"Never mind that; you are not too stupid to feel sorrow, or to need comfort. Don't you know Whom I mean? ONE is always near. You can't get beyond reach of God's loving pity, Lettice. If you have no other friend, you have Him."
A wondering look answered her. The thought seemed new.
"Try, next time you feel lonely, try speaking to Him, and telling Him your need . . . Now you are to curl yourself up in the farther corner; and you are not to look at anything or anybody till we get to London. I'll see after your sister."
Lettice was sure Cecilia would brook no interference from a stranger, but she could not say so in words, and Nurse Valentine disregarded protesting looks. She watched in fear from her corner Nurse Valentine's first move to Cecilia's side, saw her stoop and murmur something, and saw that the advance was not repelled. Then in the relief of shifted responsibility, she fell asleep.
"Lettice—"
"Oh, is it time to get up?" For a moment she counted herself in bed.
"Don't be in a flurry. We are close to Victoria. Lettice, must you go on to-day? You could not spend a night or two in London?"
"There's nowhere to go. And it would cost so much. Is Sissie—?"
"I don't think she is well enough for the full journey; but in that case, it must be risked."
Lettice became aware that Cecilia was not in the same state as when they had left home. Then she had stood about, and had even walked a short distance. Now she had to be lifted from the train to the carriage; and again at Paddington from the carriage to the train. She made no complaints, and scarcely spoke, but her face wore unmistakable signs of acute suffering. Nurse Valentine counted it very doubtful whether she would be able to reach Bristol that afternoon: and her busy brain revolved different schemes.
"I can't leave that child alone to sink or swim. It wouldn't be Christian. I don't know when I have seen a face that appeals to one more. Miss Anderson, I am afraid, is in a bad way. They seem given over into my charge. I shall have to go on to Bristol, or else take them home with me . . . Which is best, I wonder? . . . She isn't fit for the journey. Well, I shall see presently."
They drew near in time to Reading. Nurse Valentine knew this, from her acquaintance with the country; and Lettice seemed to guess it, intuitively.
"Must you leave us now? What shall I do if Sissie gets worse?"
Nurse Valentine moved away to bend over Cecilia. A few low words passed between them; and she returned to Lettice.
"No, my dear, I am not going to forsake you. Your sister cannot travel so far as Bristol to-day. I shall take you both to my home."
"Home with you?" Lettice's whole face changed, pallor vanished, and her eyes shone with delight! "Oh, how good, how good you are: I can never, never thank you."
"Hush, don't let Miss Anderson hear; it is the only plan; but I have not told her yet. I wish we did not live so far out of Reading—nearly two miles—but it cannot be helped. I shall leave word with our doctor in passing, and a telegram must be sent to your uncle."
"I can't think what makes you so kind to us."
"Cannot you?" The train was slackening speed; but Nurse Valentine lingered a moment. "I have a dear Master, Lettice, and I think He is giving me this to do. My work is only to obey. The trouble! Oh, that is nothing. People cannot do anything worth doing without trouble; and always to be trying to save oneself is so contemptible. Trouble was the last thing our Lord ever thought about, when He was on earth; and it ought to be our last thought also."
Lettice had the look of one gaining a glimpse into a fresh world.
PRUE AND BERTHA.
"IT'S snowing still, father. Almost as hard as ever. Will Bertha come, do you think?"
"Shouldn't wonder."
"She told me not to mind, if anything did make her put off. She might be wanted a day or two longer, just at last. But it isn't Bertha's way to mind weather."
"She wouldn't be a child of mine, if she did."
"You don't mean to send and meet her?"
"Cabs enough in Reading, if she comes."
"Anyhow, the room is ready—Bertha's own little room. She says she always loves so to think of that room, when she's nursing her hardest cases. It seems like a sort of rest. And she knows everything there is always the same."
Mrs. Valentine lifted her face from a half-made stocking as she spoke, a sweet elderly face, pale yet fresh, pure and contented, in full enjoyment still of life. The robust elderly man opposite was just as fine a specimen of manhood as she of womanhood, perhaps handsomer, but of far rougher outlines, hale and hearty, vigorous and sunburnt, with broad toil-worn hands.
William Valentine's forefathers had owned this farm, and indeed the whole little village, during generations past; and the property had been a valuable one: but with depreciation of land had come heavy losses, and the present owner was a far poorer man than his father or grandfather. It was all he could do to hold things together, and his children's expectations had dwindled to a fine thread. Notwithstanding pecuniary embarrassments, the man was thoroughly liked, thoroughly esteemed, in the country round; not so much for his position as for himself.
He was squire of the village as well as farmer: to the cottagers a very grand personage indeed; and the friend of each one among them. His wife called him always, with great particularity, "a gentleman-farmer," while Mr. Valentine was rarely at the pains to tack on that preliminary descriptive word. He prided himself on being "a plain farmer, one of the good old yeomanry!" And while in truth a gentleman at heart: in sincerity, in kindliness, in honourable feeling and right principle, he lacked polish of manner, and was bluntly straightforward, even to a fault.
All the same, William Valentine knew, and delighted in knowing, that his sweet old lady wife came from a far more refined stock than his own; and nothing pleased him better than to trace her refinement of look and bearing in some—not all!—of his children. With aught of affectation, he had no patience: but he could recognise real refinement where it existed, though he would congratulate himself with a chuckle that his only son, and still more his youngest girl, were "chips of the old block." By which term, he did not designate his wife.
"She knows nothing in that room is ever changed," repeated Mrs. Valentine, looking with tender eyes upon her broad-shouldered husband. "Prue dusts every inch of it herself, and won't let a servant go in when Bertha is away. Bertha does love that room."
"Shouldn't wonder!"
"And when she comes back she is so happy. I hope she'll give us a few weeks at home now: before she goes out nursing again. But there is no knowing. Bertha always seems ready for work. If anything turns up, she'll want to do it."
"She wouldn't be my child, if she wanted to loll in an arm-chair all her days."
"But I hope she won't put off. Such a storm! And it is four months since we had her here last. Prue, do you think Bertha will come?"
An upright and self-controlled young woman entered, the eldest daughter, not far from thirty in age. Prudence Valentine was counted by some people rather estimable than lovable: perhaps only by those who did not know her well. Few did know her thoroughly well, however.
"Bertha will come," she said, moving towards the bay window.
This farm drawing room or chief sitting room was large, and square in shape, well-furnished too in a cumbrous and old-fashioned style. A huge round table occupied the centre; and ornaments were few. "Gimcrack rubbish! Made to be knocked down and broken. No earthly good!" was Mr. Valentine's verdict on such articles. "Give me a room fit for use, where one needn't be afraid to move:" and his womankind obeyed. He had always had the upper hand, in appearance. Secretly, his wife with her softer touch managed him entirely; and in his heart he knew it; but then she never frittered away strength in needless skirmishes.
"Bertha will come," repeated Prue.
"So I say!" echoed Mr. Valentine.
"But they might want her longer, just a day or two longer at the last."
"I don't think so. The girl was well days ago. They have only kept Bertha on, because they have grown fond of her."
"Nobody can help being fond of our Bertha."
Prue's impassive eyes gleamed a faint assent. "We will have tea ready, mother. She cannot be long now."
"Don't you be too sure. Snow hinders trains," said Mr. Valentine. "Where's Wallace?"
"Out in the snow with Nan, somewhere. He is as crazy as she."
"Nan will catch cold."
"Nan catch cold! Ha! Ha! That's good," laughed Mr. Valentine. "My dear, you'd better let your one wild colt have her way. She'll never turn into a Prue or a Bertha. Be content with two after your own mind."
He threw his newspaper aside, crossed over, and stooped to kiss her brow, reverently, as if touching a creature of some superior order. The sweet eyes smiled up at him in placid response; and he strolled off, humming a tuneless tune.
Deep under the surface of his rugged yeoman nature was a passion of love for this wife, who nearly forty years earlier had stepped down to his level for love of him, and had never since faltered in her wifely submission. Submission!—Yes, that was true. None the less, if she set her foot upon a thing, he had to do her will: while if he set his, she yielded, but not at all because she had to do so.
"You've got a fire in Bertha's room, Prue?"
"Yes, mother. Blazing."
"And tea is laid."
"Not made yet."
"I wonder if Bertha will stay at home for a few weeks. She has earned a rest."
"Bertha soon gets restless, you know."
"She always wants to be helping other people."
"That is natural to her. And she likes to be on the go. That is natural too."
"Prue! One might almost think you didn't love Bertha."
"Must love be blind? But you don't think so, mother. Bertha is right to work. We have little enough to depend on, in our future. If I could be spared, I would do something too. Perhaps, when Nan is older—"
"Nan is nearly seventeen."
"She isn't grown-up yet."
"And she says she must go out somewhere. We couldn't do without our Prue."
"No—I know—"
"You would never have cared to undergo hospital training, like Bertha."
"Perhaps not." Prue had had her longings, which she had smothered down for Bertha's sake.
She might have to crush them again, for Nan's sake. Not that she had not the first right of choice, but that she could not trust Nan to do her work at home. It was always an understood thing in the household that "Prue couldn't be spared." Other people might please themselves; but not Prue. Usually she acquiesced in this view of affairs, accepting the manner of life appointed to her. Now and then a restless wave would arise, and sometimes the top curled over,—not often in Mrs. Valentine's presence.
"Why, Prue!—I always thought—you don't want to ran away from home too!"
"If I did—" and a pause. The wave had spent itself. "People can't always do exactly what they wish. Bertha was wild for years to be a nurse. It is her vocation. I'm never wild after anything, you know; and I should not be happy away from home—unless I could be sure of your comfort. Nan is no good."
"Prue—!" called Mr. Valentine.
Prue glided away; and Mrs. Valentine sat meditating, mother fashion, over her children. Prue seemed usually so calm and content. Had she too caught the prevalent spirit of the age?
"When I was a girl I never felt like that," thought the old lady.
A cab at the door; not heard in its approach through the snow. Bertha, of course!
They crowded into the hall to welcome her; father and mother, eldest daughter and eager servants. Wallace came rushing through a back-door, just in time, a big loose-limbed youth of nineteen or twenty: and close behind was a girl, almost equally big, light-haired and uncouth. Bertha hurried into the midst of them, her dark eyes shining, her pretty cheeks brilliant, her long cloak tossed by the wind.
"No, don't shut the door. Not yet. Mother, I mustn't lose a moment. I've brought some one home to be nursed. It couldn't be helped—there was nothing else to be done. Will you forgive me? She's alone with her little girl—such a dear child—her little sister, I mean. Miss Anderson has been ill, and the long journey is too much for her. It would half kill her to go on to Bristol to-day. My room is ready, of course, and she can sleep there. Never mind about me. Any corner will do—besides, I shall sit up with her to-night. Say I was right! I did think of going on with them, and telegraphing to you from Bristol, but she isn't fit, and I knew you would all be disappointed. Was I wrong? I left word with Mr. Jasper to call. He is on his rounds now. Have I done rightly, father?"
"Shouldn't—wonder!" Mr. Valentine said slowly. "Seems to me you hadn't much choice. Eh?" and he looked in appeal to his wife, conscious that his approval without hers would not settle the matter.
"Bertha couldn't well do anything else," said Mrs. Valentine.
To herself she murmured a soft suggestive—"'Inasmuch!'"
"Thank you both!" And Bertha flew back to the cab.
Lettice was helped out first, and consigned to Nan—a worn-out child, bewildered with the sadden glare of light and the crowd of strange faces. Her quiet life hitherto had known no such transitions; and the morning strain had told upon her—all the more in appearance, because now she no longer had the pull of responsibility. Nan, obeying a whispered order, took her into the drawing room, and banged the door—which bang woke Lettice up.
"Please let me go. Sissie will want me." She did not know who Nan might be: but the rough grasp hurt her arm, and aroused a latent spirit of opposition. Lettice could be controlled with a rein of silk by those whom she loved: but side by side with her powers of endurance dwelt powers of resistance.
"Let me go, please. She will want me."
"It's all right. They will see to her."
"Sissie doesn't like strangers."
Nan, in answer, set her back against the door, and shook her unkempt hair in a manner somewhat exasperating. The prominent light eyes stared out of the robust face, with wondering interest, into the little pale visage opposite.
"I must go. Nurse Valentine—"
"Pooh! Bertha, you mean."
A cry from without sounded in Cecilia's voice—not loud, but distinctly an utterance of Lettice's name; and it startled Lettice into wild action. She pleaded no more, but flung herself on Nan, and for the moment she prevailed. Before Nan could guess what was coming, Lettice had dragged her aside, and was in the passage. Then Nan was there also, and had Lettice in a grip, against which the younger girl struggled in vain. Cecilia was by this time out of sight, round the first bend in the stairs, being carried by the strong farmer and his son, the others following. She did not call again, but the one appeal had been enough for Lettice.
"It's no good, you know. I'm best at that," said Nan coolly, as the whole weight and force of her young companion were launched into a desperate effort to escape. "I was told to keep you down here: and I'll do it. Why, the poor thing doesn't half know what she's doing. She's off her head with—I say! It's no good. You're best out-of-the-way. Bertha's there, and that's enough. Hallo!"
An abrupt relaxation of Lettice's efforts caused Nan to overbalance herself. The two came down in a heap together,—Lettice underneath. Nan alone sprang up.
"I say! What next?" She tugged at the arm of Lettice. "I say—get up. What's the matter?"
"What are you after now?" demanded another voice, as the half-stunned Lettice made a movement to obey. "Nan; you clumsy thing! Look here! You wretch. See those poor little wrists. What were you doing? Keeping her here! That's a pretty way to keep a guest. As if Bertha meant you to behave so. Get some water."
"O no; I'm all right," said Lettice, managing to find her feet. "Please don't hinder me. I must go to Sissie."
"You can't just now. Prue and Bertha are there, and too many nurses would be in the way. Don't you see? Nan has squeezed your poor little wrists, clumsy thing that she is!" He took one of them in his broad hand, and looked pityingly at the soft skin, reddened and swollen.
"Nan!" repeated Lettice vaguely. "Oh, it doesn't matter. I only want to go to Sissie—my sister, I mean. She called me."
"I wouldn't: just yet. Better not. Bertha is there."
"But Nurse Valentine—"
"That's Bertha. Didn't you know. Nurse Valentine is our sister. She told your sister you were all right. And the doctor's coming directly: and you couldn't do anything. You're awfully tired, are you not?—You poor little thing!"
"It doesn't matter. If only I could go to Sissie!" pleaded Lettice in distress, as he led her back to the drawing room.
"Now, you listen. I'll promise. If Bertha comes, and says your sister wants you, I won't keep you back. You just lie down on the sofa in this corner, and get half-an-hour's rest. And if you go to sleep, I'll wake you up—I mean, when Bertha says you're wanted. See!—Won't that do? You look as if you hadn't slept for a month past."
Lettice laughed faintly.
"Oh, only three or four nights. I couldn't—much."
"Well, you'll sleep now. Just pull off your hat: and here's a shawl to put over you. You're to have a cup of hot tea—it's waiting now—and then a sleep: and then you'll be fit for anything. And Nan shan't come near you."
"Wallace! As if I meant to hurt her!" gulped a reproachful voice.
"You keep off," growled Wallace: but Lettice held out her hand.
"Don't, please. Nan didn't mean anything. She won't hurt me, I know."
"Well, then, bring a cup of tea, Nan: and after that, be off!" commanded Wallace.
Nan obeyed humbly: nearly turned the tea over Lettice in her agitation: and stooped to kiss the wrists she had squeezed. After which she fled.
Wallace watched till the cup was empty, took it away, and said—
"Now go to sleep."
"I must see if Sissie wants me."
"Well, shut your eyes for five minutes. That'll do."
Lettice obeyed so far: and as Wallace expected, she did not open them again.
Two hours later Bertha asked,—
"Where is that child, mother?"
"Asleep on the drawing room sofa. Wallace will not leave her for a moment."
"Wallace?"
"He found her struggling with Nan, to get to her sister. Some one seems to have told Nan to keep her away: and I suppose Nan was rough."
"Just like Nan."
"Wallace can't take his eyes off her. She does look so sweet, lying there, I hardly wonder at him."
"And Wallace is always gentle to anything weak. That's the best of him. I wish Nan were the same."
"She has been crying for an hour, because he was angry with her."
"Mother," after a pause, "it is a question whether the poor thing upstairs will get through the night."
"So bad as that?"
"The attack must have been coming on before she started. She might rally again; but it will be only for a time. She can never be well."
"Does she know?"
"I can't tell. I thought so, from some of her answers to the doctor's questions. But she hides her feelings so carefully—except when she begins to wander. It's a mercy I stopped their going on; she might never have reached Dr. Bryant's alive. And the poor child with her—"
"Yes, indeed. Is Prue upstairs, now?"
"Prue will be in charge till half-past ten; and then I shall take her for the night. If Prue wants me, she will ring."
Bertha went softly into the drawing room; and found Lettice there, heavily asleep, lying flat in a position of profound weariness. The child-like sweetness of her face impressed Bertha as it had impressed Mrs. Valentine. One hand was thrown out unconsciously; and Wallace drew Bertha's attention to the discoloured wrist.
"Nan's doing," he muttered.
"Nan doesn't know the strength of her own muscles. Poor little thing!"
"She's dead beat—hasn't slept for nights."
"Keep her quiet for the present. By-and-by she must go to bed. Our coming in and out doesn't wake her."
"A thunder-clap wouldn't, I believe. But I promised one thing. If Miss Anderson wants her—that's to say, if you tell me Miss Anderson wants her—I must rouse her up."
Bertha was silent; and Wallace did not look up, or ask questions. He had worded his promise carefully, and he now repeated it carefully, relieving his conscience, and shifting responsibility from himself to Bertha. She stood silent, conjecturing how far she might be bound by Wallace's promise. Cecilia did want Lettice, and asked for her incessantly: yet it was better for the two to be apart, at least for a while, and to awaken Lettice now would be absolute cruelty. Bertha could not do it, looking on the wan little face.
"Wallace had no authority to promise for me: and if I do not speak, he need not act," she decided, and moved away.
An hour later, finding Lettice still asleep, her resolution remained the same. She had the child carried upstairs and put to bed in Prue's room: and Lettice never opened her eyes. "It will not do. I must risk delay," Bertha said.
Six o'clock in the morning. The long night was over at last: a night long both to the invalid and to her nurse. Bertha would have no help. She knew what to do, and Prue was forbidden to come before a certain hour, unless summoned.
If Cecilia Anderson lived through the night, hope would revive; hope, at least, of a temporary rally. Again and again this "if" seemed to hang on the merest spider-line. Again and again Bertha actually held in her hand the bell-rope, one pull of which would summon Wallace, to be sent to Prue, with word that Lettice must come. He did not know how the sick woman cried out for Lettice, in her half-wandering state. He had heard an occasional call, as he passed near the room, but no words were to be distinguished. Bertha was resolved that Miss Anderson should not pass away without a sight of the child; but also she was resolved not to call Lettice sooner than might be essential.
"Would you like to see a clergyman?" she had asked on the previous evening: and an abrupt negative was returned. Bertha could not force the matter. All she could do through the long night-hours, was to watch for opportunities to whisper sometimes a short prayer, to murmur occasionally a few words from the Bible, or the verse of a hymn. Bertha was a good and earnest girl. It might be quite true, as Prue had said, that she was naturally eager and restless, naturally fond of work and fond of change; but also she was a girl of right principle and of deep religious feeling, a "servant of Jesus Christ" in heart.
Her efforts met with small response, however. If Cecilia heard, she did not seem to heed, with one exception. Bertha, standing by her side, said slowly—
"'Let the unrighteous man forsake his thoughts, and let him return unto the Lord, and He will have mercy upon him: and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon.'"
"What?" cried Cecilia, with a startling suddenness.
"'He will abundantly pardon!'" reverently repeated Bertha.
"Will He?"
"If we turn to Him, and forsake our unrighteous thoughts."
Cecilia sighed, and said no more.
At six o'clock, according to arrangement, Prue came, and Bertha left the room. Miss Anderson greeted Prue with a look of welcome; strange to say, warmer than any she had accorded to Bertha. Something in the quiet and self-contained bearing of the elder sister attracted her, while Bertha's eager pretty manner seemed to have a reverse effect. The last hour there had been some slight improvement; yet Prue noted a strangeness of the sick woman's eyes.
"Come here. I want to speak to you," Cecilia said impatiently. "Is that other girl gone? She means well, but she worries me. She will not let me alone, and I can't get to Lettice. I want my little Lettice back again. That girl will not let her come. Everything that I love is going from me. Call Lettice, if you please."
Prue knelt down on a stool by her side, wearing a face less impassive than often, because it was full of pity. "I am going to stay with you for a little while," she said. "Lettice shall come by-and-by."
THEIR NON-ARRIVAL.
SATURDAY afternoon! Felix had been for a sharp walk, to get rid of certain lonely sensations, which were likely enough to assail a young fellow during his first few days away from home. Not that he had left his home, but that his home had left him: and this made matters worse. For he had not the interest of new surroundings. He was in the same place and under the same roof as before; only all that had made the house his home was withdrawn from it.
Like a good many others of his age and standing, Felix had sometimes chafed against certain restrictions, counted needful by the half-sister who had been to him as a parent. Freedom had a charm for him, as for not a few. Yet, now that the restrictions were gone, now that liberty was obtained, now that he might come and go and do as he chose, he found himself more conscious of loss than of gain.
Though not free from work till after dark, he had then started off immediately for a brisk walk along the Parade, doing two miles out and two back in something under an hour. The rapid motion was a relief after long-standing, and it overcame a slight tendency to low spirits, from which he had suffered all day.
Such snow as had fallen on Thursday was gone from Brighton: and he scarcely noticed the ice-cold wind, for his mind was intent on other matters.
He had a definite and absorbing aim before him. Felix meant—not only meant, but was resolutely determined—to get on in life. He had no idea of resting content with his present position. Getting on would mean hard work: and he was willing to work hard. He intended to succeed: to climb from step to step, to win confidence and approval, to leave the stationer's shop in his rear, to make money, to secure a home for his sisters. So far as all this went, it was right. The aim was a commendable aim in itself: only it lacked something. He did not look up for Divine Blessing on his purpose. He did not whisper, "If God will."
Except for this lack, the boy meant well. A certain amount of egoism might mingle with his dreams: yet a silver thread of unselfishness ran through them also. Cecilia's devotion to him in the past, he accepted, as boys do accept such devotion, merely as a matter of course and no more than his due. Nevertheless, he realised that his turn had come, and he longed to work for her: and when the thought came up of Lettice's pale face and sad eyes, his own eyes grew dim. Felix was glad of the darkness, that nobody might see.
"Lettice shall always be mine, never Dr. Bryant's," he declared to himself. Then he wondered, as he had wondered twenty times that day, how soon a letter would arrive. Surely Lettice might have written the day after their arrival.
Felix had hardly yet begun to dream of another kind of love, a closer tie than that of sister and brother. Many boys begin long before they reach his age: but he was young for his years, a thorough home-lad, and he had mixed little in society of any kind.
Cecilia's proud reticence had come in the way here of what might have been for his advantage. He had formed two or three friendships in his school-days, permitted though not encouraged by her: but the friends so made had recently left Brighton, for India and the Colonies. Felix was left stranded, without a single real friend in all Brighton, at the moment when he most needed friends, and with few acquaintances.
He was almost as slow as Cecilia herself in "taking to" strangers. There were two or three other young fellows at the stationer's, beside one rather older man named Andrews, and Mr. Thompson himself, Felix' employer. Felix was respectful to Mr. Thompson, submissive to Andrews, and on the alert to do his work well: but personally, he cared for none of them, perhaps because he would not care, would not take the trouble to know any of them sufficiently well for indifference to pass into liking. After Cecilia's style, he held aloof, and thereby made himself disliked. A man who would have friends must "show himself friendly."
"I shall not live this sort of life always. I am made for something better," he would say to himself, when he found that his own repellent bearing was inducing the same from others. He forgot that whether or no some other mode of life might be "better," according to his views, yet so long as he did live "this sort of life," he owed courtesy and kindness to those about him. Or perhaps it was not so much that he forgot, as that he did not know. Cecilia's training, moral and religious, of this dearly loved young brother had been defective.
"I am made for something better," Felix declared again, late that Saturday afternoon, as he left the Parade and strode through the dark streets towards his now lonely home. "Something will turn up, sooner or later. I will get on! I'll let them know that I'm up to work, and then, when an opening comes—"
"How do you do?" a voice said, and Felix found himself, under the lamplight, face to face with Mr. Kelly.
The clergyman looked younger, more frail, and more at his ease, than when visiting Cecilia Anderson. Felix paused less reluctantly than he would have paused a week earlier. In his present loneliness, a friendly word was not to be counted worthless.
"How do you do, Anderson? Quite well? So you have not yet heard of your sisters' safe arrival?"
"No." Felix wondered how he knew.
"I called at your door just now, in passing, to ask. And Mrs. Crofton says that a letter is awaiting you. She hopes it may contain news of them."
"From Lettice?"
"A strange handwriting, Mrs. Crofton said—though that was hardly her business or mine." Mr. Kelly turned, and walked beside Felix. "You will be impatient to have your letter."
"I ought to have news of them by this time. They went on Thursday."
"True, that snowy day."
"Dr. Rotherbotham told me I had no business to let them start. But—I don't know how I was to help it. Cecilia always has her own way. I suppose it's all right. Ill news would be sure to travel fast. Only I did think Lettice would drop me a line."
"I should like to hear about them before long. Will you come in to supper with me to-morrow evening, after Church?"
"I don't go to Church in the evening," Felix answered bluntly.
Mr. Kelly smiled, and the smile lent to his face a peculiar attractiveness. Somehow he had never felt disposed to smile in Cecilia's presence. "Only in the morning?" he asked. "But come to supper just the same. At half-past eight."
Felix agreed, with the private addition, "I needn't stay long, if he begins to preach."
Then Mr. Kelly crossed the road, to speak to somebody who seemed to be waiting for a word: while Felix dashed on to his own door, less than half-a-street distant.
On the step, Mrs. Crofton met him. "A letter at last, sir. But it isn't from Miss Anderson nor Miss Lettice. I know their handwritings."
Felix recognised Dr. Bryant's, and opened it in haste.
"Why! What—"
"Eh, sir? Nothing wrong?"
"They've not got there! Never arrived! What can it mean?"
Mrs. Crofton's lower jaw dropped, and she burst into a series of exclamations. Felix read his note again, deaf to her audible astonishment!
"QUARRINGTON COTTAGE"Friday afternoon."DEAR ANDERSON,—My niece and Lettice did not arrive yesterday; and no letter has come to-day. The weather has been sufficient to account for delay; but I think a telegram might have been sent, to prevent my useless drive into Bristol. Pray let me know when I am to expect them.—"Yours faithfully,"MAURICE BRYANT."
"Extraordinary!" muttered Felix.
"Nothing bad, sir, I hope? Not really bad?"
"Quite bad enough. Nobody knows where they are, or what has become of them."
It relieved Felix to give out this information fiercely, almost as if the landlady herself were to blame; and the colouring on her high cheek-bones perceptibly lessened.
A railway accident! A collision, and everybody killed! The train snowed up, and passengers frozen to death! These were only a few of the suggestions, poured out in a stream for the further distraction of Felix. Or Miss Anderson has been taken suddenly worse, and they had had to stop half-way. This came nearer the mark, and had also a greater air of probability; and the conjecture filled Felix with foreboding. No light cause would, he knew, have delayed Cecilia. She must have been ill indeed, before she would have resolved to sacrifice her ticket and that of Lettice, and to go to the heavy expense of lodgings or hotel. How such expense could be met, Felix had no idea. He was only convinced that Cecilia would not incur it, short of absolute necessity. Then came the question, why had not Lettice written? Surely her first impulse would have been to tell Felix all!
Mrs. Crofton enlarged upon possibilities, wiping her eyes. "I always did say things was sure to go wrong! Sending them two poor innocents off, all that way, and not a soul to take care of 'em. And Miss Anderson no more fit to travel—! And that there awful snowstorm! And as for Miss Lettice—poor little angel! O dear, dear! But, there, you'll go after them, wherever they be, Mr. Felix! Of course you'll go, this minute."
Felix was divided between a strong sense of dismay at the mystery, and a strong inclination to laugh at Cecilia being termed a "poor innocent." Dismay won the day. "How can I? There's no money; and I don't know where to go," he said.
Then, snatching up his cap, he hurried out of the house, with an idea of overtaking Mr. Kelly. He was too late, for the clergyman had disappeared. Felix hesitated some seconds, and sped to the nearest post-office, whence he despatched a brief telegram to Dr. Bryant, intimating how matters stood. After which, he found his way to the Vicarage, arriving barely in time. Mr. Kelly was on the doorstep, gloves in hand.
"Sorry I can't wait: I have an engagement," were words upon Mr. Kelly's very lips, but he did not utter them. "Yes," he said. "You are in trouble. Come in. I can spare five minutes. What is it?"
He turned back into the house, and Felix followed, out of breath with his run. Mrs. Crofton's various suggestions had haunted him by turns as he came; the least probable causing perhaps the most uneasiness. Worst of all was his own sense of helplessness. Yet, he said little, but placed before Mr. Kelly the short letter he received.
"From Dr. Bryant. That is your uncle—your sister's uncle, I mean?"
"Yea."
Mr. Kelly read, and lifted perplexed eyes.
"This is strange. Miss Anderson must have stopped somewhere short of Bristol. It looks a little—I am afraid—as if she had been too unwell to continue the journey. I do not understand why neither you nor Dr. Bryant have heard."
"That is the puzzle. Cecilia would not stop without very strong reason. She isn't one to give in easily. And surely Lettice might have telegraphed."
"It seems so at first sight. Telegraphed or written. I hope that their not sending word is a good sign. No doubt they have delayed, with the wish to save you needless anxiety."
For a moment this thought brought relief. "To be sure, it might be that. It would be like them. They might guess, though, that not hearing anything would be as bad. And why did not Lettice telegraph to Dr. Bryant? It ought to have been done."
"People do not always exercise commonsense. Miss Anderson may have been—not well enough—and Lettice is so young for her age."
"The question now is—what am I to do?"
"You have telegraphed to Dr. Bryant already. He may possibly have received news since sending off his note; and if so, you will hear again. Very likely you will have a letter from Lettice in the course of the day. I think, however, that you would be wise to go to the station this evening, and to make a few inquiries. Perhaps the guard of the train may remember if they reached Victoria."
"To be sure! The very thing! I asked him to see to them."
"Then he would tell you at least so much. If he saw them there, they must now be either in London, or somewhere on the way to Bristol. You are almost certain to hear something, at latest, by the morning's post."
"And if I don't—"
"Then we must consider what step to take next. I cannot wait longer now, as I am overdue elsewhere. Only one word—pray look upon me as a friend in this matter, Anderson. If it becomes needful for you to run up to Town, do not be anxious as to ways and means. You must let me advance any sum that you may need." He held out his hand, and it was grasped in kind, with unusual warmth, half shame-faced by Felix. "Now good-bye, and I sincerely trust that all will come right in a few hours."
Those few hours were hard to live through. Do what Felix might, he could not lose sight of his suspense. To sit still was an impossibility; and to remain long within reach of Mrs. Crofton's doleful prognostications was an equal impossibility; but he kept incessant watch for tidings, and at length a telegram arrived from Dr. Bryant: "Not come; no news; most perplexing."
Felix slept little that night, and he was astir unwontedly early next morning. The postman's knock brought him downstairs with a rush, to receive a letter: handwriting unfamiliar; postmark Reading. He tore it open.
"From 'Prudence Valentine.' Who on earth is she? Something Farm—What's the name?" He skimmed the contents rapidly.
"DEAR MR. ANDERSON,—I am very sorry no one wrote to you yesterday or to-day, but between us all, it has been somehow overlooked. I am writing now late at night, that the letter may go off early to-morrow—Saturday—morning."My sister travelled on Thursday from Haywards Heath with your sisters; and as Miss Anderson was taken worse on the way, becoming really too ill to go on, she brought them both home with her. We had our doctor in at once, and all has been done that could be done. My sister Bertha is a trained nurse."It would be wrong to hide from you that Miss Anderson has been in great danger, and that her state is still critical; but we hope that she has begun to improve."My sister telegraphed to Dr. Bryant on Thursday from Reading station, and a letter ought to have been sent to you. But we were very much occupied. Lettice was so worn-out at first that she could do nothing but sleep; and she has been prostrate since with headache, really able to think of nothing. Otherwise she would have begged me to communicate with you. I am distressed that it did not occur to any of us to do so sooner."You may depend upon us to take every care of them both. Lettice is not ill, only knocked down with over-strain, and I think with the parting also from yourself. We are ordered to keep her very quiet for a few days. If you would wish to come and see your sisters, pray do not hesitate—but Miss Anderson assures us that this is out of the question for the present."Believe me, yours truly—"PRUDENCE VALENTINE."
"So she did send a telegram, after all!" exclaimed Felix. "Why didn't it arrive, I wonder?"
He was more conscious at the moment of relief than of anxiety. Nothing could be worse than the blank uncertainty he had been enduring; and he failed to realise how bad the account of Cecilia was. An impulse seized him to tell Mr. Kelly without delay; and early though the hour was, he seized his cap and hastened to the Vicarage.
"Come in; pray come in; I am delighted to see you," Mr. Kelly said, rising from his solitary breakfast. "Another cup—" to the maid who had ushered the young fellow in. "Well, good news, I hope. You look like it. Sit down and have breakfast with me."
"It's all right. Cecilia was taken worse on the way, and they are in a farmhouse near Reading. At least—I don't mean 'all right'—" rather confusedly—"but she is better now, and we know where they are. Yes—perfect strangers—nobody I ever heard of before. I can't think what made them do it. Would you like to see the letter?"
Mr. Kelly received the sheet, smiling. Then, as his eyes fell on the handwriting, a curious expression replaced the smile. He glanced on to find the signature, and a faint flush crept slowly over his spare pale face.
"It's from a Miss Valentine."
"True." The flush deepened, and Mr. Kelly put up one hand, as if to shield his slight embarrassment. "True," he repeated, and he read the letter twice, with an abstracted air.
"Odd! Isn't it?" said Felix.
Mr. Kelly looked up, with the start of one awakened from a dream. Then he read the letter a third time, and gave it back.
"I know the name," he said. "Many years ago I met a Miss Valentine—the same, undoubtedly, since her name was Prudence, and she, too, had a sister named Bertha. Besides, the home was the same. I met them elsewhere—not there—but I can recall the address. Your sisters are in good hands. This, at least, I can assure you."
"Cecilia is better now, you see."
"I hope so—to some extent. Yes, evidently better than when she first got there. And Lettice will be well looked after. The child needs it."
"Can't think what on earth they would have done, if they hadn't come across Miss Valentine."
"If not in that way, they would have been cared for in some other way."
"But I say!" broke out Felix. "We've no right! I hate to be indebted to strangers."
"We are all children of one Father; bound by close family ties. Is it so hard, viewed in that light?"
"Cecilia would never submit, if she could help it."
"But if she cannot? Perhaps she has that lesson to learn. Some day it may be in your power to repay the kindness. At present you can only accept it, and be grateful."
Felix had to accept it; but he was far from feeling grateful.
"Is Lettice never to come to me again?" Cecilia asked querulously of Prudence, at the very hour when Felix sat with Mr. Kelly at the Vicarage breakfast table. "It is so long since I have seen the child! Does she not care? Felix would not treat me so."
"She will come soon. She was better yesterday, but quiet is needed. Poor little Lettice cares far too much. If we allowed it, she would come this moment."
"The days are so long—and I am alone. None of my own people are with me. Only strangers."
"Am I quite a stranger still?"
"No. I did not mean to hurt your feelings. But I seem to be cut off from everybody."
"Except One—who is always near. Never cut off from Him."
Cecilia stirred uneasily.
"Somebody else said so. I forget who. So many voices have come to me, one time and another. I cannot always distinguish them. My mother's voice for one; and it brought back things I had forgotten. But I do not talk. It is not my way. I told Mr. Kelly so."
"Mr. Kelly!"
"He has a Church in Brighton. I do not care for him; though he means well."
A red spot rose to either of Prue's cheeks, and there remained. She half said, "What Mr. Kelly?" but checked herself.
"He would not let me alone. People will not, I do not choose to be interfered with; and he interfered. Still, of course he was kind. He found employment for Felix; and he came to see me. He would have come oftener, if I had allowed it. But I cannot talk of myself to anybody and everybody."
"The less we talk of ourselves the better, perhaps," suggested Prue. "He is a clergyman, then?"
"Yes. We went to his Church. He thought himself bound to put questions to me about myself. Perhaps he was, but I was not bound to answer them. As if—" and a pause. "But sometimes—now—" another pause.
"Sometimes now, you would wish to see him again, perhaps. Is that it?" The red spots deepened as Prue spoke.
"No, not exactly. I did not mean that, exactly. One cannot always explain . . . I want Lettice, and they will not let her come. It is cruel—so ill as I am."
"Lettice loves you dearly." Prue could have clung to the other subject, but she would not.
"Well, yes—perhaps. She has always been with me,—always—in those old days. Past now! They can never come back!"
"The past does not come back. It is always going on to something fresh; until we reach Home."
"I have no home. It is behind—with Felix."
"And mine is before—with Jesus." Prue spoke low and reverently. She seldom revealed so much of her true self; but Cecilia's need appealed strongly.
A flickering smile crossed the other's face. "You! A mere girl!" she said, not realising that Prue was scarcely seven years her junior. "What can you know of life?"
"More perhaps than you would suppose . . . I have a dear home here, but the real Home is there."
"People talk so, I know; and you seem to mean it. But to me it is only—"
"Yes—it is only—"
"The unknown. A black depth of nothingness. I do not know why I should say all this. It is not my way. I suppose life goes on there—of course. No unprejudiced or reasonable mind can believe that death means annihilation. There is too much in us for that . . . But the future is so vague. I never expected to be afraid when my time should come . . . Only sometimes—now I am so weak—looking over and seeing no foothold—" Her eyes wandered round the room strangely, even fearfully.
"But if, looking over, you saw the outstretched Arms of Christ, our Lord, waiting to receive you? If in the valley, you had His rod and His staff for your comfort—?"
A softened look stole into the haggard face.
"He is willing. He is waiting. It is we who hold back. It is not He," Prue went on softly. "He is always 'far more ready to hear than we are to ask.' When He has come from heaven to die for us, isn't it the least we can do to believe in His love and pity?"
Cecilia shut her eyes resolutely, and Prue said no more.
QUARRINGTON COTTAGE.
"THEODOSIA, my dear—"
"Well?" said Theodosia tartly.
She was a pretty woman still, though over thirty-five in age, tall and fair—but the fine eyes which carefully avoided meeting those of her husband were not happy, and her whole air expressed intense ennui.
Certainly, the outside world looked cheerless. Snow had fallen heavily throughout the preceding day, and threatening clouds hovered still over a white landscape. Theodosia Bryant hated country at the best of times, and country lanes, immediately after a snowfall, are scarcely at their best.
"The post has come in."
"The post! And to think of the beloved rat-tat of the London postman, ten times a day!" sighed Theodosia. "However, one may be thankful to be not utterly cut off from the rest of the world, I suppose. I wasn't sure whether we might not have come to that. Anything for me?" She shot an uneasy side-glance at Dr. Bryant. He had a handsome face, calm and firm, framed in abundant grey hair.
"Two for you. None from Brighton for me."
"Did you expect to hear? I didn't," said Theodosia, reddening slightly.
"My dear, what can you know of people whom you have never seen?"
"They seem to have put you to trouble without much compunction."
"Some mistake, probably. But I shall write at once to Felix."
Dr. Bryant passed into his study, where indeed he spent the main portion of his days. He was not by nature a sociably inclined man, and since his marriage—only two years earlier—he had not become more sociable. The study grew dearer, the drawing room grew less attractive.
Not that he did not love this wife of his—the first he had ever had, though he was not her first husband. He had been thoroughly in love with the winning and graceful widow, who met him always with sweet smiles and engaging looks. And although, after the honeymoon, smiles and engaging looks became more and more rare, he was not a man to change quickly. He loved still, but he no longer enjoyed her society to the same extent as before.
Theodosia Wells had married Dr. Bryant, not because she really loved him, though his face and manner had both a certain power over her, but because she lacked the means of livelihood, and because she had a keen eye to the future of her boy, her only child. She would have endured a much worse husband than Dr. Bryant, if thereby she might secure an easy future for Keith. And "endurance" is hardly the word to employ with respect to Dr. Bryant. If endurance really were needed, it was because she failed to appreciate him, not because he failed towards her in either appreciation or duty.
How much money Dr. Bryant might possess, Theodosia had not known with any accuracy, in the days when he sought and won her, and perhaps she overestimated the amount. Still she had known him to be comfortably off, and to be free from family burdens. So much the better for Keith. Dr. Bryant had lived in Quarrington Cottage for nearly a quarter of a century, yet Theodosia, had not had the smallest doubt that, when she should become his wife, she would be able to dislodge him. She was not going to be buried in the country. The Cottage must be let or sold, and they would reside in London.
Disappointment awaited Theodosia. She found Dr. Bryant yielding and compliant on minor points. Elderly bachelor though he had been, he placed household arrangements in her hands, let her do and manage as she chose, and seldom interfered outside his proper masculine province. But when she began to press for a change of residence, the desire was at once met by resistance. Quarrington Cottage was his home, and in that home, he meant to live and die.
"Anything else, but not that," he said, when she urged her wish.
"Anything that I don't want, but not what I do!"
"My dear, I told you plainly what manner of home I had to offer, and in accepting me, you accepted it. Then was the time to protest; not now."
Theodosia did not quickly give up hope. She argued and coaxed, worried and pleaded, sulked and wept, by turns; but all efforts were met by a placid and inviolable determination. Gradually she became convinced that, do and say what she might, here was her home during the term of her husband's life.
Uninviting though the prospect might seem to one of Theodosia's tastes, she had no wish to quarrel with that husband. She liked and admired him personally, almost loved him; and she wished to have a strong hold upon him, for the sake of Keith. What money he possessed, he was not bound to leave to his little step-son. She was not much better informed now than before her marriage, as to its precise amount: for he seldom spoke of money matters, and she was too proud to ask. But she had learnt that he had or might have other relatives, near of kin though long estranged; also that he had grieved much over the long estrangement, and that he often craved to hear something of his sister's children, if they still lived.
"But he shall do nothing for them, while I have a voice in the matter," she resolved.
Fresh disappointment awaited her. A letter one day came from his niece, the only surviving child of his only sister, and he showed it at once to Theodosia, with his punctilious frankness. He might have, and of necessity, he did have interests apart from his wife, because she could not or would not enter into them, but he had not intentionally any secrets from her.
"Absurd!" Theodosia said, as she gave it back. "Miss Anderson has no right to appeal to you now, after all these years. It is perfectly ridiculous. And a step-brother and step-sister into the bargain. Does she coolly expect you to adopt them all? As if you had not enough to do with your money."
"Quarrington Cottage would hold them all, and not crowd us, my dear. But the boy can make his own way. Cecilia and Lettice must come, of course." He dwelt upon the word "Cecilia" affectionately, feeling that she belonged to him.
"Come here! For how long, pray?"
"So long as they need a home. I fear it may not be very long for poor Cecilia, judging from what she says—but you see she begs us on no account to let a word of this reach Felix or Lettice. You need not look anxious, Theodosia,—" a very gentle manner of characterising the expression on her face. "I have means enough. Your comforts will not be affected. At the most, it means only laying by less."
Theodosia at once thought of Keith's future.
"And I am to have no voice in the matter. I am to have these strangers forced upon me—a vulgar disagreeable woman, for aught we know, and a great rough girl, to knock about my little delicate Keith. If I had guessed two years ago what I was going in for—"
"Nay, Theodosia! Better not to say what you will regret by-and-by."
Theodosia, in no mood for self-restraint, broke into angry remonstrances, and bitter accusations of his indifference to her happiness. She had a sharp tongue, and that hour she gave it fall swing. Doctor Bryant listened with a pained look, but by no means with the air of one willing to yield. He met her anger gravely, and spoke with his usual calm kindness; but his resolution did not falter. Theodosia's passion was like the sea breaking over a rock.
At the end of the interview, Dr. Bryant simply said, "Now I must write to catch the post. When you have had leisure for thought, you will view the matter differently. I shall answer for your welcome, as well as for my own."
The different view was slow in developing.
For two days Theodosia had hardly a pleasant word or look for her husband: and Dr. Bryant, without remonstrance, retired more than usual to the solitude of his study.
When Cecilia's answer arrived, he as usual handed it to his wife, observing, "They will come, as soon as my niece is able to travel."
Theodosia noted the gleam of pleasure in his eyes; and she woke up suddenly to a fresh aspect of the question. To repel her husband by persistent ill-humour would simply mean to thrust him under the influence of Cecilia Anderson. This would not do. If Cecilia were a designing woman, what might she not effect? Theodosia thought again of Keith, and for Keith's sake she mastered herself, managed to smile, and inquired Cecilia's age.
Dr. Bryant seemed agreeably surprised. "That is right, my dear. I knew I could depend upon your kind feeling, when it should come to the point," he said. "I am not sure about the age. Some years over thirty, I imagine, and the child she speaks of as fifteen—young for that. Not too old to be something of a companion for Keith; and you and Cecilia will be friends."
"Thanks!" Theodosia could not control her scorn.
"You will arrange everything comfortably for them—south aspect, and so on. Yes, it must be a room with south aspect."
"Not the best spare room! There is no other, except at the top of the house."
"An attic bedroom! For my only niece!" Dr. Bryant looked at his wife in astonishment.
Theodosia swallowed something with difficulty. "I certainly did not mean to give Miss Anderson the best spare room!"
Dr. Bryant was silent, and by his silence won the day. Theodosia again came to the conclusion that her wisest course—for Keith's sake—was to conciliate him, even at the cost of her best spare room. "But as for being friends! Faugh!" she said scornfully. "I am very much obliged to Maurice."
With the Thursday, on which Cecilia and Lettice were expected, came heavy snow. "Of course they would not come in such weather," Theodosia declared.
"Of course they will send me word, if they give it up," Dr. Bryant answered. He was in a state of unwonted restlessness all day, and ordered the pony-trap to be in readiness, despite the storm, to take him to Bristol station. If they arrived, he could obtain there a closed fly.
Not long before he meant to start, Theodosia took a look, in passing, out of the hall-window, and saw a telegraph messenger approach. She opened the door herself, received the telegram, paid the extra fee, and passed on to the drawing room.
The address was to "Mrs. Bryant."
"Odd!" Theodosia said, as she stood gazing. "What should make them put my name? Perhaps they think my husband would be off by this time! And if he were—as if I should be in any suspense! Why didn't they send it earlier?" A wave of indignant disgust towards the Andersons swelled in her breast. "Why should I trouble myself to open it? What do I care for those people? . . . Maurice is infatuated . . . Let him go, and have his drive for nothing! . . . What harm? . . . It will make him think less of them, perhaps!" Such half-formed ideas flashed through Theodosia's mind; and before she knew whither they tended, or what was the actual form of the temptation, she had tossed the yellow envelope upon the blazing fire. One little flash of flame, and only a curling shred remained.
Then fear seized her. Suppose her husband should find out what she had done! Suppose, later, hearing that a telegram had been despatched, he should trace its receipt to her! Suppose—"But what nonsense! It was to me, not to him. I do not know who it was from, or what it said. I can say that I have heard nothing, and that there was no telegram for him."
She tried to put aside the uncomfortable recollection, watched Dr. Bryant off on his snowy drive, and spent the afternoon in a state of mingled remorse and irritation. Her dislike of the Andersons was enhanced by the fact that she had, in a sense, done something to injure them.
When Dr. Bryant returned, chilled, disappointed, and plainly hurt, she found not the slightest difficulty in showing exactly the same indignation which she might naturally have shown, if no telegram had been sent.
"And after all, I do not know that it was from them," she said again in self-excuse, when her husband had gone off, with a mild, "Tut, my dear! Things are not so bad as that. I shall hear to-morrow."
But the next morning arrived, and when the postbag was brought in, Dr. Bryant found no letter from Brighton. As related, he came at once to tell his wife. After which he retreated anew to his study, and wrote the short letter which reached Felix on the afternoon of Saturday.
Theodosia watched him disappear, then threw herself back with a profound sigh. "I only hope something may have happened to prevent their coming altogether. Too good to be true, I am afraid. But to be boxed up here, in this wretched place, with people that I know I shall detest—"
"Mamsie!" a small voice said, and a little boy in knickerbockers entered. He had Theodosia's pretty complexion, and his hair hung still in long curls, over a lace collar. Theodosia's face softened at the sight of him. All her tenderness went out towards this child; a lovable boy by nature, but systematically spoilt.
"Come here, my sweet! What has Keith been doing?" He was six years old, but she had not yet learnt to drop the baby style of speech; and there was still a babyish intonation in his little high-pitched voice.
"Mamsie, nurse said I wasn't to come; but I would. I knew you wouldn't mind."
"Mamsie is always glad to have her boy; always!" as Keith sprang upon her.
"It's as snowy as can be. Such a lot of white. Mamsie, what does father mean. He says I'm to have a jolly new playfellow."
"You don't want a playfellow, do you? You are quite happy with Mamsie, and nurse, and all the pets."
"Ah, but I should like a boy!"
"But this isn't a boy. It is only a girl—a big dull girl, twice as old as you."
"Twice six is twelve."
"Clever boy! Well, she is fifteen—a great deal more than twice as old. No companion for you, and much too big to play games. She will only be in the way."
"I don't want a girl. If it was a boy, I should like it."
"Ah, it isn't a boy. Only a girl, and a tiresome grown-up lady, who is ill, and who will give no end of trouble, and not like the least noise. You will have to creep up and downstairs like a mouse now."
"Mamsie, don't you like them to come?"
"I hate it, Keith." Theodosia hid her face. "I can't bear to have them here. It makes me miserable. But you mustn't tell father, because he would be so vexed."
"No, I won't. And I shall hate them too." Keith doubled his little fist. "I won't like them, and I won't play with the little girl; and I'll make lots of noise; and I won't care what nobody says. Mamsie, I wish you wouldn't cry! Why do you? Why mayn't I tell father you don't like them? Why must they come, Mamsie?"
Quarrington Cottage stood alone near the middle of a long lane, over two miles from the outskirts of Bristol. There was a village less than half-a-mile off—"the village" to the neighbourhood. It was not peculiarly pretty country, even in summer, being somewhat too flat, though distant hills might be seen: and now, under a sheet of snow, it was monotonous. But Dr. Bryant never found it monotonous, never wearied of the quiet. He was always happy in the country, always miserable in a town. Health and spirits failed him immediately, under the oppression of a crowd of human beings, while to his wife such a crowd was a very elixir of delight.
Still, Dr. Bryant had made no secret of these his tastes before marriage. Theodosia knew, or she might have known, all about the matter. He attempted to hide nothing; and if she failed to understand, the fault lay in her own dulness of perception. To some extent she had understood, for she had professed to agree with him, and had expatiated on the delights of getting away from town into country; only she had failed to emphasise the fact that it was getting away which she liked, and by no means remaining. Dr. Bryant loved his country home all the year round, in all seasons, and in all weathers. Theodosia liked a country-house—including plenty of guests—for a few weeks in summer or autumn. These diverse views had not been sufficiently weighed before marriage: or if Theodosia had recognised them, she had reckoned too much on her own influence, too little on the steadiness of Dr. Bryant's will.
A harder fiat could hardly have been uttered, than that which kept Lettice in her own room, and away from Cecilia. She did not see any need for the prohibition. In matters of health, many people are apt to count themselves worse than they are, a few to count themselves better than they are; and Lettice belonged to the minority. True she felt desperately tired: her head ached, and exertion was a struggle: but what of all that? What did it matter—what did anything matter—side by side with the fact that Cecilia wanted her? By nature patient and enduring, as regarded any bodily discomfort of her own, she was neither patient nor enduring when withheld from doing the will of one whom she loved.
Submission to the Divine Will was as yet an unknown element in the life of Lettice. Because she passionately loved her sister and brother, she would have done aught, borne aught for them. Because she did not love God, His Will was not dear to her: and she chafed against it. Not worry herself! They might tell her not to do so, but how could she obey when she thought of Cecilia, ill and among strangers, parted from Felix, and craving the younger sister who might not go to her?
"Keep that child quiet for two or three days," had been the doctor's order on the morning after their arrival. "A sensitive child—the strain has been too severe, and she is ripe for pretty nearly anything. No; I don't think she'll be ill, if we take her in hand at once: but she must rest. How old do you say? Nearly sixteen! She doesn't look more than fourteen. Well, the two are best apart for a few days. Unless what?—Yes, of course—if Miss Anderson were taken suddenly worse—but I must leave that to your discretion. At present she will have all she needs in your care and your sister's. The child could do nothing further. You are good Samaritans to take them both in, after this fashion. It is the sort of Christianity which a man respects."
After the first day or two, Lettice was allowed to dress, and to sit in a cosy arm-chair near the window, looking out upon a garden, which in summer was lovely, and which even in winter had some beauty of its own. Lettice could not enjoy that beauty. She could enjoy nothing if she might not go to Cecilia: and at present she was a prisoner in Prue's room. She sat there hour after hour, doing nothing, declining to be interested, going round and round in the same circle of thought. Always, how was Cecilia? what was Cecilia doing? did Cecilia miss her greatly? And might she soon be with Cecilia? She could not acquiesce in her deprivation. Her eyes were intent ever upon the door, her ears were intent for footsteps beyond the door. At this rate she was not likely to recover tone and strength quickly. Prue coming in on the fourth morning, with the usual remark, "Not yet," met a face of despair which went to her heart.
"Why, Lettice, poor child, you don't mind so very much," she said, sitting down by her side. "It is only for a day or two, I hope. You must try to be brave."
Lettice held her fast. "Oh, I don't know how. If only I needn't wait! I do want to see Sissie."
"It is dull for you here, I am afraid."
"O no; I don't mind being dull. I only want to go in and kiss Sissie."
"Miss Anderson seems really a little better, I hope."
"But if—if—" Lettice could not go on.
"Yes, I understand. I asked the doctor about that. If Miss Anderson should be taken worse, you should be called."
"Promise!" whispered Lettice.
"I do promise, so far as is in my power. But this is only to comfort you. We think she is doing well. I told her the doctor forbad your coming. She seemed to think it was on her account, and I said no more. She would be unhappy to think that you were not well."