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Mamsie don't like me to call it a garret, but it is.
"Mamsie don't like me to call it a garret, but it is," said Keith, with an air of superior knowledge.
"I don't think there is any harm in a garret," Lettice answered calmly.
"Don't you? Mamsie said you would. She said you'd grumble, and if you did, she'd teach you not . . . Are you ill?" pursued the child, gazing hard. "You haven't got a pretty red in your cheeks, like Mamsie. I'm glad that other ill lady didn't come, 'cause she wouldn't have let me make a noise. And Mamsie is glad too. She cried, and didn't want her. And she said this room would do for you!"
"Yes, of course." Lettice was keenly conscious of the imitative contempt in the shrill little voice, and yet more keenly conscious of the slight to Sissie.
"Mamsie doesn't like ill people: nor I don't. Are you ill?"
"No."
"Will you play with me? I'll like you, if you will. I want somebody to run races. Susanna is too old, and Bella can't, and Mamsie gets a stitch. Have you got a stitch? Will you have a nice big race?"
"By-and-by I will, Keith. Not just now."
A NEW HOME.
KEITH stood with big blue eyes fixed upon Lettice's face, as she leant against the foot of the bed.
"Why not now?" he wanted to know. "'Cause you're tired? And you've got to unpack all that lot of boxes?"
"Some, not all."
"And then you'll have a jolly race with me, and ever so many games?"
"Perhaps—" was the utmost that Lettice could force herself to say. She had never felt more out of tune for boisterous fun. Keith pranced off, banging the door, and she remained where he left her, drooping in a dead blank of depression and loneliness, the like of which she had not before known. Always she had had her home, her sister and brother, her right to love and be loved by them: and now she was alone.
Nothing to live for: nobody to care for: no one to live and care for her: only Felix far-away out of reach, and the kind Valentines scarcely more accessible. A sense of dreariness weighed her down. It was not so much active pain as dull pressure—the harder to be resisted. Her head throbbed with dull responsiveness: and a wave of temptation to despair swept over her.
What hope, what interest in life remained? A cup of tea might have brought relief to body and mind, but the cup of tea was not forthcoming: and she of course did not realise, as at such times one does not, how far the depression was purely physical.
Dropping her hat, Lettice crept to the side of the bed and lay down upon it—lay flat and still, with closed eyes; for more than an hour, never stirring a finger.
Nobody came, and in later years, this hour always stood out as one of the worst and bitterest phases through which she had had to pass. Worse even than when she had first learned Cecilia's true state; worse than the morning of Cecilia's death. For then she had had the help of kind faces and voices around, though they could not touch her sorrow: and now she was utterly alone. Minutes had never dragged past with such slowness. If one afternoon were so interminable, what would the whole of life be? thought the poor girl in her distress.
Past, present, and future were blended into one murky cloud of darkness. Burning tears crept at intervals through her closed eyelids, and an occasional sob fought for utterance: but Lettice dared not let the struggling passion have way. Once to yield would have been to lose all mastery over herself.
Then through the parched Sahara of her woe came a murmur, breathed softly like the voice of an organ in the far distance, with familiar words, which yet she had not particularly remarked—
"When the Lord saw her, HE . . . said unto her, Weep not."
In response, a rain of tears fell; but this time they brought a measure of relief. As they lessened, she seemed to hear again—
"HE said unto her, Weep not."
"O how can I help it? I am so alone—so alone?"
Yet once more the quiet murmur sounded—
"HE said . . . Weep not."
Lettice sat up, and gazed around with dim eyes.
"But how can I help it? What can I do? If there were any one to care—"
The whisper came in other words, equally familiar, equally unthought of—
"HE CARETH FOR YOU."
Lettice sank back on the pillow; a strange new peace at her heart. Prue had talked, and Bertha had talked, and their words had dropped on her dulled spirit, like stones against a wall. But now it seemed as if the Divine Comforter Himself had come; and with one little shower of heavenly rain, the arid desert was changed.
An indescribable sense of rest, of being loved and watched over, crept through her. Consciously and clearly she was no longer alone. With tears still undried upon her cheeks, she fell asleep, and though the sleep could hardly have lasted half-an-hour, it seemed to bridge over a chasm in her existence, to land her in a new world, inwardly as well as outwardly.
She had never slumbered more profoundly, and when she awoke, the same calm peace enfolded her. Everything looked different. "Jesus cares for me! Jesus loves me!" she murmured, clasping her hands. "I'm so glad—oh, so glad."
Then there was a bang at the door, and Keith bounced in.
"Because it's getting cold,—" reached her ears.
"I don't understand."
"What are you lying down for? That's awfully lazy. Mamsie says, if you want any tea, you'd better make haste, because it's getting cold. It's been up ever so long."
"I didn't know the time. I've been asleep."
Lettice rose slowly, feeling still battered and weak, but happy. Pain of body and pain of mind alike were stilled by that strangely deep slumber. She was able to smile on the child, as he stared at her with wondering eyes.
"What makes you—so?" he demanded.
"Makes me how? I don't understand?"
"Mamsie said you was ugly. But I think you're pretty."
Lettice stooped to kiss the boy. "Keith, will you love me?" she asked softly.
"Will you play with me after tea? Father said I was to be kind to you. Will you be my horse and let me beat you?"
"Yes, if you won't beat very hard."
"Oh, 'course not—you're a girl, you know. But I'll love you, if you'll be my horse."
He slid down the balusters, looking up with eyes of approval: and Lettice came after. A cup of tea was welcome, albeit not too warm.
And as she sat under Theodosia's critical gaze, the thought came again—"I'm not wanted here. But—'He cares for me.'"
"What are you dreaming about?" asked Theodosia abruptly, noting a transient smile.
Lettice could not answer the question, and she made no attempt to evade it.
"Have you been unpacking all this time?"
"She hasn't unpacked one single thing," cried Keith.
"She's been laying down, sound asleep."
"Lying down, you mean; not laying."
"And she's going to play games with me, Mamsie. Lots of games, and run races. And I'm going to love her, ever so much, 'cause I think she's pretty."
Theodosia's face darkened. The last thing she desired was that Keith should care for Lettice. Her own love for the child was of a jealous and exacting nature.
"Your friends at the Farm seem to have been in great hurry to get rid of you," she remarked coldly.
"O no, indeed!" Lettice could not let this pass in justice to the Valentines. "They would have kept me any length of time. Only Felix thought—and thought—it would not be right."
"I'm sure I wish—" Theodosia's sentence could not have been clearer, if fully uttered. "Why not 'right,' pray?"
"They are—no relations," faltered Lettice.
"Are we?—" in an undertone.
"I thought—Dr. Bryant—"
"He was related to your sister. Not to you yourself, of course."
"Sissie—my sister—had told me—" Lettice could not finish the sentence: and Theodosia moved impatiently.
"Do stop crying, pray." Then, in a tone of surprise—"Maurice! To-day! You said you would not come before to-morrow."
"Have you any objection, my dear?"
Theodosia made no answer. Dr. Bryant kissed her, patted Keith on the head, then passed on to the chair from which Lettice had risen. She said nothing, only lifted two brown eyes, wide-open and filled to the brim with tears. The upward look was singularly sweet and pathetic; and the inscrutable calm of the doctor's face changed slightly under it. He took her two little chill hands into his, and bent to kiss her brow,—a welcome so unexpected, that one or two big tears splashed on his wrist, despite all her efforts. She was glad that he stood between her and Theodosia, from whom a slight sound, half laugh, half sneer, could be heard.
"Miss Anderson is a young lady of sixteen, I believe, Maurice."
"Lettice Anderson is my little girl, and I am her old uncle, or father, if she will have me, Theodosia." To Lettice, he added softly—"For poor Cecilia's sake! Her mother was very dear to me."
Lettice clung fast to the kind brown hand. How could she hold back? The doctor put her into an easy-chair, and sat down by her, watching the working of the pale face.
"Not grown-up yet, surely?"
"O no, I'm only a little girl still."
"You and I are going to be friends, I see."
Theodosia's brows drew together. She did not wish Dr. Bryant to like Lettice.
"Have another cup of tea?" asked the unconscious doctor.
Lettice said "Yes:" and then was sorry, as she caught the covert flash of Theodosia's eyes.
"I have no more in the teapot."
"Easily have some made!" And Dr. Bryant rang the bell.
"For that child! Absurd!"
"I thought 'that child' was a grown-up young lady just now. Be consistent, my dear . . . Grown-up or no, she is a very tired little being of some sort. I shall order you off to bed soon, Lettice."
Keith shouted a protest. "O no, father—no—she's going to play with me."
"Hush! Don't make that uproar."
"But, father, she said she would!"
"Not to-day."
"I said I would," Lettice tried to interpose.
"I forbid it for to-day. Keith, if you make any noise, you leave the room."
Keith was on the verge of a roar: but thinking better of his intention, he only whimpered. Theodosia withdrew from the tea-table with a thundery brow, to pity and caress the boy, while Dr. Bryant poured out the tea for Lettice.
"You have not told me yet, what has brought you home in such a hurry," said Theodosia.
"Was there need? I heard from you this morning that Lettice would arrive to-day."
"Well?" indifferently.
"That was sufficient."
Theodosia's lips formed an "Absurd!" again.
"If I had heard sooner, I could have sent notice of my intentions."
Theodosia was uncomfortably silent. She had kept Lettice's letter to her husband two days before sending it on: the said letter being undated. But from Dr. Bryant's manner, she saw that he was not without suspicion of the fact. This was true: and a passing gleam of surprise on Lettice's face confirmed his suspicion. He asked no further questions, however. It was by no means the first time that he had had reason to fear a lack of straightforwardness in his wife.
For instance, he knew now that a telegram had been sent to tell of Cecilia's illness and detention at Reading: and he knew, with an almost certain knowledge, that the said telegram had been delivered into Theodosia's hands. Only, in face of her assertions, and notwithstanding the proved truthfulness of the messenger, he generously would not count it quite certain, and therefore, he said nothing. But his trust in her could no longer be absolute; and his eyes had become quick to note discrepancies. To put her to shame before Lettice would, however, have been the last thing he could desire.
"Lettice is to sleep, I suppose, in the spare room?" he said suddenly. Theodosia had expected no such question.
"In a spare room—yes, of course," slurring over the tiny word "a."
But Dr. Bryant's ears were sharp. "Over the dining room?"
"That room, for a child! You say yourself she is a child. Of course not. If it had been for two of them—"
"Where have you put her, Theodosia?"
"Upstairs. The other spare room. Where else should she be?"
Dr. Bryant's recollections of "the other spare room" were hazy. He walked off without a word, unheeding an eager protest from Lettice. There was an unpleasant gleam in Theodosia's eyes.
"It is too supremely ridiculous. As if we never were to have a decent room to offer a visitor. I certainly shall not give in."
Lettice hardly knew what to answer, and Dr. Bryant speedily returned.
"That will not do, my dear," he said.
"I don't see why not. It is the only room I can spare."
"Another has to be spared. I will not have Keith on the first floor, and Lettice on the second. If you like to send Keith upstairs—"
"My little delicate Keith!" Theodosia nearly choked with wrath.
Dr. Bryant glanced from Keith's rosy cheeks to Lettice's white ones. "It will not do," he repeated. "I don't insist on the best spare room. We may need that occasionally, I suppose." This was a reluctant concession, for he hated visitors. "But one room on that floor it has to be. Either Keith's, or your little sitting room, or the room next to it."
"My boudoir! Thanks! I am very much obliged. Keith is not going upstairs! And I can't spare that other room. I want it in a hundred ways."
"One of the three it must be. Lettice will sleep in the spare room until you have made up your mind. Will you give orders to that effect—or shall I?"
"I have nothing to do with the matter."
Lettice again remonstrated, but in vain. Dr. Bryant rang the bell, ordered the best spare room to be at once prepared, asked which boxes would be required for immediate use, and withdrew. He seemed to be unconscious of Theodosia's white-heat of fury. She held it in till he was gone: then, regardless of the boy's presence, she turned upon Lettice with a fierce—"You little—toad!"
Lettice was startled to an upright position. She had a feeling of being stunned, as with a blow. "But what can I do? How can I help it?" she asked. "I did not mean to make trouble. I would not have complained."
"Complained! I should think not! What right have you to anything here, pray? Not even a relation! What are you to any of us? To want the best spare room! Oh, I understand you, for all your innocent looks. It's easy to come over my husband: but you won't come over me! I advise you to be careful, or you will have cause to repent."
"I don't know what you mean! Indeed, I only wish to do what you like," pleaded Lettice.
"I dare say! I know how much that is worth! But it won't pay! Sooner or later my husband will find you out. And mind—if you say one word to him of this I—Come along, my sweet! Come along with me."
Theodosia swept to the door, and there halted, looking back with darkened eyes, for the boy had not at once followed, as she expected. He stood in front of Lettice, scanning her earnestly.
"Mamsie said you was a toad," the small voice uttered, as if in surprise.
Lettice thought Mrs. Bryant was gone. "Mamsie didn't really mean it, Keith," she said gently. "It was only—Mamsie was a little vexed."
"Mamsie doesn't like you, but I do, Lettice."
Theodosia's wrath was filled to the brim. She strode back, said scornfully—"You are mistaken! I do mean it—" snatched the boy's hand, and pulled him, struggling, from the room.
Lettice sat confounded. She literally did not know what to do or what to think of this display: since she had never before had to do with an unrestrainedly bad temper. She dreaded greatly the moment of their next encounter; but when it came, Theodosia had reverted to her former cold and careless manner. Lettice found this to be a usual course of events.
Theodosia's outbreaks of ill-humour were frequent, and she seemed to consider that a return to her ordinary manner was sufficient apology; if, indeed, she ever counted an apology called for. All the world might be in the wrong sooner than Theodosia herself: and if she knew what it was to regret her own words, she would not acknowledge the fact.
Lettice suffered keenly from constant association with a temper of utter uncertainty. There could be no repose in her intercourse with Theodosia. However agreeable the mood of the latter might be at any given moment, nobody could predict that she might not flame into anger before five minutes were over; and the incessant dread of possible cyclones weighed upon Lettice like a millstone. She could never be at ease in Mrs. Bryant's presence.
The manner of her life at Quarrington Cottage was not long in declaring itself. On second thoughts, Theodosia gave in to her husband's wishes about the bedroom for Lettice, yielding for that purpose the extra "useful room," which under Dr. Bryant's superintendence was nicely prepared and furnished. But she could not forgive Lettice for having been the innocent cause of this defeat; and she showed a ceaseless jealousy of Dr. Bryant's kind interest in the girl. Not for her husband's sake, but for Keith's sake. Theodosia never lost sight of the fact that some of his money might be diverted from herself and the boy by this "interloper," as she privately called Lettice.
Lettice saw and felt the jealousy without fathoming the motive which lay below. Had it not been for that motive, Lettice might perhaps in time have overcome Theodosia's dislike. Only "perhaps:" for another hindrance soon arose, in the shape of Keith's growing affection for Lettice. That Lettice should play with Keith, amuse him, wait upon him, slave for him, was merely what Theodosia expected, as a matter of course. But that Keith should give Lettice his little heart in return, Theodosia did not expect. The one devotion of her heart was for this boy, and anybody who could win any portion of his love, or who would stand in the way of his interests, became abhorrent to her. She was a complete slave to impulse: and Lettice's gentleness failed to conquer.
Dr. Bryant of course knew his wife to be of an "uncertain temper." Had he discovered the fact before marriage, he would not have married her: but he did not find it out till afterwards. The friction naturally deadened his enjoyment of her companionship, and drove him back into the old recluse habits from which for a time he had emerged; but because of those habits, and because he could always be content in solitude, it did not seriously affect his happiness. Sooner or later she would "come round;" and meanwhile he had his study, and the study-door had lock and key. He failed to realise the difference between his position and that of Lettice: failed to see that, where he might lift his eyebrows and retire, Lettice could only remain where she was, and endure.
He was careful to secure for the girl all that she might need in the way of material comfort. At once he began to allow her twenty pounds yearly for clothes. He superintended to some extent her course of reading, that education might not cease: and his kindness was unvarying. A warm affection sprang up between the two. All this afforded Theodosia fresh food for jealous anger.
During a considerable part of each day, Dr. Bryant was shut up in his study, oblivious of the outer world: and then Lettice had much to bear. Far more than the doctor ever dreamed; for while with him she was safe, and, in consequence, happy. Lettice soon saw that complaints would only make matters worse, even if she had had any inclination to complain. But how could she tell Dr. Bryant, in return for all his goodness, that Mrs. Bryant was not good to her? She could only bear up and bear on with continuous patience, watching for opportunities to make herself useful, and avoiding self-defence.
Young as Keith was, the child soon learnt to control his affection for Lettice in his mother's presence. When alone with Lettice, he would show boisterous love, clinging and kissing to any extent; but before Mrs. Bryant, he seldom ventured on such demonstrations. Her jealous displeasure was only too patent.
Lettice felt this concealment of his real little self to be disingenuous, therefore harmful; yet she had no power to prevent it. "Mamsie doesn't like me to love you, but I do love you," the boy often said; and Lettice was grateful for the love, even while it made her fear. Despite Keith's care, which at six years old was not likely to be consistently maintained, Theodosia knew pretty well how things were—too well for Lettice's comfort.
Her daily life was indeed a course of difficult steering among rocks and breakers. It would have been yet more difficult, but for the new joy which had been breathed into it. The more cold and harsh Mrs. Bryant grew, the more Lettice was driven to prayer. Between Dr. Bryant and little Keith she had many gleams of sunshine: but her happiest hours of all were those spent in Church and alone in her own room, when things unseen became most real, and the passing nature of this life apparent.
In all that she had to bear, the Divine Master still lived and cared for her. Gradually the very passion of her heart grew to be an absorbing love for Him: an intense desire to do and to suffer His will. This did not mean that doing ceased to be difficult, or suffering to be pain. It meant only that she could say from her heart, thoroughly meaning it: "Thy will, not mine."
So passed three years: and through those years Lettice never left Quarrington Cottage. Invitations came from the Farm; and Lettice could not go. The journey meant expense, and she knew too well the opposition which would be aroused in Theodosia if she asked Dr. Bryant's leave. So for his sake, and not to disturb his quiet, she never spoke of these invitations, but smothered down her longings, and quietly declined them all. If her friends counted her neglectful, she could not help it.
Nor did she once see Felix. Twice during the three years, Dr. Bryant invited him to the Cottage, and each time Felix refused to come—not too gratefully. Thereafter, for a while, Dr. Bryant let the matter rest.
AGED NINETEEN.
"NINETEEN years old to-day! Will Felix remember?" asked Lettice.
She put the question to herself, since nobody was at hand to hear—naturally obtaining no answer. It was betimes in the morning of an early spring day—scarcely 8 A.M., and the air was sharp, through a wealth of sunshine. Beads of dew sent forth prismatic rays from grass-blades, and hung upon linked festoons of spider-silk. Lettice stood upon the wet grass, careless of damp.
Three years had drawn her out of a delicate childhood into a healthy and well-balanced girlhood. She was of medium height: the face still small beneath a pale brow; but cheeks and lips were nicely tinged, and the slim figure displayed a wholesome rounded plumpness. Nothing bony or sallow might be seen in her: only tokens of a well-proportioned body and mind in right conditions. Despite all the snubs and worries of her "Cottage" life, she had an eminently placid look, a look of habitual content, better than high spirits. She had managed to possess herself of the "little wayside flower," happiness, which so often fades from the grasp of those who have fullest opportunity for its cultivation.
"More than three years since I came here. Have they been long or short?" questioned Lettice, in the half articulate murmur sometimes indulged in by solitary people. After the fashion of a monotonous existence, while days and weeks had often dragged past slowly, years shrank and narrowed under a backward review. "Will the whole of life shrivel up into nothing, when we look on it by-and-by?" she queried. "Or will it open out—broader and fuller—because of the new meanings in everything? I wonder which! Why should one mind so much the little frets, with that lying ahead? And yet—one does mind—" as her memory went to Theodosia. For after all a thorn is a thorn, and while it pierces the flesh, one cannot reason the pain away.
"Never mind now! I'll have my birthday walk," declared the girl cheerfully, putting aside unwelcome recollections. "Nothing lasts always. Some day perhaps I shall have a home with Felix. But that would mean leaving uncle Bryant! Must everything in life hurt one somewhere? Well—no need to look forward. Things will come right one way or another: and isn't the sunshine good now?"
Lettice loved an early ramble in bright weather; and this was almost her first since wintry mornings. Now and again in summer Dr. Bryant would be her companion; a treat to them both, which might not often be ventured on, because of Theodosia's jealousy. Lettice had indeed half-hoped to see him appear on this particular day: but he did not. Why should he?
He was famed for forgetting birthdays, unless reminded of them: and Theodosia would not remind him. Lettice, perhaps, scarcely realised how warm a corner she occupied in the heart of the elderly man, labouring under the disappointment and loneliness of one who is mistaken in the wife of his choice.
Dr. Bryant knew now, with a knowledge which left no loophole for a mistake, not only that his wife loved his money better than himself, but—worse still—that her word was not to be depended on.
"He will not remember, of course. But I am sure Felix will write to me, quite sure," murmured Lettice, as she walked.
She dwelt earnestly on the thought of Felix, weighing his probable future. Lettice did not love Felix less because she loved Dr. Bryant. The more one loves, the more one has power to love. He was very near her heart, even though she received scant show of love from him. She belonged to him—that was his view of the matter—and he had a right to her best affection, her supremest interest. But he did not count it needful to repay her in kind.
He was getting on well, in the ordinary sense of the word; fulfilling thus far the aim which Cecilia Anderson had set before him in her life—not that which she had proposed to him in her dying message! He was giving satisfaction, receiving an increased salary, studying hard over-hours. Contented he was not, his whole heart being restlessly bent upon an early escape from the stationer's shop: but if not content with his position, he was well satisfied with himself. "I shall get on," was still the key-note of his tune.
There were changes passing over Felix: changes noted by the far-away watchful sister, whose only means of judging was through the post. She scrutinised his letters, re-reading them often, with an anxious endeavour to see "between the lines;" and often she was haunted by a sense of uneasiness. For these epistles were full to the brim with his own doings, his own affairs: and he wrote less affectionately than of old. Less and less room appeared to exist in his mind for aught but the one absorbing object.
If he might succeed fast enough to please himself, he asked no more. Earth and Heaven lay outside that desire, and Lettice was a mere adjunct to it. The passion of Felix Anderson's heart was, more and more exclusively—"self;" in marked contrast with the nobler passion of Lettice's heart. "To do Thy will:" "To have my way!" gives briefly the two aims. Felix lived for self, worked for self, mainly if not absolutely. Unselfish designs were not yet crushed out in him: but the crushing process was far advanced.
"And yet I am sure he loves me still—if he loves nobody else," thought Lettice, reflecting sadly on his not unfrequent assertion that he "made no friends." "Will he ever come here? If I could but see him again!"
At so early an hour, Lettice hardly expected to meet anybody. She kept mechanically to the main road, because too much absorbed to choose any other path: and presently she saw the postman coming. He greeted her with a "Good-morning, Miss," and held out a letter—only one, and that not from Felix. Had he really forgotten? The man passed on, and Lettice stood still to read.
"DEAR LETTICE,—You must have a line to tell of coming changes, which I think you would be grieved to learn in any other way than from ourselves."My father's long-standing embarrassments are not unknown to you. They have come to a point lately. Some months ago, he resolved to let or sell the dear old home, since farming had ceased to bring much profit, and difficulties were increasing. Sooner than we expected a purchaser has appeared: not offering the full value, or nearly that,—but still perhaps it is as good as we ought to hope."Unless you should be able to pay us a visit very soon—and you know how welcome you would be—you may never see the dear Farm again."Plans are very uncertain: but Wallace hopes to find some kind of work in London. We are not without interest there, and he has worked steadily at his books in the last three years. I think my father and mother will settle somewhere near London, to make a home for him: and either Nan or I—if not both of us—must be with them. Bertha will go on with her nursing."It all seems very sad and strange, but perhaps when the changes are over, things will be less hard to bear. I must not write more to-day."Ever your affectionate,"PRUE VALENTINE."
Lettice shed a few quiet tears; and she could not have analysed how much of the feeling which caused them was due to sympathy with the Valentines' troubles, how much to her own distress at the silence of Felix. The sympathy was real, but the other pain was the sharper. He had never before entirely missed over a birthday of hers. She retraced her steps slowly, and presently in her rear came the sound of a quick tread overtaking hers.
A young man paused by her side, to ask, "Pray, is this the way to Quarrington Cottage?"
"Felix!" Even before she could turn to look at him, the voice was unmistakable.
"You don't say it's Lettice! Hallo! This time in the morning! You are an early bird! Well, how do you do?"
He evidently expected no particular demonstration of feeling, and his careless kiss administered a chill. Still there was brotherly interest in his survey of her.
"It is such a surprise. Why did you not write? How did you manage to come?"
"No use in writing. I say, what have you been crying about?"
"Oh, it doesn't matter. I was only—silly."
"Like the little goose you always were."
"I was disappointed—not getting any letter from you. It's my birthday."
"Yes. Many happy returns. I've meant to come for some time, and this was as good a day as any. Not to sleep—no, not I. I shall go back by an evening train. I've half a mind not to see the Bryants at all, if I—I mean, now I have seen you. What's the good?"
"Felix, you must. He is so kind to me. You must thank him. If he were my own father, he could not do more."
"And she?"
"I don't think Mrs. Bryant cares for me much. She is different—but of course she doesn't mean to be unkind."
"If I come, I shall not stay. Mind that. When have you got to be in? Nine o'clock? And how far-off? We can take it easily. You've grown any amount—and you're not such a bad-looking girl either. Quite tolerable."
"Felix, you'll be nice to uncle Bryant." She laid her hand pleadingly on his arm. "Please do."
"Why shouldn't I? Oh, you mean what I used to say. A boy's fancy. It is a good thing you are able to be here."
"When will you have a home for me?"
"Can't say, I'm sure. It's slow work. However, I have news to tell. I am going to London."
"To leave Brighton?"
"Yes. It is Mr. Kelly's doing. He has a living there, and he is getting me into a first-rate house of business. No, not a stationer's. Tea-trade. Not a retail shop, but a wholesale house of business. If I do well, there's no reason why I shouldn't make my fortune some day. Everybody says I am capital in that line. I mean to stick to it, and lay by, and sooner or later I may become a partner. At least I hope so. I don't see why not. I'll be a successful man in time. Life would not be worth living without."
Lettice thought of the dying message of Cecilia. Had he no recollection of those burning words?
"Is it always the best thing for one to be successful?" she asked.
"Of course. What a question."
"I don't mean that one ought not to try to get on. But that alone doesn't seem worth living for."
"If it isn't, I don't know what is."
"What Sissie said—" very low.
"Oh, of course. I say, what sort of a person is Mrs. Bryant? Something of a termagant?"
"O no—I don't think—Oh, she is only a little quick-tempered. You must not mind if she does not seem particularly pleased to see you. Dr. Bryant will be delighted."
"Then you don't call him uncle?"
"Very often. Always when we are alone together, but Mrs. Bryant doesn't much like it."
"I say, Lettice," abruptly, "you have an allowance?"
"Twenty pounds a year."
"What do you do with it all?"
"I get my own clothes."
"Well, of course you have to look neat—but in this out-of-the-way place—why, anything would do to wear. You used to talk of laying by part."
"Yes, for you," gravely. "But it is harder than I thought. Mrs. Bryant likes me to get some things—a good many things—besides clothes. And I never tell my uncle."
"You ought. It is his money, and she has no right to put upon you. How much have you now?"
"My last quarter—five pounds. Are you wanting money for anything?"
"Well—I shouldn't mind! There's my journey here and back, and I have to get a lot of new things going to London. I don't mean to disturb a penny of what is laid by. I would rather go shabby. No end to that, if once one begins."
"I only wish I had more," sighed Lettice, trying not to look in the face what she really felt.
When they reached the cottage, Keith alone was downstairs, and he stared with round eyes at the newcomer. Lettice left them to make acquaintance, and ran upstairs for her purse. How to get on without her quarter's allowance, during the next three months, was a mystery, since Mrs. Bryant was in the habit of making frequent calls upon it; but she would not refuse Felix. She always had meant to send him the first sum she could spare. Only, that he could ask her for it, not even inquiring what her needs might be, was an unlooked-for blow. She dared not trust herself to think, and hastened back to put the little purse into his hands.
"It is all I have, Felix—just five pounds. I wish I had twenty pounds to give you!"
"Thanks," Felix said, not without a touch of shame; and Mrs. Bryant swept in, wearing a handsome morning-dress, and a by no means cordial face. Dr. Bryant followed; and Keith, now a fine boy of nine, pranced after, exclaiming, "That man says he's Lettice's brother."
"Anderson at last! I am glad to see you!" Dr. Bryant shook warmly the young man's hand, while Theodosia made no attempt to conceal her annoyance. The greeting she gave was of the coldest description.
For a while, no allusion was made to Lettice's birthday. But when breakfast was begun, Dr. Bryant said, "Hallo! I'm forgetting," apologised and vanished. He brought a small parcel, laid it before the girl, and wished her duly, "Many happy returns."
Theodosia's face darkened. He had not recollected her birthday, six weeks' earlier, till reminded. It darkened still more when Lettice, with sparkling eyes, uncovered a little old case, and found within a handsome bracelet of gold and emeralds.
"O uncle! You don't mean this for me."
"It belonged once to Cecilia's mother. I gave it to her, and when she died, her husband sent it back to me. A rather singular thing to do! If any one has a right to it now, you have."
"I never saw anything more beautiful. Felix, look! It is perfect."
"Worth—?" queried Felix, with an involuntary reference to £ s. d. after the habit of his mind.
"It is worth uncle's love and kindness," Lettice said softly, with an eloquent look.
"I wonder when you expect her to wear it!" Theodosia spoke sharply.
"Opportunities will offer," said the Doctor.
Theodosia curled her lip.
Felix had brought no present. Instead of baying a birthday-gift, he had begged one, and with all her willingness, Lettice was keenly alive to the distinction.
Yet on the whole the day passed happily. No persuasions could induce Felix to stay over the night, and indeed, say what the Doctor and Lettice might, Theodosia's manner was not encouraging: but he remained till a late hour in the afternoon. Lettice took him about the place, talked to him of her interests, listened to all he had to say, and did to some extent thaw the crust of self-absorption fast forming over his being. Only, would it remain thawed, away from the softening influence?
They saw little of Theodosia, until afternoon tea. She gave her husband a bad quarter of an hour, on the score of the bracelet, and he endured the same with man-like philosophy. What was the use of minding? He had done what he considered to be right, and Theodosia was unreasonably angry. Sooner or later she would come round; and meanwhile he had his study. To that haven, he retired; and into it, for an hour, he invited the brother and sister after lunch, making a pleasant impression on the young man, despite early prejudices.
"Really, he is not half bad," declared Felix, on emerging from the elderly man's "den."
"Maurice."
"Yes, my dear."
"I must have a cheque for eighteen pounds, if you please."
Dr. Bryant lifted his eyebrows.
"It's no use your looking like that. I told you yesterday."
"Fifteen, I think you said you might require."
"Well, I find it must be eighteen. My London dressmaker's bill has come to more than I expected."
"I hope the cows and swallows admire results," murmured the Doctor.
"I don't wish to be a scarecrow, if there is no one to see, in this horrible place." Theodosia was offended still about the bracelet, and when offended, she was always tart.
"Certainly not," assented Dr. Bryant. He opened his purse, took out a £20 Bank of England note, and placed it in her hand. "That will cover your necessities," he said.
"Thanks. I shall manage now."
The two extra pounds were perhaps meant as a peace-offering, and Theodosia was grateful for them; yet she could not recover her equilibrium. Each time that her thoughts recurred to the exquisite bracelet, "flung away on that stupid girl," as she phrased it, her anger flamed up afresh—partly against her husband, and much more against Lettice. Evidently Lettice had an increasing hold upon Dr. Bryant's affections, and who could say what this might lead to, in the matter of will-making?
Theodosia had given in to jealous and bitter moods, until they had complete mastery over her. Worse, she had given way to habits of not entire truth, not perfect straightforwardness, till there too her powers of resistance were weak. As she sat in the drawing room, discontentedly fingering the bank-note, and weighing her grievances, a sudden thought came, a suggestion of evil, sharp and clear as a flash of lightning—or rather a string of suggestions, in quick succession, flash after flash.
First, a distinct longing to do something to separate those two—her husband and Lettice. Then, a recollection of the words which she had overheard Lettice utter that morning, from outside the breakfast room, "It is all I have . . . just five pounds. I wish I had twenty pounds to give you!" Thirdly—the idea, was Felix in debt? And had he appealed to Lettice for help? Fourthly—suppose such a bank-note to be left carelessly in the way of Lettice, was it certain that the girl's principles could be strong enough to withstand sudden temptation? Might she not be led to possess herself of it, for the sake of Felix? She was very young, and perhaps she would not fully realise what the deed meant.
Theodosia recoiled from her own evil thoughts. To wish to lead that young creature into sin! It was too terrible. Deliberately to plan temptation, in the hope that it might prove irresistible! Theodosia shuddered at herself for the desire, yet she did not cast it away, and slay it. She let herself look at it steadily, and the sense of repulsion lessened. A thought of the bracelet came up anew. Then Theodosia grew harder, and when she viewed the suggestion once more, it seemed not quite so black, but only natural under the circumstances.
At the worst, she was merely proposing to use a slight test, the kind of test that comes to everybody sooner or later. She was not going to tempt or injure Lettice. If she chose to leave the bank-note lying outside her desk, instead of locking it up at once, whose business was that? All the world might see it there; Lettice and Felix included, of course. If it remained untouched, she would have proved the girl's inviolable honesty. So much the better for Lettice.
When the two came in, they found Theodosia in a mood to all appearance friendly. Lettice, being used to these sudden variations, thought little of the change. She knew how slight was the dependence to be placed on Theodosia's happiest frames.
They talked of where the brother and sister had been, discussing the neighbourhood. Theodosia presently called Lettice out of the room, on some slight pretext, leaving Felix alone, with the bank-note on her desk, half-covered by papers, yet distinctly visible. The figure, £20, might be seen from half across the room.
Then she brought Lettice back, begged her to wind a skein of silk, and led Felix into the conservatory, making talk about the plants for a good ten minutes. After which, at the sound of the incoming tea-tray, she sauntered to her desk, with carefully averted eyes, that she might not see if the note were or were not still there, and tossed all loose papers into her desk, turning the key upon them securely. It was a key which she always carried on her watch-chain.
Nor did she again shudder at herself for what she had done. As one grows used to the dim light of a darkened room, it seems to become a little less dark. Theodosia's eyesight was becoming accustomed to the blackness of that evil desire which had taken possession of her.
A VANISHED BANK-NOTE.
"WHERE can I have put it? Where is it gone?" exclaimed Theodosia, in an agitated voice.
She had grown pale, and her hands shook, as they turned over the contents of her desk. No one would have guessed her surprise to be simulated; and in truth the agitation was genuine enough, though not from the avowed cause.
"Where is what gone?" asked Dr. Bryant. He and Lettice had taken Felix to Bristol station in the pony-carriage; and dinner, deferred to a late hour on account of this expedition, was now over. Lettice sat near a lamp, reading: and Dr. Bryant, who had risen to leave the drawing room, was arrested by his wife's exclamation.
"My bank-note! It is not here." She did not look at him or Lettice, but seemed to search with eagerness, turning the papers rapidly over—too rapidly. The Doctor's keen eyes noted something odd in the manner of her seeking; not that he at the moment drew any conclusion therefrom.
"You don't keep bank-notes loose in your desk, surely?"
"I was in a hurry, and I threw all the papers in here together, just before tea."
"The note among them—loose!"
"They were all together, just before."
"I saw," remarked Lettice, always anxious to agree with Theodosia when possible. "It was before afternoon tea. I noticed that the note was for £20."
"You saw my wife put it away?"
"I didn't notice what went into the desk; but it was lying on the desk, I know, with a pile of letters, and Mrs. Bryant pushed them all in together, in a hurry."
"You will find nothing at that rate, Theodosia. Take each sheet separately, and lay it on one side."
Theodosia paid no heed. She went on "pitchforking" the mixed contents of her desk, and Dr. Bryant took the matter into his own hands. Lettice sat watching, with a look of interest, hardly amounting to concern. Theodosia stepped back, still with averted eyes, and evident agitation.
"I locked the desk so carefully. Nobody can have been to it since," she said after a while.
"No:" and the Doctor continued his systematic search.
"Not here," was at length his decision. "You must have put it elsewhere—unthinkingly. Are you sure it is not in your purse?"
She turned out her pocket mutely, and opened the purse.
"Stay—you had on another dress. What of that?"
"I looked there—I mean, I have only this purse—I had only that in the other pocket, and when I changed my dress, I moved it."
"You looked there!"
"I don't know what I'm saying. It has flustered me so." She sat down and put her hands over her face. "I don't know what to think."
Dr. Bryant was again conscious of something unsatisfactory about his wife's manner; something which to his consciousness had about it a ring of untruth. Yet he never could endure to suspect her without full proof; and he had no proof.
"The servants are above suspicion," he remarked.
"And they were not in the room at all—I mean between my seeing the bank-note, and locking the desk. I don't know whom I trust or don't trust; but they had no opportunity! Nobody was here alone—except—Lettice—" she paused, not adding "and Felix."
The insinuation, pointed by her stress upon the word "they," might have glanced unfelt from the shield of Lettice's unconscious innocence, but for Dr. Bryant's indignant—"Theodosia!" It opened the girl's eyes. She dropped her book, and sat up, not frightened or angry, but amazed. That any one should suppose such a thing possible, seemed beyond credulity. Lettice could have laughed aloud.
"Pray be careful what you say," requested the Doctor sternly.
"I'm not accusing anybody—why should I? But you can't deny that things look odd. I know the bank-note was there, and Lettice was left in the room alone—for some minutes alone—and nobody has seen the note since. And I heard her say this very morning, that she wanted twenty pounds. You know you did, Lettice!"
"I said I wished I had twenty pounds," Lettice answered in a dreamy tone.
Silence fell upon them.
"Of course anybody can think what anybody likes," Theodosia observed at length, breaking into an uneasy laugh. "The thing may have spirited itself away. Or the cat may have got it. Or it may be in my desk all the time. Only I don't see how it can be—and the cat hasn't been here, all day—and if I were Lettice, I shouldn't like the look of things."
Silence again. Dr. Bryant had taken up a paper-knife, and was carefully examining its edge. Lettice sat like one dazed. She said not a word in self-defence. Another dread, a terrible fear had fallen upon her. Felix had been alone in the room, as well as she; only for a brief space, yet, alas, long enough. She had not after that observed the bank-note, so as to know if it still lay there. Could it be that Felix had possessed himself of the twenty pounds, under a sudden temptation? Was such a thing possible? Lettice did not know. He had wanted ready money? So much she did know; and he had accepted her little all, without hesitation or compunction. He might have gone further still.
Dr. Bryant stood in pained silence, waiting for her denial of Theodosia's implied accusation. He could not understand the long silence. All he wished for, was a denial from Lettice: for he trusted her word perfectly, and his wife's word he could not perfectly trust. Had Lettice met him with her clear gaze, and said firmly—"I did not do it!" Then he would have had no more doubts. He would have believed her implicitly, in the face of any odds.
But, to his bewilderment, she made no protest.
She only sat motionless, with a changed face, growing whiter and whiter, till it was the hue of wax. While apparently listening, she heard in reality not a word that was said, beyond the one utterance which recalled to her mind the fact of Felix having been left in the room alone. Had Theodosia forgotten? If so, Lettice would not remind her. She would bear anything, rather than cast upon Felix doubt which might be undeserved. Even if it were otherwise, even if the doubt were deserved, she would shelter him at all hazards, for Cecilia's sake. So much was clear.
Silence still. The Doctor made no answer, and Theodosia stopped speaking. Lettice wondered vaguely what was to happen next. She forgot that she had made no attempt to clear herself: indeed, at this moment, she hardly so much as realised that she was under suspicion. The dread for Felix—not a mere fear of suspicion falling upon him, but an overpowering terror of what he might actually have done, crushed lesser uneasiness out of existence. She sat and thought of that, in growing anguish, her hands unconsciously strained together, pulling one against the other. That Felix, her only brother, should take money not his own! But could he, would he, have done such a thing? Might it not be that she was cruelly suspecting him of an impossibility? Lettice was unable to decide. She only knew that the bare idea was overwhelming. A vision arose of Felix standing at Theodosia's desk, handling the bank-note, thrusting it shamefacedly into his pocket; and the vision turned her sick.
"Theodosia cannot find the note, Lettice." Dr. Bryant spoke with restrained quietness, and not in his usual voice. He came near, and gazed at the girl's ashen face, striving to read what was there. Lettice actually cowered beneath his gaze; shrinking, not for herself, but for the possible shame of her brother.
"You heard what my wife said just now?"
"Yes," as he paused.
"And you have nothing to say? Nothing to deny, or explain?"
To deny or explain—for Felix? That was what she understood. She had forgotten herself, in thought for her brother.
"Nothing?" he repeated, in grieved accents.
"You see!" from Theodosia.
"Hush! Lettice, my child," and he spoke pleadingly, "you will not leave me to believe this. It is too dreadful. The thing cannot be. Stand up, and look at me, and say I am mistaken."
Why should the thing not be? What did he know of Felix, to make any such confident assertion? What did any of them know? If she could have been sure, she of all people living would have been sure! But what security had she! Lettice neither rose or lifted her eyes.
"It cannot be true!" Yet there was now in his voice a tone as of one yielding to conviction against his will, and Theodosia, was quick to note the change. "If you had wanted money, for yourself or Felix, surely you would have asked me. That you should be a thief! You! It is impossible."
His meaning dawned upon her slowly. She to take the note! A sense of positive absurdity in the notion almost made her laugh; and then, sharp as lightning, came the thought, "If I deny it, they will suspect Felix!" She had all but exclaimed, "I! No!" and this recollection sealed her lips.
"Child, stand up, and look me in the face. Do you hear?"
She obeyed the stern order, though not easily, for her limbs shook. It was the first time that he had ever spoken sternly to Lettice; and the pain of having him so speak, of letting him think such a thing of her, turned her sick again, while the room seemed full of mist; but her clear eyes looked out from the wax-white face straight up into Dr. Bryant's, none the less straight because of intervening mist, and whatever the Doctor saw there he did not read guilt. The question following was not what she expected.
"Are you faint?"
"I don't know. Only—just—"
"Just a little. You had better go to bed at once. It is getting late. I will look into this to-morrow morning."
Lettice made no protest. The one thing she desired was to be alone, to have time for consideration. Dr. Bryant, always gentle to any one in suffering, gave her a helping hand to the door. Then, finding that she could walk sufficiently well, he left her to go upstairs alone, returned to his wife, and said: "This must go no farther, if you please."
"She will not confess it, of course."
Theodosia had by this time hardened herself thoroughly.
"I cannot believe yet that she has done such a thing. I will not, without fuller evidence. It is too outrageous. There is some mystery in the affair that we have not fathomed. Lettice looks wretched, but, to my mind, she does not look guilty."
"I'm afraid nobody else would agree with you."
Dr. Bryant flung himself into an easy-chair, and gazed moodily on the ground.
"Lettice! I would as soon have suspected myself. I have always found that girl the soul of honour."
"People are mistaken in one another sometimes."
"They are," assented the Doctor, with a bitterness born of experience.
"She might do for her brother's sake what she would not do for her own. Evidently he is in difficulties."
"Why? What makes you suppose so?"
Theodosia repeated more fully what she had overheard; in fact, as is often the case, her repetition was more full than the original. "Only five pounds for you, Felix; it is all I have. I would do anything if only I could make it £20."
"Strange that she should have named that sum. A mere coincidence."
"A coincidence that she happened on the same day to have a chance of securing the £20."
"I do not believe— Why should she not have asked me to help her brother."
"It would be very cool if she did, I think. There is no real tie: and these Andersons have no claim upon you."
"These Andersons!" The Doctor could have laughed, if he had been less unhappy. He loved Lettice as his own child.
"Are you absolutely sure that nobody except Lettice was in the room for a moment alone?"
Theodosia wished now that she had not left Felix alone there. She did not desire to divert suspicion from Lettice to Felix, though she had had that possibility in reserve. Moreover, she had managed thus far to avoid the more direct form of falsehood, though each step had been an acted lie; and there was a momentary hesitation before she answered in the negative.
Dr. Bryant noted the hesitation. "No one?" he asked sharply.
"Lettice would not have been, but that I took her brother into the conservatory for a few minutes." To herself, Theodosia added, "If it is found out, I can say that I forgot." Like all who leave the firm path of truth, she was getting deeper and deeper into the quicksands of falsehood.
"You are sure! No one?"
"It is the strangest thing!" and Dr. Bryant sighed heavily. "I would have trusted her with any amount of uncounted gold . . . I do not, in fact, believe it yet."
"She doesn't seem able to do much in the way of clearing herself."
"That is the perplexity. If she denied it, I should not feel a moment's doubt."
"I should!" murmured Theodosia, loud enough to be heard.
The separation between Lettice and her husband, for which she had craved, seemed now to lie within a measurable distance. Yet Theodosia could not feel happy. A dark shadow hung over her, the fruit of her own ill-doing. Conscience worked uneasily, and the dread of detection was a haunting companion.
Lettice's non-denial of the deed puzzled Theodosia, even more than it puzzled her husband, because she knew, as he did not, that it could not be due to guilt. Not until late that night did a clue to the mystery occur to her mind, in the shape of a suggestion. Did Lettice fear to direct suspicion towards Felix by diverting it from herself?
"If that is it, I am safe," thought Theodosia. "Lettice will never let out that he was left alone in the room."
Was she not rather in deadly peril?
Lettice was down early next morning, somewhat unexpectedly, since the Doctor had sent word that she might stay in bed to breakfast. The advice was not followed. She looked unusually pale, and her eyes were heavy with sleeplessness: but Dr. Bryant was strongly impressed at first sight with the peaceful calm of those brown eyes. It seemed to him that she must have come straight from Communion with the unseen world, with the Divine Lord, to Whom she was used to refer all her difficulties. Dr. Bryant, albeit a man of few words on religious subjects, knew what such communion meant . . . That the face of a thief! Impossible. For ten minutes he had not a shadow of doubt as to her innocence.
"Why did you not stay upstairs?" he asked.
"I didn't think I need."
"Well, you must eat a good breakfast."
This was by no means what Theodosia had looked for: and she tossed her head.
"Mamsie says Lettice is a wicked girl. Is she?" asked Keith, glancing from one to another. "Mamsie says she has taken a lot of money that belongs to somebody else." The spoilt home-boy was childish for his years, in voice and mode of expression. Theodosia did her best to keep him a permanent baby.
"Theodosia!" The Doctor spoke sternly.
"Keith gives his own version of affairs," she answered carelessly. "Children are always outspoken."
"You had no business to say a word to him about the matter. I told you that it was to go no further."
Theodosia tossed her head again, with no sign of regret or submission.
"Did Lettice do it?" asked the boy.
"It is no concern of yours. Hold your tongue, and attend to your own concerns," commanded Dr. Bryant. Then, as he noticed the whitening circle round Lettice's lips, he added gently, "Go into the drawing room, Lettice. I will take a cup of tea to you there."
"Is that the way you mean to bring her to confession?" asked Theodosia.
"I do not know. Another cup of tea, if you please."
"She has not taken half that—and your egg will get cold."
"Let it." The Doctor himself emptied Lettice's cup, held it out to be refilled, and took a slice of dry toast. "Mind!" he said to his wife as he went. "If you do not silence that boy's chatter, I will take means to do so."
Then, making his way to the drawing room, he placed the cup and toast on a small table beside Lettice, saying simply—"This first."
"I don't think I can eat," she whispered.
"You must."
She obeyed silently, at whatever cost: and he took the empty cup away. On his return, he stood watching the girl's downcast face, unobserved, for two or three minutes. Had she forgotten his presence? It might seem so, from her start when he spoke.
"Tell me now, child. I cannot go on in uncertainty. I promise to accept your word without hesitation. Did you—or did you not—touch the bank-note?"
Lettice was seated in a drooping attitude on the sofa, leaning forward, as if lost in thought. At this question, she lifted her face straightway, aglow with the eager desire to speak, the certainty that he would believe her.
Once more her lips parted with the outbursting, "No, no! Oh, no!" And again the checking thought of Felix came. If she were cleared, would not suspicion fall upon him? Would not Sissie have desired her at every hazard to shelter Felix?
"Not one word!"
She pressed her lips to his hand, but did not speak, and Dr. Bryant drew the hand away.
"Am I to count you guilty—you, my little Lettice!" The Doctor could hardly speak. "Child, this is too terrible."
"If only you would not ask—" she faltered.
"Not ask! Rubbish!" The Doctor was growing angry. "I must ask. What on earth do you mean? Things look dark, and I offer to trust you absolutely, if you simply say 'No.' If you do not, what can I think, but that you did take the money?"
Lettice patiently dropped her head again. "For Felix's sake! For Sissie's sake!" she kept saying. And she forgot what was due to this kind uncle to whom she owed so much.
"Did you take it, Lettice?" The Doctor spoke severely now, and his brows were drawn together.
The girl's chest heaved.
"Then—I have no choice. I must look upon the child I love, as a miserable thief."
"O no," shrieked Lettice, resolution failing as he turned away.
"You deny it!"
She wrung her hands over her face, in the struggle not to answer. Dr. Bryant walked up and down the room twice with heavy steps.
"No choice seems left to me," he said at length, pausing by her. "Listen! Since you cannot deny the theft, nothing remains but free confession. Tell me how you came to do it—and what you have done with the money. If you are sorry, say so. I may at least forgive. The relations between us cannot be what they have been, if you are capable of such a deed—still, I can believe that there has been some peculiar temptation. Only you must tell me all."
The Doctor was surprised afresh. As he spoke, Lettice threw up her head, and the honest eyes, dimmed with tears, looked full into his with a glance of indignant reproach.
"But I—" she exclaimed.
And though she stopped, the Doctor knew as distinctly as if she had finished, that she had all but said—"I did not do it."
"Go on."
A negative movement of the head answered him.
"There is some mystery here. All I can understand of it is—that you wish me to count you guilty—"
She moved her lips, as if in protest.
"And that you—are not guilty."
Another swift glance, this time of gratitude. It was swiftly checked.
"I cannot fathom your motives," Dr. Bryant went on, with judicially-assumed sternness: "nor can I suppose them to be right. But I confess, without stronger evidence, I am unable to believe this thing of you."
"Evidence enough for any reasonable person, I should think," said Theodosia, in his rear. "If you want more proof, why not search her boxes!"
"Nonsense! As if that would settle anything! No! I do not see my way to any further step at this moment. Sooner or later something will turn up to throw light on the subject . . . Remember, Lettice, though I do not actually believe you guilty, I am very much displeased. More, I am disappointed in you. There is a want of straightforwardness in your conduct, which I could not have expected. You are not treating me as I have a right to be treated. If a mystery exists, I ought to be told what it is: and if you did not take the bank-note, as I believe you did not—you ought to avow your innocence. Until you can resolve to show me your old frankness, I cannot feel my old confidence in you."
She said "No" in a low voice, her lips quivering.
"To-day I will not press you further. You are not quite fit for it, physically. But, understand—while this mystery lasts, things cannot be between us as they have been."
Dr. Bryant passed out of the room with a heavy and grieved step, Theodosia following.
Lettice sat alone, wondering wearily whether the shadow would ever be lifted. She could see no way out of the trouble. Wondering, too, in what manner Dr. Bryant meant to make a change. She had always been used to go to his study at half-past ten, to see if he wanted any little thing done—a letter copied: a bookshelf or a cabinet arranged. Such small services had been the delight of her heart. But would he expect her this day? Might she venture to go as usual? She tried to weigh the question, to consider what ought to be done: and found it difficult to come to any conclusion. Just before the half-hour, after long hesitation, she rose mechanically, unable to resist; and then she saw Dr. Bryant pass the window, equipped for a walk. It was an hour when ordinarily he never went out . . . Lettice understood, and she burst into a flood of tears.