to bed hugging the thought that another milestone had been passed, and that the probation was nearer to its end. By the end of the month her friends’ efforts had so nearly succeeded in making her honestly in love with Arthur Newcome, that they marked the girl’s bright eyes and happy smiles, and told each other sadly that it was no use standing out further.Arthur Newcome wrote to Mr Bertrand announcing his arrival in London, and asking permission to call and receive his answer from Lettice’s lips, and there was nothing to do but to consent forthwith. An hour was appointed for the next afternoon, and Lettice spent an unconscionable time in her bedroom preparing for the great occasion, and trying to decide in which of her dainty garments Arthur would like her best. Her father had taken himself into the City after a conversation in which he had come perilously near losing his temper, and when Lettice floated into the drawing-room, all pale green muslin and valenciennes insertion, looking more like an exquisite wood nymph than a creature of common flesh and blood, there sat Miss Carr crying her eyes out on a corner of the ottoman.“Oh, Lettice, Lettice! is it too late? Won’t you listen to reason even at the eleventh hour? It is the greatest folly to enter into this engagement. Never were two people more unsuited to each other! You will regret it all your life. My poor, dear child, you are wrecking your own happiness...”It was too bad! For almost the first time in her life Lettice felt a throb of actual anger. She had been docile and obedient, had consented to be separated from Arthur for a whole month, and done all in her power to satisfy these exacting people, and even now they would not believe her—they would not allow her to be happy. She stood staring at Miss Carr in silence, until the servant threw open the door and announced her lover’s arrival.“Mr Newcome, ma’am. I have shown him into the morning-room as you desired.”Lettice turned without a word and ran swiftly downstairs to the room where Arthur Newcome was waiting for her in painful anxiety. For three long years he had tried to win the girl’s heart, and had failed to gain a sign of affection. Her acceptance had been won after a struggle, and he was racked with suspense as to the effect of this month’s separation. When the door opened, Lettice saw him standing opposite, his tall figure drawn up to its full height, his handsome face pale with the intensity of his emotion.She gave a quick glance, then rushed forward and nestled into his arms with a little cry of joy.“Oh, Arthur, Arthur! you have come back! Take care of me! Take care of me! I have been so miserable!”
For the next month, Lettice saw nothing of Arthur Newcome. He had packed up his traps and gone to spend the weeks of probation in Norway, where he would be out of the way of temptation, and have his mind distracted by novel surroundings.
No such change, however, fell to Lettice’s share. Mr Bertrand would not allow the ordinary summer visit to Clearwater to be anticipated. He had forbidden Lettice to mention the proposed engagement to her sisters as he was sanguine that a month’s reflection would be more than enough to convince the girl of her mistake, when the less that was known about the matter the better for all concerned. As Arthur Newcome was out of town he could see no objection to Lettice remaining where she was, and Miss Carr agreed the more readily in this decision as she had made a number of engagements which it would have been difficult to forego. Both were thinking only of the girl’s welfare; but alas! the best-meaning people make mistakes at times, and this arrangement was the most unfortunate which could have been made, considering the object which they had in view. Lettice had nothing to distract her mind from the past, no novelty of any kind to keep her from dwelling on the gratifying remembrance of Arthur Newcome’s devotion. On the contrary, her life was less bright than usual, for the Newcomes were naturally displeased at Mr Bertrand’s objections to the engagement, and would not hold any communication with Miss Carr’s household until the matter was decided. Thus Lettice was deprived of the society of her best friend, and was forbidden the house in which she had been accustomed to spend her happiest hours.
Miss Carr did her best to provide interest and amusement, but there was a constraint between the old lady and her ward, which was as new as it was painful. Lettice was conscious that she was in disgrace. When her father fumed and fidgeted about the room, she guessed, without being told, that he was thinking of the proposed engagement; when Miss Carr sighed, and screwed up her face until it looked nothing but a network of wrinkles, she knew that the old lady was blaming herself for negligence in the past, and pondering what could still be done to avert the marriage, and a most unpleasant knowledge it was. Lettice had lived all her life in the sunshine of approval. As a little child everyone had petted and praised her because of her charming looks; as a schoolgirl she had reigned supreme among her fellows; her short experience of society had shown that she had no less power in the new sphere. Cold looks and reproachful glances were a new experience, and instead of moving her to repentance, they had the effect of making her think constantly of her lover, and long more and more for his return. Miss Carr thought she was vain and selfish—Arthur said she was the best and sweetest of women; her father called her a “foolish little girl”—Arthur called her his queen and goddess; Miss Carr sat silent the whole of the afternoon, sighing as if her heart was broken—Arthur had walked across London many times over for the chance of a passing word. Other people were disappointed in her, but Arthur declared that she was perfect, without possibility of improvement! Lettice would take refuge in the solitude of her bedroom, cry to herself, and look out of the window wondering in which direction Norway lay, what Arthur was doing, and if he were half as miserable at being separated from her as she was at being left alone in London. Then she would recall the afternoon on the river, when he had asked her to be his wife. How terribly in earnest he had seemed. She had tried to say no, because, though she enjoyed his attentions, she had never really intended to marry him; but the sight of his face had frightened her, and when he had said in that awful voice, “Lettice, do you mean it? Is there no hope? Have you been making a fool of me for all these years?”—she had been ready to promise anything and everything in the world if he would only smile again. And he had been very “kind.” It was “nice” being engaged. She had been quite happy until her father came, and was so cross.
If Miss Carr could have been her own cheery, loving self, and talked to the girl in a natural, kindly manner, still better, if she could have had half-an-hour’s conversation with outspoken Norah, all might have been well; but Miss Carr was under the mistaken impression that it was her duty to show her disapproval by every act and look, and the result was disastrous. Every morning Lettice awoke with the doleful question, “How am I to get through the day?” Every night she went to bed hugging the thought that another milestone had been passed, and that the probation was nearer to its end. By the end of the month her friends’ efforts had so nearly succeeded in making her honestly in love with Arthur Newcome, that they marked the girl’s bright eyes and happy smiles, and told each other sadly that it was no use standing out further.
Arthur Newcome wrote to Mr Bertrand announcing his arrival in London, and asking permission to call and receive his answer from Lettice’s lips, and there was nothing to do but to consent forthwith. An hour was appointed for the next afternoon, and Lettice spent an unconscionable time in her bedroom preparing for the great occasion, and trying to decide in which of her dainty garments Arthur would like her best. Her father had taken himself into the City after a conversation in which he had come perilously near losing his temper, and when Lettice floated into the drawing-room, all pale green muslin and valenciennes insertion, looking more like an exquisite wood nymph than a creature of common flesh and blood, there sat Miss Carr crying her eyes out on a corner of the ottoman.
“Oh, Lettice, Lettice! is it too late? Won’t you listen to reason even at the eleventh hour? It is the greatest folly to enter into this engagement. Never were two people more unsuited to each other! You will regret it all your life. My poor, dear child, you are wrecking your own happiness...”
It was too bad! For almost the first time in her life Lettice felt a throb of actual anger. She had been docile and obedient, had consented to be separated from Arthur for a whole month, and done all in her power to satisfy these exacting people, and even now they would not believe her—they would not allow her to be happy. She stood staring at Miss Carr in silence, until the servant threw open the door and announced her lover’s arrival.
“Mr Newcome, ma’am. I have shown him into the morning-room as you desired.”
Lettice turned without a word and ran swiftly downstairs to the room where Arthur Newcome was waiting for her in painful anxiety. For three long years he had tried to win the girl’s heart, and had failed to gain a sign of affection. Her acceptance had been won after a struggle, and he was racked with suspense as to the effect of this month’s separation. When the door opened, Lettice saw him standing opposite, his tall figure drawn up to its full height, his handsome face pale with the intensity of his emotion.
She gave a quick glance, then rushed forward and nestled into his arms with a little cry of joy.
“Oh, Arthur, Arthur! you have come back! Take care of me! Take care of me! I have been so miserable!”
Chapter Nineteen.The Scattered Nest.Two days later a happy party were disporting themselves on the lawn at Cloudsdale. Rex and Edna Freer had driven over to spend the afternoon with their friends, and just as Mary placed the tea-tray on the wicker table, the postman came marching up the drive, and delivered the only thing which was necessary to complete the happiness of the party—a letter from Lettice!“She has written so little lately, and her letters have been so unlike herself, that I have been quite uneasy,” said Hilary, turning the envelope round and round, and feeling its proportions with undisguised pleasure. “I’ll give you each a cup of tea, and then I’ll read it out, while you listen in comfort.”The three years which had passed since we saw her last had dealt very kindly with Hilary. The consequential air had given place to an expression of quiet serenity which was by no means unbecoming. Her complexion was pink and white as of yore, and as she presided over the tea-table, her blue cambric dress fitting closely to the line of her neat little figure, her tiny feet crossed before her, and her shining brown hair arranged in its usual fastidious order, it would have been difficult to find a more favourable specimen of a young English girl. Norah, seated opposite on the long hammock chair, was still very girlish in appearance, despite the dignity of eighteen years. She was thin and lanky, and her cheeks had none of Hilary’s delicate bloom, but the heavy eyebrows and expressive lips lent a charm to a face which was never the same in expression for two minutes together, and though there could be no question as to which was the prettier of the two, it was safe to predict that few people who looked at Norah would be tempted to return to the study of Hilary’s more commonplace features.Edna was narrow-chested and delicate in appearance, but Rex had developed into an imposing looking personage; broad-shouldered, muscular, and with such a moustache as was unequalled by any young fellow of his age in the country-side. He wore a white flannel suit, and though there were several unoccupied seats at hand, chose to loll on the grass, his long legs stretched out before him, his blue cap pushed well back on his curly head. Nestled beside him sat Geraldine, a little taller, a little older in appearance, but with the same grave, earnest little face which had characterised her three years before. Perhaps the member of the family who was the most changed, was the tall, young fellow who sat beside Norah. Raymond had only lately returned from a two years’ sojourn in Germany, where he had acquired an extra four inches, a pair of eye-glasses, and such “a man of the world” manner, that it had been a shock to his sisters to find that his teasing propensities were as vigorous as when he had been a schoolboy. Faithful Bob hovered near, ready to obey his leader’s commands, and take part in any mischief which might be at hand, but for the moment all other interests gave way to the hearing of the letter from London.Hilary handed the last cup to its owner, and opening the envelope, ran her eye rapidly down the sheet. The next moment a loud “Oh!” of amazement startled the hearers into eager curiosity.“What is the matter?”“Oh—oh! It can’t be true—it can’t! Lettice is engaged to be married!”“Engaged!” A moment’s breathless silence was succeeded by a very babel of questioning.“Engaged?” “Who to?” “When?” “Where.” “What does she say?” “Oh, read it aloud. Let us hear every word she says!”But Hilary folded up the sheet with an air of determination. “Not yet. I’ll read it by-and-by; but first you must guess. I’ll give you fifty guesses who it is...”“The painter fellow who did her portrait!”“That what-do-you-call-him man—the Polish nobleman who sent her the verses!”“The curate!”“Sir Neville Bruce!”“One of the men she met at Brighton!”“Wrong! wrong! wrong! Guess again. Nearer home this time. Someone you know!”“Not Mr Rayner?”“Oh, dear me, no! I should think not. He and Lettice never get on well together. Someone else.”“Someone we know! But we know so few of her friends. Only Mr Neville, and the Bewleys, and—oh! No, it can’t—it can’t possibly be—”“What? what? Who—who? Never mind if you are wrong. Say whom you are thinking of.”“It—can’tbe Arthur Newcome!”“Arthur Newcome it is, my dear!” said Hilary tragically; whereupon Raymond instantly dropped his teacup on the grass, and fell heavily on Norah’s shoulders.“Smelling salts! Brandy! I am going to faint! Oh, my heart!”But, for once, no one paid any attention. Even Norah sat motionless, forgetting to push him away, forgetting everything but the appalling nature of the news which she had just heard.“Lettice—is—engaged—to—Arthur Newcome?”“Lettice—is—engaged—to—Arthur Newcome!”“But—but—we knew that he admired her in his solemn way, but she never seemed to like him! She used to make fun of him, and imitate the way he talked!”Raymond sat up and passed in his cup for a fresh supply of tea. What was the good of fainting if nobody took any notice! “I say,” he cried energetically, “fancy Arthur Newcome proposing! I’d give anything if I could have overheard him. ... ‘Miss Bertrand!—Lettice!—may I call you Lettice? Deign, oh deign—’”“Oh, be quiet, Raymond, and let us hear the letter,” pleaded Norah, who was on the verge of tears with agitation and distress. “I can’t believe it until I hear her own words. Read it, Hilary, from the very beginning.”Hilary opened out the dainty, scented sheet, and read aloud, with an impressiveness worthy of the occasion:—“My dearest old Hilary, and Norah, and every one of you,—I have a great piece of news to tell. I am engaged to Arthur Newcome, and he wants to be married some time this autumn. He proposed to me a month ago, on the day of our water party, but father and Miss Carr wished us to wait a month before it was settled, so that I should have time to make up my mind. They think I am so young, but if we wait until September I shall be twenty, and many girls are married at that age. I have a beautiful ring—a big pearl in the centre, and diamonds all round, and Arthur has given me a brooch as well, three dear little diamond swallows—it looks so sweet at my neck! Madge is very pleased, of course, and Mr and Mrs Newcome are very kind. Won’t it be nice when I have a house of my own, and you can come and stay with me? I shall have six bridesmaids—you three, Madge, Edna, and either Mabel Bruce or Monica Bewley. You must think of pretty dresses. I like a white wedding, but it doesn’t show the bride off so well—that’s the great objection. We shall have a great deal to talk about when I come home next month, and I am longing for the time to come. It is so hot and close in town, and Cloudsdale must be looking lovely just now. Father expects to leave on Tuesday. He does not seem very pleased about my engagement. I suppose parents never are! Good-bye, dear, darling girls. I wish I could be with you now.“Your own loving Lettice.“PS—How surprised you will be. Tell me every word you said when you read this letter!”“Humph I slightly awkward if we took her at her word!” It was Rex who spoke, and there was the same expression of ill-concealed scorn in his voice which had been noticeable on his face since the announcement of the news. “Charming epistle, I must say. So much about ‘dear Arthur’ and her own happiness. One must excuse a little gush under the circumstances, and Lettice was always demonstrative!”Hilary looked at him, puckering her forehead in anxious fashion. “You mean that sarcastically! She says nothing about being happy. I noticed that myself. There is something strange about the whole thing. I am quite sure she did not care for him when I was there in spring. What can have possessed her to accept him?”“Because he asked her nicely, and puts lots of treacle on the bread,” said Raymond, laughing. “You could always make Lettice do what you wanted if you flattered her enough. She would accept any fellow who went down on his knees and swore he worshipped her. Oh, I say I fancy having Arthur Newcome as a brother-in-law! We used to call him ‘Child’s Guide to Knowledge’ when he was at Windermere last summer, because he would insist upon improving every occasion. We played some fine pranks on him, didn’t we, Norah? We’ll give him a lively time of it again if he comes to visit us, as I suppose he will, under the circumstances.”“We can’t,” said Norah dolefully. “He is engaged to Lettice, and she would be vexed. I don’t feel as if I could ever play pranks again. I was so looking forward to having Lettice with us again when we went up to London, but now it will never be the same again. Even if she has a house of her own, Arthur Newcome will be there, and I could never, never get to like him as a brother.” She put her cup on the table and walked off by herself into the shrubbery which encircled the lawn, and though the others looked after her in sympathetic silence, they did not attempt to follow. As Lettice’s special friend and companion, the news was even more of a shock to her than to the rest, and it was understood that she might prefer to be alone.Ten minutes later, however, when tea was finished, Rex rose lazily from the ground, stretched his long arms, and strode off in the direction of the shrubbery. Half-way down the path he met Norah marching along in solitary state, white about the cheeks, suspiciously red and swollen about the eyes.Rex clasped his hands behind his back, and blocked the narrow way.“Well, what are you doing here?”“Crying!” Norah flashed a defiant glance at him, then turned aside to dab her face with her handkerchief and gulp in uncontrollable misery, whereupon Rex looked distressed, uncomfortable, and irritated all at the same moment.“Then please stop at once. What’s the use of crying? You can’t help it now, better make the best of it, and be as jolly as you can. Norah—look here, I’m sorry to bother you any more to-day, but I came over specially to have a chat. I have not had a chance of speaking to you quietly until now, and my father is driving round for us at six o’clock. Before he comes I wanted to tell you—”Norah put her handkerchief in her pocket, and faced him with steady eyes. Her heart gave a leap of understanding, and a cold certainty of misery settled upon her which seemed to dry up the fountain of tears, and leave her still and rigid.“Yes?”“We had a big talk last night, Norah. The three years are up, you know, and I have fulfilled my share of the bargain. I have known all the time what my decision would be, and six months ago I wrote to all the men I know abroad, asking them to look out for the sort of berth I wanted. On Tuesday I had a letter from a man in India offering me a good opening. You will be surprised to hear why he gives me the chance instead of all the other fellows who are anxious to get it. It is because I am a good musician! I don’t mean in your sense of the word, of course, but I can rattle away on the piano and play any air I happen to hear, and he says the fellows up-country set no end of store by that sort of thing. If other qualifications are equal, the post is given to the man who can play, and make things cheerful in the evening. Rather a sarcasm, isn’t it, after all the money that has been spent on my education, that such a trifle should decide my destiny? Well—I showed the letter to my father, and he was terribly cut up about the whole thing. I had said nothing about my plans for some time back, for it seemed no use to upset him before it was necessary, but he has been hoping that I was ‘settling down.’ Norah, I can’t do it! I hate leaving home, and shall be wretched when the time comes; but I have roving blood in my veins, and cannot settle down to a jog-trot, professional life in a small English town. If I go out to this place I shall lie low until I have a practical knowledge of the land and its possibilities, and then I’ll buy an estate, and work it in my own way. I have the money my uncle left me, and can make my way without asking father for a penny. He is coming over this afternoon, and I am sure he means to talk to you. We didn’t say anything to the mater and Edna, but he knows that you and I are friends, and that I will listen to what you say. He means to ask you to persuade me to stay at home. But—you understand how I feel, Norah?”“Yes, Rex. Don’t be afraid! If your father speaks to me I shall advise him to let you go. You have kept your share of the bargain: it is for him to keep his,” said Norah steadily. “And it appears that youwantto go away and leave us.”“You will live in London now for the greater part of the year. If I were at home I should only see you at long intervals. I should not settle in this neighbourhood. Our life would be quite different...”“Oh yes, quite different! Everything will be different now. You will have gone, and—Lettice too! Rex! don’t be angry if I ask you something. I will try to persuade your father to give you your way, but—tell me this before you go!— Has the news about Lettice had anything to do with your decision?”Rex stopped short, and stared at her in amazement.“This news about Lettice! Norah, what do you mean?”“About her engagement! I always thought that you liked her yourself. You remember what you used to call her—‘Lovely Lettice’?”“Well, and so she was lovely! Anybody might have seen that. Of course I liked her, but if you mean that I am jealous of Arthur Newcome—no, thank you! I should not care for a wife who would listen to the first man who came along, as Lettice has done. She was a jolly little girl, and I took a fancy to her at first sight, but—do you remember our adventure in the old passage, Norah? Do you think Lettice would have stuck to me, and been as brave, and plucky, and loyal as you were in the midst of your fright? I never forgot that day. It was last night that I spoke to my father, before I heard a word about Lettice, or her matrimonial intentions.”“So it was; I forgot that!” Norah smiled with recovered cheerfulness, for Rex’s words had lifted a load from her mind, and the future seemed several shades less gloomy than it had done a few minutes before.“And if you went, how soon would you start?”“As soon as possible. I have wasted too much time already. The sooner I go, the sooner I can make my way and come home again to see you all. Three or five years, I suppose. You will be quite an old woman, Norah.”“Yes; twenty-three! Lettice will be married; Hilary too, very likely. The Mouse will be as big as I was when you first knew us, and Raymond a doctor in practice. It will all be different!” Norah’s voice was very low as she spoke the last words, and her face twitched as if she were about to break down once more.Rex looked at her with the same odd mingling of tenderness and vexation which he had shown a few minutes earlier.“Of course it will be different! We are not children any longer, and can’t expect to go on as we have been doing. What was the Vicar’s text the other Sunday?—‘As an eagle stirreth up her nest’—I liked that sermon! It has been very happy and jolly, but it is time we stirred out of the old nest, and began to work for ourselves, and prepare for nests of our own. I am past twenty-one, my father need not be afraid to trust me, for I can look after myself, and though the life will be very different out there, I’ll try to do nothing that I should be ashamed to tell you, Norah, when I come home!”Norah turned round with a flush, and an eager, outstretched hand, but only to behold Mr Rex marching along on the edge of the very flowerbeds, with a head in the air, and a “touch me if you dare” expression, at the sight of which his companion gave a dismal little smile.That was Rex all over! In spite of his masterful ways, he was intensely shy where his deeper feelings were concerned. To say an affectionate word seemed to require as painful an effort as to drag out a tooth, and if by chance he was betrayed into such an indiscretion, he protected himself against its consequences by putting on his most “prickly” airs, and freezing the astonished hearer by his frigid tones. Norah understood that having shown her a glimpse of his heart in the last remark, he was now overcome with remorse, and that she must be wise and take no notice of the indiscretion.
Two days later a happy party were disporting themselves on the lawn at Cloudsdale. Rex and Edna Freer had driven over to spend the afternoon with their friends, and just as Mary placed the tea-tray on the wicker table, the postman came marching up the drive, and delivered the only thing which was necessary to complete the happiness of the party—a letter from Lettice!
“She has written so little lately, and her letters have been so unlike herself, that I have been quite uneasy,” said Hilary, turning the envelope round and round, and feeling its proportions with undisguised pleasure. “I’ll give you each a cup of tea, and then I’ll read it out, while you listen in comfort.”
The three years which had passed since we saw her last had dealt very kindly with Hilary. The consequential air had given place to an expression of quiet serenity which was by no means unbecoming. Her complexion was pink and white as of yore, and as she presided over the tea-table, her blue cambric dress fitting closely to the line of her neat little figure, her tiny feet crossed before her, and her shining brown hair arranged in its usual fastidious order, it would have been difficult to find a more favourable specimen of a young English girl. Norah, seated opposite on the long hammock chair, was still very girlish in appearance, despite the dignity of eighteen years. She was thin and lanky, and her cheeks had none of Hilary’s delicate bloom, but the heavy eyebrows and expressive lips lent a charm to a face which was never the same in expression for two minutes together, and though there could be no question as to which was the prettier of the two, it was safe to predict that few people who looked at Norah would be tempted to return to the study of Hilary’s more commonplace features.
Edna was narrow-chested and delicate in appearance, but Rex had developed into an imposing looking personage; broad-shouldered, muscular, and with such a moustache as was unequalled by any young fellow of his age in the country-side. He wore a white flannel suit, and though there were several unoccupied seats at hand, chose to loll on the grass, his long legs stretched out before him, his blue cap pushed well back on his curly head. Nestled beside him sat Geraldine, a little taller, a little older in appearance, but with the same grave, earnest little face which had characterised her three years before. Perhaps the member of the family who was the most changed, was the tall, young fellow who sat beside Norah. Raymond had only lately returned from a two years’ sojourn in Germany, where he had acquired an extra four inches, a pair of eye-glasses, and such “a man of the world” manner, that it had been a shock to his sisters to find that his teasing propensities were as vigorous as when he had been a schoolboy. Faithful Bob hovered near, ready to obey his leader’s commands, and take part in any mischief which might be at hand, but for the moment all other interests gave way to the hearing of the letter from London.
Hilary handed the last cup to its owner, and opening the envelope, ran her eye rapidly down the sheet. The next moment a loud “Oh!” of amazement startled the hearers into eager curiosity.
“What is the matter?”
“Oh—oh! It can’t be true—it can’t! Lettice is engaged to be married!”
“Engaged!” A moment’s breathless silence was succeeded by a very babel of questioning.
“Engaged?” “Who to?” “When?” “Where.” “What does she say?” “Oh, read it aloud. Let us hear every word she says!”
But Hilary folded up the sheet with an air of determination. “Not yet. I’ll read it by-and-by; but first you must guess. I’ll give you fifty guesses who it is...”
“The painter fellow who did her portrait!”
“That what-do-you-call-him man—the Polish nobleman who sent her the verses!”
“The curate!”
“Sir Neville Bruce!”
“One of the men she met at Brighton!”
“Wrong! wrong! wrong! Guess again. Nearer home this time. Someone you know!”
“Not Mr Rayner?”
“Oh, dear me, no! I should think not. He and Lettice never get on well together. Someone else.”
“Someone we know! But we know so few of her friends. Only Mr Neville, and the Bewleys, and—oh! No, it can’t—it can’t possibly be—”
“What? what? Who—who? Never mind if you are wrong. Say whom you are thinking of.”
“It—can’tbe Arthur Newcome!”
“Arthur Newcome it is, my dear!” said Hilary tragically; whereupon Raymond instantly dropped his teacup on the grass, and fell heavily on Norah’s shoulders.
“Smelling salts! Brandy! I am going to faint! Oh, my heart!”
But, for once, no one paid any attention. Even Norah sat motionless, forgetting to push him away, forgetting everything but the appalling nature of the news which she had just heard.
“Lettice—is—engaged—to—Arthur Newcome?”
“Lettice—is—engaged—to—Arthur Newcome!”
“But—but—we knew that he admired her in his solemn way, but she never seemed to like him! She used to make fun of him, and imitate the way he talked!”
Raymond sat up and passed in his cup for a fresh supply of tea. What was the good of fainting if nobody took any notice! “I say,” he cried energetically, “fancy Arthur Newcome proposing! I’d give anything if I could have overheard him. ... ‘Miss Bertrand!—Lettice!—may I call you Lettice? Deign, oh deign—’”
“Oh, be quiet, Raymond, and let us hear the letter,” pleaded Norah, who was on the verge of tears with agitation and distress. “I can’t believe it until I hear her own words. Read it, Hilary, from the very beginning.”
Hilary opened out the dainty, scented sheet, and read aloud, with an impressiveness worthy of the occasion:—
“My dearest old Hilary, and Norah, and every one of you,—I have a great piece of news to tell. I am engaged to Arthur Newcome, and he wants to be married some time this autumn. He proposed to me a month ago, on the day of our water party, but father and Miss Carr wished us to wait a month before it was settled, so that I should have time to make up my mind. They think I am so young, but if we wait until September I shall be twenty, and many girls are married at that age. I have a beautiful ring—a big pearl in the centre, and diamonds all round, and Arthur has given me a brooch as well, three dear little diamond swallows—it looks so sweet at my neck! Madge is very pleased, of course, and Mr and Mrs Newcome are very kind. Won’t it be nice when I have a house of my own, and you can come and stay with me? I shall have six bridesmaids—you three, Madge, Edna, and either Mabel Bruce or Monica Bewley. You must think of pretty dresses. I like a white wedding, but it doesn’t show the bride off so well—that’s the great objection. We shall have a great deal to talk about when I come home next month, and I am longing for the time to come. It is so hot and close in town, and Cloudsdale must be looking lovely just now. Father expects to leave on Tuesday. He does not seem very pleased about my engagement. I suppose parents never are! Good-bye, dear, darling girls. I wish I could be with you now.
“Your own loving Lettice.
“PS—How surprised you will be. Tell me every word you said when you read this letter!”
“Humph I slightly awkward if we took her at her word!” It was Rex who spoke, and there was the same expression of ill-concealed scorn in his voice which had been noticeable on his face since the announcement of the news. “Charming epistle, I must say. So much about ‘dear Arthur’ and her own happiness. One must excuse a little gush under the circumstances, and Lettice was always demonstrative!”
Hilary looked at him, puckering her forehead in anxious fashion. “You mean that sarcastically! She says nothing about being happy. I noticed that myself. There is something strange about the whole thing. I am quite sure she did not care for him when I was there in spring. What can have possessed her to accept him?”
“Because he asked her nicely, and puts lots of treacle on the bread,” said Raymond, laughing. “You could always make Lettice do what you wanted if you flattered her enough. She would accept any fellow who went down on his knees and swore he worshipped her. Oh, I say I fancy having Arthur Newcome as a brother-in-law! We used to call him ‘Child’s Guide to Knowledge’ when he was at Windermere last summer, because he would insist upon improving every occasion. We played some fine pranks on him, didn’t we, Norah? We’ll give him a lively time of it again if he comes to visit us, as I suppose he will, under the circumstances.”
“We can’t,” said Norah dolefully. “He is engaged to Lettice, and she would be vexed. I don’t feel as if I could ever play pranks again. I was so looking forward to having Lettice with us again when we went up to London, but now it will never be the same again. Even if she has a house of her own, Arthur Newcome will be there, and I could never, never get to like him as a brother.” She put her cup on the table and walked off by herself into the shrubbery which encircled the lawn, and though the others looked after her in sympathetic silence, they did not attempt to follow. As Lettice’s special friend and companion, the news was even more of a shock to her than to the rest, and it was understood that she might prefer to be alone.
Ten minutes later, however, when tea was finished, Rex rose lazily from the ground, stretched his long arms, and strode off in the direction of the shrubbery. Half-way down the path he met Norah marching along in solitary state, white about the cheeks, suspiciously red and swollen about the eyes.
Rex clasped his hands behind his back, and blocked the narrow way.
“Well, what are you doing here?”
“Crying!” Norah flashed a defiant glance at him, then turned aside to dab her face with her handkerchief and gulp in uncontrollable misery, whereupon Rex looked distressed, uncomfortable, and irritated all at the same moment.
“Then please stop at once. What’s the use of crying? You can’t help it now, better make the best of it, and be as jolly as you can. Norah—look here, I’m sorry to bother you any more to-day, but I came over specially to have a chat. I have not had a chance of speaking to you quietly until now, and my father is driving round for us at six o’clock. Before he comes I wanted to tell you—”
Norah put her handkerchief in her pocket, and faced him with steady eyes. Her heart gave a leap of understanding, and a cold certainty of misery settled upon her which seemed to dry up the fountain of tears, and leave her still and rigid.
“Yes?”
“We had a big talk last night, Norah. The three years are up, you know, and I have fulfilled my share of the bargain. I have known all the time what my decision would be, and six months ago I wrote to all the men I know abroad, asking them to look out for the sort of berth I wanted. On Tuesday I had a letter from a man in India offering me a good opening. You will be surprised to hear why he gives me the chance instead of all the other fellows who are anxious to get it. It is because I am a good musician! I don’t mean in your sense of the word, of course, but I can rattle away on the piano and play any air I happen to hear, and he says the fellows up-country set no end of store by that sort of thing. If other qualifications are equal, the post is given to the man who can play, and make things cheerful in the evening. Rather a sarcasm, isn’t it, after all the money that has been spent on my education, that such a trifle should decide my destiny? Well—I showed the letter to my father, and he was terribly cut up about the whole thing. I had said nothing about my plans for some time back, for it seemed no use to upset him before it was necessary, but he has been hoping that I was ‘settling down.’ Norah, I can’t do it! I hate leaving home, and shall be wretched when the time comes; but I have roving blood in my veins, and cannot settle down to a jog-trot, professional life in a small English town. If I go out to this place I shall lie low until I have a practical knowledge of the land and its possibilities, and then I’ll buy an estate, and work it in my own way. I have the money my uncle left me, and can make my way without asking father for a penny. He is coming over this afternoon, and I am sure he means to talk to you. We didn’t say anything to the mater and Edna, but he knows that you and I are friends, and that I will listen to what you say. He means to ask you to persuade me to stay at home. But—you understand how I feel, Norah?”
“Yes, Rex. Don’t be afraid! If your father speaks to me I shall advise him to let you go. You have kept your share of the bargain: it is for him to keep his,” said Norah steadily. “And it appears that youwantto go away and leave us.”
“You will live in London now for the greater part of the year. If I were at home I should only see you at long intervals. I should not settle in this neighbourhood. Our life would be quite different...”
“Oh yes, quite different! Everything will be different now. You will have gone, and—Lettice too! Rex! don’t be angry if I ask you something. I will try to persuade your father to give you your way, but—tell me this before you go!— Has the news about Lettice had anything to do with your decision?”
Rex stopped short, and stared at her in amazement.
“This news about Lettice! Norah, what do you mean?”
“About her engagement! I always thought that you liked her yourself. You remember what you used to call her—‘Lovely Lettice’?”
“Well, and so she was lovely! Anybody might have seen that. Of course I liked her, but if you mean that I am jealous of Arthur Newcome—no, thank you! I should not care for a wife who would listen to the first man who came along, as Lettice has done. She was a jolly little girl, and I took a fancy to her at first sight, but—do you remember our adventure in the old passage, Norah? Do you think Lettice would have stuck to me, and been as brave, and plucky, and loyal as you were in the midst of your fright? I never forgot that day. It was last night that I spoke to my father, before I heard a word about Lettice, or her matrimonial intentions.”
“So it was; I forgot that!” Norah smiled with recovered cheerfulness, for Rex’s words had lifted a load from her mind, and the future seemed several shades less gloomy than it had done a few minutes before.
“And if you went, how soon would you start?”
“As soon as possible. I have wasted too much time already. The sooner I go, the sooner I can make my way and come home again to see you all. Three or five years, I suppose. You will be quite an old woman, Norah.”
“Yes; twenty-three! Lettice will be married; Hilary too, very likely. The Mouse will be as big as I was when you first knew us, and Raymond a doctor in practice. It will all be different!” Norah’s voice was very low as she spoke the last words, and her face twitched as if she were about to break down once more.
Rex looked at her with the same odd mingling of tenderness and vexation which he had shown a few minutes earlier.
“Of course it will be different! We are not children any longer, and can’t expect to go on as we have been doing. What was the Vicar’s text the other Sunday?—‘As an eagle stirreth up her nest’—I liked that sermon! It has been very happy and jolly, but it is time we stirred out of the old nest, and began to work for ourselves, and prepare for nests of our own. I am past twenty-one, my father need not be afraid to trust me, for I can look after myself, and though the life will be very different out there, I’ll try to do nothing that I should be ashamed to tell you, Norah, when I come home!”
Norah turned round with a flush, and an eager, outstretched hand, but only to behold Mr Rex marching along on the edge of the very flowerbeds, with a head in the air, and a “touch me if you dare” expression, at the sight of which his companion gave a dismal little smile.
That was Rex all over! In spite of his masterful ways, he was intensely shy where his deeper feelings were concerned. To say an affectionate word seemed to require as painful an effort as to drag out a tooth, and if by chance he was betrayed into such an indiscretion, he protected himself against its consequences by putting on his most “prickly” airs, and freezing the astonished hearer by his frigid tones. Norah understood that having shown her a glimpse of his heart in the last remark, he was now overcome with remorse, and that she must be wise and take no notice of the indiscretion.
Chapter Twenty.More Changes.For the next ten minutes conversation was of the most desultory character; then the sound of wheels was heard in the distance, and Rex became eager and excited once more.“There’s my father! Go and meet him, Norah. Get hold of him before Hilary comes with her everlasting chatter. He wants to speak to you. Bring him along here, and I’ll go into the house!”Norah sped off obediently, and met the Squire as the cart turned in at the gate. He pulled up at once, handed the reins to the man, and jumped down to join her. His ruddy face looked drawn and anxious, and the first glance at the girl showed that she was, like himself, in a woe-begone state of mind.“Oh, you know all about it! That boy of mine has been talking to you, I can see!” he said, as they shook hands, and turned along the winding path. “Well, well, this is a fine ending to all my hopes. The lad’s as obstinate as a mule—I am sure I don’t know where he got his disposition; if he once takes a thing in his head there’s no moving him. Now he wants to go and bury himself in the wilds of India! I’ve talked until I am tired, and I can’t make him see what mad folly it is. After an expensive college education—”“Yes, but, Squire, I don’t think that’s a fair argument! Rex didn’t want to go to college; he went against his own wishes because you were set on it. He said it would be waste of money.”“Tut, tut! nonsense! Waste of money, indeed! I don’t grudge a few hundreds spent on my only son’s education, I hope. Things would have come to a pretty pass if that were the case,” cried the Squire, turning off at a tangent, as usual, the moment he found his position attacked by the enemy. “I thought the boy would have come to his senses long before the three years were over. I have told him—” And he launched off into a lengthy account of the interview of the night before, repeating his own arguments and his son’s replies, while Norah listened with downcast eyes. “There!” he cried in conclusion, “that is the matter in a nutshell, and everyone must see that I am perfectly reasonable and within my rights. Now, my dear, you talk to him; he thinks a great deal of your opinion. Just tell him plainly that if he persists in his folly, he is ruining his life, and behaving in a very wrong, undutiful manner to his mother and to me. Talk to him plainly; don’t spare your words!”“I can’t do that, Squire. I’m sorry, but I don’t agree with you. Rex has given in to your wishes for three whole years, though, from his point of view, it was waste of time. He has worked hard and not grumbled, so that he has kept every word of his promise. Now he asks you to fulfil yours. I am sure you must feel sad and disappointed, but I don’t think you ought to be angry with Rex, or call him undutiful.”“Eh—eh, what’s this? Are you going to side against me? This is a pretty state of affairs. I thought I could count upon your help, and the boy would have listened to what you said. Well, well, I don’t know what is coming over the young folk nowadays! Do you mean to say that youapproveof Rex going abroad?”“Yes, I do! It is better to be a good planter than a bad lawyer,” said Norah steadily; and the Squire pursed up his lips in silence.The girl’s words had appealed to his pet theory, and done more to silence objections than any amount of arguing. The Squire was always lecturing other people on the necessity of doing the humblest work as well as it was possible for it to be done, and had been known on occasions to stand still in the middle of a country lane, brandishing his stick while he treated a gang of stone-breakers to a dissertation on the dignity of labour. The thought that his son might perform his duties in an unsatisfactory manner was even more distasteful than the prospect of separation.“Well, well,” he sighed irritably, “no one need envy a man for having children! They are nothing but trouble and anxiety from beginning to end. It’s better to be without them at all.”“You don’t mean what you say. You know quite well you would not give up your son and daughter for all the money in the world. You love Edna all the more because she needs so much care, and you are just as proud of Rex as you can be. Of course he is self-willed and determined, but if you could change him into a weak, undecided creature like the vicar’s son, you would be very sorry to do it!”“You seem to know a great deal about my sentiments, young lady,” said the Squire, trying hard to look ferocious. Then his shoulders heaved, and he drew a long, weary sigh. “Well, my last hope has gone if you range yourself against me. The boy must go and bury himself at the ends of the earth. Goodness knows when he will come back, and I am getting old. Ten to one I may never see him again!”“It will be your own fault if you don’t. Westmoreland is sweet and beautiful, but if I had no ties and plenty of money like you, I would never be content to settle here for the rest of my life, while the great, wide world lay beyond. If Rex goes to India, why should you not all pack up some year and pay him a visit? You could sail down the Mediterranean and see all the lovely places on the way—Gibraltar, and Malta, and Naples, and Venice; stay a month or two in India, and come home overland through Switzerland and France. Oh, how delightful it would be! You would have so much to see and to talk about afterwards. Edna would get fat and rosy, and you and Mrs Freer would be quite young and skittish by the time you got home! If you went to see him between each of his visits home, the time would seem quite short.”“I daresay! I daresay! A very likely prospect. I am too old to begin gadding about the world at my time of life,” said the Squire; but he straightened his back even as he spoke, and stepped out as if wishing to disprove the truth of his own words. Norah saw his eyes brighten, and the deep lines down his cheeks relax into a smile, and knew that her suggestion had met a kindly welcome, “Well, there’s no saying! If all the young people go away and leave us, we shall be bound to make a move in self-defence. You are off to London for the winter. It seems a year of changes—”“Oh, it is, it is, and I am so miserable! Lettice—my own, dear Lettice—is going to be married, and she will never come back to live with us any more. I have been looking forward to London, just to be with her, and now it is further off than ever. It will never come!”Norah had fought hard for the self-possession which she had shown during the whole of the interview; but now her lips trembled, and the tears rushed into her eyes. The future seemed dreary indeed, with Rex abroad, Lettice appropriated by Arthur Newcome, and Edna at the other end of England. She had hard work not to cry outright, to the great distress of the Squire, who was the kindliest of men, despite his red face and stentorian voice.“Ha, humph—humph! Sorry, I’m sure. Very sorry! Come, come, my dear, cheer up! Things may turn out better than we expect. I didn’t know you had a trouble of your own, or I would not have intruded mine. Shall we go up to the house? There, take my arm. What a great, big girl you are, to be sure!”Norah found time for a whispered conference with Rex before he took his seat behind his father and Edna in the dog-cart.“It’s all right! I have spoken to him and he means to give in. Be as kind and patient as possible, for hedoesfeel it, poor old man, and he is very fond and proud of you!”“Humph!” said Rex shortly. He knitted his brows and looked anxiously at the girl’s face. “You are awfully white! Don’t cry any more, Norah, for pity’s sake. We are not worth it, either Lettice or I.” Then he was off, and Raymond turned to his sister with a long, lazy yawn.“Well, and so Rex is bound for India! He has just been telling me about it. Lucky beggar! When I take my degree I mean to ask father to let me travel for a year or two before settling down to work.”“Oh, dear, dear!” sighed Norah to herself, “what a stirring up of the poor old nest! There will be no eagles left if this sort of thing goes on much longer. And we were so happy! Why, oh, why did I ever wish for a change?”
For the next ten minutes conversation was of the most desultory character; then the sound of wheels was heard in the distance, and Rex became eager and excited once more.
“There’s my father! Go and meet him, Norah. Get hold of him before Hilary comes with her everlasting chatter. He wants to speak to you. Bring him along here, and I’ll go into the house!”
Norah sped off obediently, and met the Squire as the cart turned in at the gate. He pulled up at once, handed the reins to the man, and jumped down to join her. His ruddy face looked drawn and anxious, and the first glance at the girl showed that she was, like himself, in a woe-begone state of mind.
“Oh, you know all about it! That boy of mine has been talking to you, I can see!” he said, as they shook hands, and turned along the winding path. “Well, well, this is a fine ending to all my hopes. The lad’s as obstinate as a mule—I am sure I don’t know where he got his disposition; if he once takes a thing in his head there’s no moving him. Now he wants to go and bury himself in the wilds of India! I’ve talked until I am tired, and I can’t make him see what mad folly it is. After an expensive college education—”
“Yes, but, Squire, I don’t think that’s a fair argument! Rex didn’t want to go to college; he went against his own wishes because you were set on it. He said it would be waste of money.”
“Tut, tut! nonsense! Waste of money, indeed! I don’t grudge a few hundreds spent on my only son’s education, I hope. Things would have come to a pretty pass if that were the case,” cried the Squire, turning off at a tangent, as usual, the moment he found his position attacked by the enemy. “I thought the boy would have come to his senses long before the three years were over. I have told him—” And he launched off into a lengthy account of the interview of the night before, repeating his own arguments and his son’s replies, while Norah listened with downcast eyes. “There!” he cried in conclusion, “that is the matter in a nutshell, and everyone must see that I am perfectly reasonable and within my rights. Now, my dear, you talk to him; he thinks a great deal of your opinion. Just tell him plainly that if he persists in his folly, he is ruining his life, and behaving in a very wrong, undutiful manner to his mother and to me. Talk to him plainly; don’t spare your words!”
“I can’t do that, Squire. I’m sorry, but I don’t agree with you. Rex has given in to your wishes for three whole years, though, from his point of view, it was waste of time. He has worked hard and not grumbled, so that he has kept every word of his promise. Now he asks you to fulfil yours. I am sure you must feel sad and disappointed, but I don’t think you ought to be angry with Rex, or call him undutiful.”
“Eh—eh, what’s this? Are you going to side against me? This is a pretty state of affairs. I thought I could count upon your help, and the boy would have listened to what you said. Well, well, I don’t know what is coming over the young folk nowadays! Do you mean to say that youapproveof Rex going abroad?”
“Yes, I do! It is better to be a good planter than a bad lawyer,” said Norah steadily; and the Squire pursed up his lips in silence.
The girl’s words had appealed to his pet theory, and done more to silence objections than any amount of arguing. The Squire was always lecturing other people on the necessity of doing the humblest work as well as it was possible for it to be done, and had been known on occasions to stand still in the middle of a country lane, brandishing his stick while he treated a gang of stone-breakers to a dissertation on the dignity of labour. The thought that his son might perform his duties in an unsatisfactory manner was even more distasteful than the prospect of separation.
“Well, well,” he sighed irritably, “no one need envy a man for having children! They are nothing but trouble and anxiety from beginning to end. It’s better to be without them at all.”
“You don’t mean what you say. You know quite well you would not give up your son and daughter for all the money in the world. You love Edna all the more because she needs so much care, and you are just as proud of Rex as you can be. Of course he is self-willed and determined, but if you could change him into a weak, undecided creature like the vicar’s son, you would be very sorry to do it!”
“You seem to know a great deal about my sentiments, young lady,” said the Squire, trying hard to look ferocious. Then his shoulders heaved, and he drew a long, weary sigh. “Well, my last hope has gone if you range yourself against me. The boy must go and bury himself at the ends of the earth. Goodness knows when he will come back, and I am getting old. Ten to one I may never see him again!”
“It will be your own fault if you don’t. Westmoreland is sweet and beautiful, but if I had no ties and plenty of money like you, I would never be content to settle here for the rest of my life, while the great, wide world lay beyond. If Rex goes to India, why should you not all pack up some year and pay him a visit? You could sail down the Mediterranean and see all the lovely places on the way—Gibraltar, and Malta, and Naples, and Venice; stay a month or two in India, and come home overland through Switzerland and France. Oh, how delightful it would be! You would have so much to see and to talk about afterwards. Edna would get fat and rosy, and you and Mrs Freer would be quite young and skittish by the time you got home! If you went to see him between each of his visits home, the time would seem quite short.”
“I daresay! I daresay! A very likely prospect. I am too old to begin gadding about the world at my time of life,” said the Squire; but he straightened his back even as he spoke, and stepped out as if wishing to disprove the truth of his own words. Norah saw his eyes brighten, and the deep lines down his cheeks relax into a smile, and knew that her suggestion had met a kindly welcome, “Well, there’s no saying! If all the young people go away and leave us, we shall be bound to make a move in self-defence. You are off to London for the winter. It seems a year of changes—”
“Oh, it is, it is, and I am so miserable! Lettice—my own, dear Lettice—is going to be married, and she will never come back to live with us any more. I have been looking forward to London, just to be with her, and now it is further off than ever. It will never come!”
Norah had fought hard for the self-possession which she had shown during the whole of the interview; but now her lips trembled, and the tears rushed into her eyes. The future seemed dreary indeed, with Rex abroad, Lettice appropriated by Arthur Newcome, and Edna at the other end of England. She had hard work not to cry outright, to the great distress of the Squire, who was the kindliest of men, despite his red face and stentorian voice.
“Ha, humph—humph! Sorry, I’m sure. Very sorry! Come, come, my dear, cheer up! Things may turn out better than we expect. I didn’t know you had a trouble of your own, or I would not have intruded mine. Shall we go up to the house? There, take my arm. What a great, big girl you are, to be sure!”
Norah found time for a whispered conference with Rex before he took his seat behind his father and Edna in the dog-cart.
“It’s all right! I have spoken to him and he means to give in. Be as kind and patient as possible, for hedoesfeel it, poor old man, and he is very fond and proud of you!”
“Humph!” said Rex shortly. He knitted his brows and looked anxiously at the girl’s face. “You are awfully white! Don’t cry any more, Norah, for pity’s sake. We are not worth it, either Lettice or I.” Then he was off, and Raymond turned to his sister with a long, lazy yawn.
“Well, and so Rex is bound for India! He has just been telling me about it. Lucky beggar! When I take my degree I mean to ask father to let me travel for a year or two before settling down to work.”
“Oh, dear, dear!” sighed Norah to herself, “what a stirring up of the poor old nest! There will be no eagles left if this sort of thing goes on much longer. And we were so happy! Why, oh, why did I ever wish for a change?”
Chapter Twenty One.Lettice at Home.Lettice’s annual summer visit was postponed this year until the middle of August, for Arthur Newcome had gained his point, as Mr Bertrand had prophesied, and the wedding was arranged to take place at the end of September. Mr Bertrand had done his best to gain more time, but it was difficult to fight against a man who was so quiet, so composed, and so immovably determined as Arthur Newcome. He listened to what was said with the utmost politeness, and replied to all argument with the statement that he was twenty-eight, that he was in a good position, and saw no reason for waiting indefinitely. After this performance had been enacted four or five times, Mr Bertrand’s patience gave way, and he declared that he was powerless to stand out any longer, and that perhaps it was a good thing to get the wedding over, since if he had much to do with Arthur Newcome, he should certainly collapse, and fall into a nervous decline.“His very presence oppresses me. It is all I can do not to yawn in his face when he is telling those long-winded yarns. Poor little Lettice! I wonder what sort of conversation he treats her to when they are alone. I thought she looked very tired yesterday at dinner. Get her all the pretty things she wants for thistrousseau, Helen. I must do what I can for the poor child, for I fear she has a dull time before her.”Miss Carr sighed, and shook her head. As time went on she was more and more distressed about her ward’s engagement, for now that his time of suspense was over, Arthur Newcome had lost his temporary gleam of brightness and had settled down into the old solemn ways which made him so different from other young men of his age. The previous night was not the only occasion on which Lettice had seemed weary and dispirited after atête-à-têtewith her lover, but she showed plenty of interest in the selection of hertrousseauand in the equipment of the handsome house which Mr Newcome was preparing for his bride.By the middle of August dressmakers and upholsterers had received the necessary instructions, and could be left to complete their work, while the tired little bride-elect went north to recoup her energies. How glad she was to escape from London only Lettice herself knew; while at Cloudsdale, the whole house was turned upside down in excitement at the prospect of her arrival. Lettice, as an engaged young lady, a bride on the eve of her marriage, had assumed a position of vast importance in her sisters’ eyes, and the questions as to how she would look, how she would bear herself, formed the subject of many lengthy discussions.The hour came at last. Lettice was once more among them. She came rushing in, in the old impetuous way, kissing everyone in turns, and exclaiming in delight at being once more at home. There had never been any unpleasantness connected with Lettice’s home-comings. Though she had lived in the lap of luxury for the last three years, she was utterly unspoiled by its influence, and so far from being dissatisfied with her own home, seemed to take an affectionate delight in finding it unchanged in every particular. Her sisters followed her from room to room, listening with smiles to her ecstatic exclamations.“Oh, how nice it looks—the dear old place! What a sweet, sweet smell of mignonette! Oh, look at the old red table-cloth, and the ink-stain in the corner, where I upset the bottle. Oh, how lovely to see it all again! And the dear old sofa where we used to camp out all together—I have never found such a comfy sofa anywhere else. Tea! How pretty the urn looks! I love that cheerful, hissing sound! And what cream! You never see cream like that in London.”She was all smiles and dimples, and though decidedly thinner, the flush upon her cheeks made her look so bright and well that she was a picture of a radiant young bride. Hilary and Norah watched her with fascinated eyes as she flitted about the room, or lay back in the chintz-covered chair. What a vision of elegance she was! The blue serge coat and skirt was exactly like those which the village dressmaker had made for their own wear—exactly like, and yet how different! The sailor hat was of a shape unknown in northern regions; each little detail of her attire was perfect in its unobtrusive beauty, and with every movement of the hand came the flash of precious stones. If she had been a whit less like herself Norah would have been awed by the presence of this elegant young lady; but it was the old Lettice who flung her arms round her neck the moment they were left alone together in their own room; the old Lettice who kissed, and hugged, and caressed with a hundred loving words.“Oh, Norah, Ihavewanted you! I longed for you so, but father would not let me write. It was a horrid, horrid time, and I was wretchedly lonely. Dear, darling Norie! I am so glad to be back.”“And, oh, Lettice, I am so glad to have you! I have a hundred questions to ask. Let me look at your ring. It is a beauty, far nicer than the ordinary row of diamonds. And are you awfully happy? I was very much surprised, you know; but if you are happy, it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks!”“N–no!” said Lettice slowly. “Yes, of course I am happy. It hasn’t been as nice as I expected, for Miss Carr has behaved so queerly, and father was not pleased. But—oh yes, I am quite happy. Madge is delighted about it, and Arthur does everything I like. He is very kind!”“You funny old Lettice! Kind! of course he is kind!” cried Norah laughing, and kissing the soft, fair cheek. The flush of excitement had faded by this time, and the girl’s face looked pale and wan, while the blue shadows beneath her eyes gave a pathetic expression to the sweet face. “Lettice,” cried Norah anxiously, “how ill you look! You were excited before, and I didn’t notice it, but you are as white as a ghost, and so thin! Aren’t you well, dear? Have you a head-ache? Can I do anything: for you?”“Oh, no, no!” Lettice stretched out her arms over her head with a long, weary sigh. “I shall be quite well now that I am at home, and with you, Norah. I have been tired to death in London lately. You have no idea how tiring it is to be engaged. I have stood such hours and hours at the dressmaker’s being tried on, and Arthur and I were always going to the house. The workmen are so stupid; they have no idea of colourings. The drawing-room was painted three times over before Arthur was satisfied. I was so tired that I would have left it as it was, but he is so obs—, he likes to have things done exactly in his own way, and worries on and on until he gets it. I thought it would be fun furnishing a house, but it gets a little tiresome when people are so very, very particular. We will have a nice lazy time, won’t we, Norah? Arthur is not coming up for three weeks, so we shall be alone and have no one to bother us.”“Ye–es!” stammered Norah confusedly.This novel way of regarding the presence of a lover was so amazing that it took away her breath, and before she recovered, Miss Briggs entered the room, and there was no more chance of private conversation for the present.Nothing could have been sweeter or more amiable than Lettice’s demeanour during the first week at home. She seemed to revel in the simple country life, and to cling to every member of the household with pathetic affection. She went into the kitchen and sat on the fender stool, talking to the cook and inquiring for “your aunt at Preston,” “the little niece Pollie,” “your nephew at sea,” with a kindly remembrance which drew tears from the old soul’s eyes. She made dresses for Geraldine’s dolls, trimmed Miss Briggs’ caps, and hovered about her father and sisters on the watch for an opportunity to serve them. Everyone was charmed to have her at home once more, and fussed over her in a manner which should have satisfied the most exacting of mortals; but sweet and loving as she was, Lettice did not look satisfied. The grey eyes seemed to grow larger and larger until her face appeared all eyes, and her cheeks showed a faint hollow where the dimples used to play. One miserable night, too, Norah woke to find Lettice sobbing with her head buried in the pillow, and heard a pitiful repetition of the words, “What shall I do? What shall I do?” But when she inquired what was wrong, Lettice declared that a tooth was aching, and sat up in the bed and rubbed her gums obediently with a lotion brought from the medicine cupboard. Norah blamed herself for doubting her sisters word, but she could not help noticing that the toothache yielded very rapidly to the remedy, and the incident left a painful impression on her mind.Norah was not the only member of the household who was anxious about Lettice’s happiness. Mr Bertrand had a serious conversation on the subject with his eldest daughter one morning when Lettice’s pallor and subdued voice had been more marked than usual.“I can’t stand seeing the child going about like this. She looks the ghost of what she was five or six months back, and seems to have no spirit left. I shall have to speak to her. It is most painful and awkward on the very eve of the marriage, but if she is not happy—”“Perhaps it is only that she is tired, and feels the prospect of leaving home,” said Hilary; and at that very moment the door was burst open and in rushed Lettice herself, cheeks flushed, hair loose, eyes dancing with merriment. She and Raymond had just played a trick upon unsuspecting Miss Briggs with magnificent success. She was breathless with delight, could hardly speak for bursts of laughter, and danced up and down the room, looking so gay and blithe and like the Lettice of old, that her father wont off to his study with a heartfelt sigh of relief. Hilary was right. The child was happy enough. If she were a little quieter than usual it was only natural and fitting under the circumstances. He dismissed the subject from his mind, and settled contentedly to work.One thing was certain: Arthur Newcome was a most attentive lover. Lettice contented herself with scribbling two or three short notes a week, but every afternoon the postman brought a bulky envelope addressed to her in the small neat handwriting which was getting familiar to every member of the household. Norah had an insatiable passion for receiving letters, and was inclined to envy her sister this part of her engagement.“It must be so lovely to get long epistles everyday. Lettice, I don’t want to see them, of course, but what sort of letters does he write? What does he talk about? Is it all affection, or does he tell you interesting pieces of news?”Lettice gave the sheets a flick with her white fingers.“You can read it if you like. There is nothing private. I must say he does not write exciting letters. He has been in Canterbury, and this one is a sort of guide-book about the crypt. As if I wanted to hear about crypts! I must say I did not think when I was engaged that I should have letters all about tombs and stupid old monuments! Arthur is so serious. I suppose he thinks he will ‘improve my mind,’ but if I am to be improved I would rather read a book at once and not be lectured in my love letters.”She had never spoken so openly before, and Norah dared not let the opportunity pass.“Oh, Lettice, dear! aren’t you happy? aren’t you satisfied?” she cried earnestly. “I have been afraid sometimes that you were not so fond of Arthur as you should be. Do, do speak out, dear, if it is so, and put an end to things while there is time!”“An end! What do you mean? I am to be married in less than a month—how could I put an end to it? Don’t be foolish, Norah. Besides, I do care for Arthur. I wish sometimes that he were a little younger and less proper, but that is only because he is too clever and learned for a stupid little thing like me. Don’t talk like that again; it makes me miserable. Wouldn’t you like to have a house of your own and be able to do whatever you liked? My little boudoir is so sweet, all blue and white, and we will have such cosy times in it, you and I, and Edna must come up and stay with me too. Oh, it will be lovely! I am sure it will. I shall be quite happy. I am glad father insisted upon having the wedding up here; it will be so much quieter than in a fashionable London church with all the rabble at the doors. Dreadful to be stared at by hundreds of people who don’t know or care anything about you, and only look at you as part of a show. Here all the people are interested and care a little bit for ‘Miss Lettice.’ If only Rex were to be here! It seems hard that he should leave home just a fortnight before my wedding.”Norah sighed and relapsed into silence, for it was all settled about Rex’s departure by this time. The Squire had given way, Mrs Freer and Edna had wept themselves dry, and were now busily occupied in preparing what Rex insisted upon describing as his “trousseau.”“I have one hundred and fifty ‘pieces’ in mytrousseau; how many have you in yours?” he asked Lettice one day; and the girls were much impressed at the extensiveness of his preparations, until it was discovered that he counted each sock separately, and took a suit of clothes as representing three of the aforesaid “pieces.” Having once given way, the Squire behaved in the most generous manner, and at his suggestion, Rex was to travel overland to Brindisi, spending a month in various places of interest on the Continent. In order to do this and catch the appointed boat, it was necessary to leave Westmoreland at the end of August. Ten days more, and then good-bye to Rex, good-bye to the happy old day which could never come back again! Four days more, three days, two days, one day—the last afternoon arrived, and with a sinking heart Norah went to meet Rex in the drawing-room for the last time for long years to come.
Lettice’s annual summer visit was postponed this year until the middle of August, for Arthur Newcome had gained his point, as Mr Bertrand had prophesied, and the wedding was arranged to take place at the end of September. Mr Bertrand had done his best to gain more time, but it was difficult to fight against a man who was so quiet, so composed, and so immovably determined as Arthur Newcome. He listened to what was said with the utmost politeness, and replied to all argument with the statement that he was twenty-eight, that he was in a good position, and saw no reason for waiting indefinitely. After this performance had been enacted four or five times, Mr Bertrand’s patience gave way, and he declared that he was powerless to stand out any longer, and that perhaps it was a good thing to get the wedding over, since if he had much to do with Arthur Newcome, he should certainly collapse, and fall into a nervous decline.
“His very presence oppresses me. It is all I can do not to yawn in his face when he is telling those long-winded yarns. Poor little Lettice! I wonder what sort of conversation he treats her to when they are alone. I thought she looked very tired yesterday at dinner. Get her all the pretty things she wants for thistrousseau, Helen. I must do what I can for the poor child, for I fear she has a dull time before her.”
Miss Carr sighed, and shook her head. As time went on she was more and more distressed about her ward’s engagement, for now that his time of suspense was over, Arthur Newcome had lost his temporary gleam of brightness and had settled down into the old solemn ways which made him so different from other young men of his age. The previous night was not the only occasion on which Lettice had seemed weary and dispirited after atête-à-têtewith her lover, but she showed plenty of interest in the selection of hertrousseauand in the equipment of the handsome house which Mr Newcome was preparing for his bride.
By the middle of August dressmakers and upholsterers had received the necessary instructions, and could be left to complete their work, while the tired little bride-elect went north to recoup her energies. How glad she was to escape from London only Lettice herself knew; while at Cloudsdale, the whole house was turned upside down in excitement at the prospect of her arrival. Lettice, as an engaged young lady, a bride on the eve of her marriage, had assumed a position of vast importance in her sisters’ eyes, and the questions as to how she would look, how she would bear herself, formed the subject of many lengthy discussions.
The hour came at last. Lettice was once more among them. She came rushing in, in the old impetuous way, kissing everyone in turns, and exclaiming in delight at being once more at home. There had never been any unpleasantness connected with Lettice’s home-comings. Though she had lived in the lap of luxury for the last three years, she was utterly unspoiled by its influence, and so far from being dissatisfied with her own home, seemed to take an affectionate delight in finding it unchanged in every particular. Her sisters followed her from room to room, listening with smiles to her ecstatic exclamations.
“Oh, how nice it looks—the dear old place! What a sweet, sweet smell of mignonette! Oh, look at the old red table-cloth, and the ink-stain in the corner, where I upset the bottle. Oh, how lovely to see it all again! And the dear old sofa where we used to camp out all together—I have never found such a comfy sofa anywhere else. Tea! How pretty the urn looks! I love that cheerful, hissing sound! And what cream! You never see cream like that in London.”
She was all smiles and dimples, and though decidedly thinner, the flush upon her cheeks made her look so bright and well that she was a picture of a radiant young bride. Hilary and Norah watched her with fascinated eyes as she flitted about the room, or lay back in the chintz-covered chair. What a vision of elegance she was! The blue serge coat and skirt was exactly like those which the village dressmaker had made for their own wear—exactly like, and yet how different! The sailor hat was of a shape unknown in northern regions; each little detail of her attire was perfect in its unobtrusive beauty, and with every movement of the hand came the flash of precious stones. If she had been a whit less like herself Norah would have been awed by the presence of this elegant young lady; but it was the old Lettice who flung her arms round her neck the moment they were left alone together in their own room; the old Lettice who kissed, and hugged, and caressed with a hundred loving words.
“Oh, Norah, Ihavewanted you! I longed for you so, but father would not let me write. It was a horrid, horrid time, and I was wretchedly lonely. Dear, darling Norie! I am so glad to be back.”
“And, oh, Lettice, I am so glad to have you! I have a hundred questions to ask. Let me look at your ring. It is a beauty, far nicer than the ordinary row of diamonds. And are you awfully happy? I was very much surprised, you know; but if you are happy, it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks!”
“N–no!” said Lettice slowly. “Yes, of course I am happy. It hasn’t been as nice as I expected, for Miss Carr has behaved so queerly, and father was not pleased. But—oh yes, I am quite happy. Madge is delighted about it, and Arthur does everything I like. He is very kind!”
“You funny old Lettice! Kind! of course he is kind!” cried Norah laughing, and kissing the soft, fair cheek. The flush of excitement had faded by this time, and the girl’s face looked pale and wan, while the blue shadows beneath her eyes gave a pathetic expression to the sweet face. “Lettice,” cried Norah anxiously, “how ill you look! You were excited before, and I didn’t notice it, but you are as white as a ghost, and so thin! Aren’t you well, dear? Have you a head-ache? Can I do anything: for you?”
“Oh, no, no!” Lettice stretched out her arms over her head with a long, weary sigh. “I shall be quite well now that I am at home, and with you, Norah. I have been tired to death in London lately. You have no idea how tiring it is to be engaged. I have stood such hours and hours at the dressmaker’s being tried on, and Arthur and I were always going to the house. The workmen are so stupid; they have no idea of colourings. The drawing-room was painted three times over before Arthur was satisfied. I was so tired that I would have left it as it was, but he is so obs—, he likes to have things done exactly in his own way, and worries on and on until he gets it. I thought it would be fun furnishing a house, but it gets a little tiresome when people are so very, very particular. We will have a nice lazy time, won’t we, Norah? Arthur is not coming up for three weeks, so we shall be alone and have no one to bother us.”
“Ye–es!” stammered Norah confusedly.
This novel way of regarding the presence of a lover was so amazing that it took away her breath, and before she recovered, Miss Briggs entered the room, and there was no more chance of private conversation for the present.
Nothing could have been sweeter or more amiable than Lettice’s demeanour during the first week at home. She seemed to revel in the simple country life, and to cling to every member of the household with pathetic affection. She went into the kitchen and sat on the fender stool, talking to the cook and inquiring for “your aunt at Preston,” “the little niece Pollie,” “your nephew at sea,” with a kindly remembrance which drew tears from the old soul’s eyes. She made dresses for Geraldine’s dolls, trimmed Miss Briggs’ caps, and hovered about her father and sisters on the watch for an opportunity to serve them. Everyone was charmed to have her at home once more, and fussed over her in a manner which should have satisfied the most exacting of mortals; but sweet and loving as she was, Lettice did not look satisfied. The grey eyes seemed to grow larger and larger until her face appeared all eyes, and her cheeks showed a faint hollow where the dimples used to play. One miserable night, too, Norah woke to find Lettice sobbing with her head buried in the pillow, and heard a pitiful repetition of the words, “What shall I do? What shall I do?” But when she inquired what was wrong, Lettice declared that a tooth was aching, and sat up in the bed and rubbed her gums obediently with a lotion brought from the medicine cupboard. Norah blamed herself for doubting her sisters word, but she could not help noticing that the toothache yielded very rapidly to the remedy, and the incident left a painful impression on her mind.
Norah was not the only member of the household who was anxious about Lettice’s happiness. Mr Bertrand had a serious conversation on the subject with his eldest daughter one morning when Lettice’s pallor and subdued voice had been more marked than usual.
“I can’t stand seeing the child going about like this. She looks the ghost of what she was five or six months back, and seems to have no spirit left. I shall have to speak to her. It is most painful and awkward on the very eve of the marriage, but if she is not happy—”
“Perhaps it is only that she is tired, and feels the prospect of leaving home,” said Hilary; and at that very moment the door was burst open and in rushed Lettice herself, cheeks flushed, hair loose, eyes dancing with merriment. She and Raymond had just played a trick upon unsuspecting Miss Briggs with magnificent success. She was breathless with delight, could hardly speak for bursts of laughter, and danced up and down the room, looking so gay and blithe and like the Lettice of old, that her father wont off to his study with a heartfelt sigh of relief. Hilary was right. The child was happy enough. If she were a little quieter than usual it was only natural and fitting under the circumstances. He dismissed the subject from his mind, and settled contentedly to work.
One thing was certain: Arthur Newcome was a most attentive lover. Lettice contented herself with scribbling two or three short notes a week, but every afternoon the postman brought a bulky envelope addressed to her in the small neat handwriting which was getting familiar to every member of the household. Norah had an insatiable passion for receiving letters, and was inclined to envy her sister this part of her engagement.
“It must be so lovely to get long epistles everyday. Lettice, I don’t want to see them, of course, but what sort of letters does he write? What does he talk about? Is it all affection, or does he tell you interesting pieces of news?”
Lettice gave the sheets a flick with her white fingers.
“You can read it if you like. There is nothing private. I must say he does not write exciting letters. He has been in Canterbury, and this one is a sort of guide-book about the crypt. As if I wanted to hear about crypts! I must say I did not think when I was engaged that I should have letters all about tombs and stupid old monuments! Arthur is so serious. I suppose he thinks he will ‘improve my mind,’ but if I am to be improved I would rather read a book at once and not be lectured in my love letters.”
She had never spoken so openly before, and Norah dared not let the opportunity pass.
“Oh, Lettice, dear! aren’t you happy? aren’t you satisfied?” she cried earnestly. “I have been afraid sometimes that you were not so fond of Arthur as you should be. Do, do speak out, dear, if it is so, and put an end to things while there is time!”
“An end! What do you mean? I am to be married in less than a month—how could I put an end to it? Don’t be foolish, Norah. Besides, I do care for Arthur. I wish sometimes that he were a little younger and less proper, but that is only because he is too clever and learned for a stupid little thing like me. Don’t talk like that again; it makes me miserable. Wouldn’t you like to have a house of your own and be able to do whatever you liked? My little boudoir is so sweet, all blue and white, and we will have such cosy times in it, you and I, and Edna must come up and stay with me too. Oh, it will be lovely! I am sure it will. I shall be quite happy. I am glad father insisted upon having the wedding up here; it will be so much quieter than in a fashionable London church with all the rabble at the doors. Dreadful to be stared at by hundreds of people who don’t know or care anything about you, and only look at you as part of a show. Here all the people are interested and care a little bit for ‘Miss Lettice.’ If only Rex were to be here! It seems hard that he should leave home just a fortnight before my wedding.”
Norah sighed and relapsed into silence, for it was all settled about Rex’s departure by this time. The Squire had given way, Mrs Freer and Edna had wept themselves dry, and were now busily occupied in preparing what Rex insisted upon describing as his “trousseau.”
“I have one hundred and fifty ‘pieces’ in mytrousseau; how many have you in yours?” he asked Lettice one day; and the girls were much impressed at the extensiveness of his preparations, until it was discovered that he counted each sock separately, and took a suit of clothes as representing three of the aforesaid “pieces.” Having once given way, the Squire behaved in the most generous manner, and at his suggestion, Rex was to travel overland to Brindisi, spending a month in various places of interest on the Continent. In order to do this and catch the appointed boat, it was necessary to leave Westmoreland at the end of August. Ten days more, and then good-bye to Rex, good-bye to the happy old day which could never come back again! Four days more, three days, two days, one day—the last afternoon arrived, and with a sinking heart Norah went to meet Rex in the drawing-room for the last time for long years to come.