"But it's nothing. I'm only tired. People must be tired. If only I needn't keep away from her."
"Lettice, do you never pray?"
The question came unexpectedly, and struck home. She had been asked almost the same before—"Do you often pray?" But Prue asked, "Do you never pray?"
"I don't know," she said faintly, with a dim sense that the short form which she sometimes, not always, repeated at night, was scarcely what Prue meant.
"I think you ought to begin now. Sissie needs your prayers. If you were with her, you could do little—nothing more, perhaps, than Bertha and I can do. But God can do everything. He has all power in heaven and earth. Why do you not ask Him to take care of her for you, and to make her well again, if it is His will to do so?"
Lettice kept these words in mind. "She is in good hands," Mr. Kelly had said: and now Prue added, "God can do everything." Then the two questions came up, side by side: "Do you often pray?" "Do you never pray?" The two voices chiming in together, with another addition from Prue: "Why do you not ask Him to take care of her for you?" The rest of the sentence floated away unheeded: for what was the use if Cecilia could not get well?
Clasping her hands, she tried to carry out Prue's advice. "Please take care of Sissie; take care of Sissie; O please take care of her!" were the only words which would occur, but Lettice repeated them again and again, and a soft sense crept over her, that the petitions were surely heard. It was Lettice's first lesson in real prayer.
"I've been—trying—" she whispered that night, when Prue bent over her.
"Trying?"
"Trying to do—what you said . . . Don't you know? . . . You asked if I ever—ever—"
"Ever prayed?"
"Yes. And—I have been trying—really! . . . Mr. Kelly asked me once—if I didn't often do it. I don't often—but—"
"But you will begin now. You will do it often from to-day. Mr. Kelly was right," murmured Prue. "He—was he a kind friend to you, Lettice?"
"He got the work for Felix, and he used to come and see Sissie. I don't think Sissie liked him much."
"And you—did you like him?"
Prue blamed herself for letting the conversation drift in this direction; yet perhaps enough had been said in the other direction. "O yes—I liked sometimes," Lettice answered. "He told me to write and tell him how Sissie was. And he said if we were in trouble, I must let him know."
Lettice shut her eyes, and Prue asked no more. Why, indeed, should she?
SUMMONED.
THE "two or three days" of Lettice's enforced absence from Cecilia's room grew into a fortnight. She was allowed to dress, and even to creep into an adjoining room; but this was the utmost that she could be counted fit for. Prue sometimes wondered whether the strain of being with Cecilia could prove more harmful than the strain of not being with her; but the doctor was firm, and Bertha took his view of the matter.
Then upon Cecilia's slight improvement followed a severe relapse; and Lettice's presence was not to be thought of. Lettice submitted; resisting less than earlier. Perhaps the present prohibition seemed natural, since she had been kept away by Mrs. Crofton in the worst phases of Cecilia's first attack; but she grieved over having been forbidden the room when Cecilia was better.
Nan would sit staring at her, with light reddened eyes of girlish sympathy; and Prue would say: "No one could know that this was coming on, Lettice, dear." Sometimes Lettice turned from both of them, in her distress, refusing comfort; but later the whispered apology was sure to come: "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to be vexed. You are all so kind."
During the early part of this fresh relapse, Cecilia was much disposed to wander. She ceased to ask after Lettice, evidently counting her out of reach. Generally she knew who came and went; but it was plain that she kept no count of time. Days might be weeks to her; weeks might be months. There was not a little rambling talk of the past, and her nurses learnt a good deal more of her history than she would willingly have divulged. It was a brokenly-told story, minus many links, containing much of sorrow and disappointment, with hard struggling to keep afloat, but lightened by a spirit of courage, endurance, and proud resolution, also of strong affection.
Sometimes she believed herself to be at Dr. Bryant's, and she would then speak distressfully of her obligations to the Valentines, by which she was tried precisely as Felix was tried. Sometimes she knew herself to be still at the Farm, and then she would complain of being hindered from going on to Bristol.
These were flitting surface fancies. Below the surface she seemed to live another life, bordering on that unseen world which at all times closely surrounds us. We know practically little of the experiences of sufferers, when they are too far removed by dire sickness to give expression to their thoughts. If they rally to health, they are apt to forget much that they have gone through, albeit they often come out from such an experience different from their former selves, transformed or to some extent remade. This comes about, not alone through bodily suffering, but, in some cases at least, doubtless through the silent touch of unseen influences, acting through the mind, and especially through awakened memories. It may be that "often" is too strong a word. The process is occasional rather than common; and perhaps it seldom if ever takes place, unless there has been an earnest desire to do rightly, and a sincere though blind feeling after Him Who is never far from any one of us.
From the first, Cecilia had turned from Bertha and had clung to Prue. No one could say why, except that she was possessed by the idea that Bertha alone was responsible for Lettice's long absence. She never blamed Prue. If Bertha spoke tenderly, Cecilia would show cold indifference; if Prue did the same, she would smile a response. It spoke well for Bertha that no tinge of jealousy troubled her. Prue could help where she could not; and Bertha was content.
So matters lasted, until another rally came. There were long hours of continuous sleep; and from this phase she emerged, altered. Not in face alone, but in herself. She had ceased to show dislike to Bertha, and her mind seemed far-away; while in manner she had become gentle and grateful. The old habit of reserve enveloped her still, but not to the same extent; and when alone with Prue it gave way.
For nearly two days it seemed to Prue, and perhaps also to Bertha, that recovery from this particular attack had fairly set in. The doctor spoke no word of hope, and his silence was afterwards remembered, though at the time not so much marked.
Prue was blaming herself much for an indiscretion. During Cecilia's long sleep, she had yielded to the younger sister's pleadings, and had on her own responsibility taken Lettice into the room for "one look." She had not realised what that brief glimpse would mean; because she did not realise how great an alteration had been wrought by this last relapse. It was not till she had to half carry Lettice away, shivering with the shock, that she knew how unwise she had been.
Prue confessed the deed frankly; and neither the doctor nor Bertha uttered reproaches. No need that they should. Now that for two days the sisters might have been together, Lettice was prostrated, a prisoner once more in her room. Strange to say, the unreasoning instinct of the child proved truer than the observation of Prue. From the moment of that one glimpse, Lettice never doubted that Cecilia was dying; though even Bertha had hopes of a respite; and Prue could honestly endeavour to cheer her up.
"Have I been here many weeks?" Cecilia asked, on the evening of the second day. "Or—is it months? I am so confused. I cannot remember." Then, as Prue made answer evasively, "Tell me, please. I should like to know. I came—when was it? Why did I not go on to Bristol?"
"You were too ill."
"I remember—yes. Somebody brought me. Nurse Valentine, she called herself. I cannot recall more. Only she went on with Lettice to Bristol; and you came in her place . . . That seemed so strange, when I was ill. Felix would not have left me."
"I think you a little misunderstand." Prim feared to excite her, by explaining that Lettice had been unwell; this fact having been hidden. "You shall see Lettice soon, and she will explain everything."
Cecilia moved her head slowly. "I shall never get to Bristol—now—" she said. "I should have imagined—that Lettice—But one never can know beforehand. It is all disappointment—in every one."
"Except in ONE!—Who never changes. Cannot you trust Him?"
"You mean—Christ?" after a pause. "Yes; He has been more real to me lately. I do not know how. But it is as if—"
"As if He had been showing Himself to you?"
"It may be that . . . Would He? . . . When I have lived so little for Him! . . . And yet—lately—I have felt the need. Not that I have not always tried to do my duty . . . But still—"
"Our duty is to love Him, first and best of all."
"I have not loved Him."
"But He has loved you; with love so great that He died for your sake."
"Somebody said so. Who was it? They told me that He would 'abundantly pardon.' Yes, that was it. If I would leave all evil thoughts. 'Abundantly!'"
"He will, indeed."
"I have tried so hard to do my duty. But now—it seems all failure."
"Must it not be so? Our best doings are worth nothing, when we step into the light that streams from Him . . . You know how the spots on a white dress show in sunlight, yet you may hardly have noticed them in a dark room. And He is willing to take all those spots away, 'abundantly!'"
"I have had so little leisure to think about Him."
"Perhaps now He has laid you aside, mercifully, that you might have leisure."
"Perhaps—yes. All these months of pain!" Poor thing! The two or three weeks might well look like months to her consciousness. Much experience may be compressed into a short space of time. "All these months, and I have been so alone . . . It may have been the teaching I needed . . . If Mr. Kelly were here now, I would listen; I would indeed. Tell him so, some day . . . I have thought of his words; the comfort that might be mine; and I think they helped me to ask . . . If it is not presumption, I do believe I have been heard—have been forgiven . . . Only If I could see Lettice again before I die! My heart is breaking for the child. If God would grant me this! And then I should be willing to go."
She closed her eyes, and one or two heavy tears forced their way through. It was the first time for years that she had let herself weep. "Such pain to be forsaken!" she whispered.
Prue could not bear this, and an explanation was on her lips, when Bertha stood by her side.
"I heard. Mr. Jasper is here. I will ask him, and it must be risked," Bertha said softly, and vanished.
Prue bent to kiss Cecilia.
"Yes, you are kind, very kind—you and Bertha too. But no one can take the place of Lettice; my child from her babyhood. If only once I might see her again!"
Prue was silent, not daring to promise, till a stir was heard outside, and Bertha came in leading a pale girl.
"Look!" Prue said.
And Cecilia gazed hungrily. "Lettice here! Not gone to Bristol! And I thought—"
"Now be quiet and good, both of you. No fuss or agitation," commanded the doctor.
He placed Lettice on the bed, close beside Cecilia, and the two were locked in a fast embrace, each struggling not to give way.
"And you have been ill too! Was that it? My poor little Lettice. And they never told me."
"Not ill, only out of sorts," interposed Bertha cheerfully; but Cecilia went on, unheeding—
"I thought you had gone quite away, not caring for the old sister any longer."
"O Sissie! How could you?"
"Never mind, it is all right now. If Felix too—but that cannot be. Come closer. I have something to say."
Mr. Jasper drew a pace off. "Five minutes only," he said to Bertha. "Bad for them both; but the other was getting to be worse."
"I don't like her look this evening," murmured Bertha.
"I did not this morning." The doctor then spoke in his ordinary voice. "Now, no crying, please. Don't let me have to regret the indulgence."
"So good of him, isn't it, Lettice?"
"But I may come again," Lettice tried to say.
"Dear little Lettice! Poor little Lettice!" Cecilia spoke in hasty uncertain accents. "When you see uncle Bryant—tell him—"
"Yes—"
"I forget! No, it's not that. I wanted to say—mind you go to him. Don't put off. That is your home. And you must be good to Felix—love him—do what he wants."
"I will, always."
Cecilia was breathing with difficulty: and Mr. Jasper would have removed Lettice, but there was resistance. Cecilia put him off with both hands, and clasped Lettice in a wild embrace.
"One word! Only one word. Dear one, tell Felix from me—there is nothing—nothing—nothing worth living for, but to serve God! Tell him so! I would give anything—anything—to have lived a different life . . . Too late now . . . Too late for that . . . There is forgiveness . . . abundant pardon . . . and He will not cast away! . . . But oh, to have lived for Him! To have served Him! . . . The pitifulness of living to oneself, and coming to Him only at last! . . . O the difference now, if I had only lived for Him! . . . Lettice, don't forget—don't put off! Pray to be shown! I shall look for you there! And tell Felix—tell Felix—"
Cecilia broke off: and those around her knew from her face that she could bear no more.
"O Sissie, one moment—"
"No, no. Good-bye, my dear. Tell Felix—he must come—"
Cecilia controlled herself to say so much. Then to the doctor: "Yes—take her, please."
Lettice was hurried away. The haste seemed to her cruel; and she could not see the mercifulness which would hide from her the sight of her sister's suffering. The whole interview with its abrupt termination half crushed her, and she lay for hours after, her face hidden, unable to look up or to bear being spoken to. But Cecilia Anderson was nearly at the end of her voyage. One more sharp tempest, and then her little vessel reached the harbour. Before midnight she had passed away.
The telegram announcing what had happened came heavily upon Felix. He had not allowed himself to think of danger, had not pictured to himself the possibility of any such ending. A letter written on the evening of Thursday, to tell of the fresh attack, did not arrive until after the brief message which said that all was over.
Felix had never known sorrow since his father's death, and then he had been a mere child. The cold touch of bereavement bewildered him. To hear of other people losing their friends was a matter of course, easily dismissed with a pitying word or two; but that he should lose Cecilia—Cecilia, with whom every inch of his life was associated, who had been parent, sister, protector, everything to him—that his Cecilia should have passed away beyond reach, into the world of the unseen, seemed incredible, even horrible. He felt a kind of indignant wrath that death should meddle with him and his, doing away with the pleasant future which he had pictured. Why should he suffer thus, when other people had their sisters spared to them?
Felix did not this time rush off to Mr. Kelly. He went to his work as usual, scarcely half-an-hour late, for the telegram had arrived early: and except that he looked pale and stern, no one would have supposed anything unusual to have occurred. It never so much as came into his mind to ask to remain away from work. Nothing could have been more distasteful than to sit still and think.
The shock did not affect his health; it only caused a species of mental dizziness. Life seemed to wear vague aspect, with all its ordinary curves altered, like the changed slant of a landscape, looked upon from the position of one lying prone on a hill-side. Such disorganised glimpses came to him from time to time, through unbending attention to work; and waves of angry sorrow rose, when by sheer force of habit his mind reverted to its accustomed aim—that little future home, which Cecilia now would never need. Yet none of his accounts were wrong.
A letter came from Prue next morning, containing many details. She spoke of the last meeting between the sisters, and she mentioned slightly Cecilia's agitation: but the direct message to Felix himself was through Lettice, and with that Prue would not meddle. The funeral was to be on Monday afternoon: and Dr. Bryant had telegraphed that he would be present.
"Mr. Anderson of course would go also. Could he not stay at the Farm from Saturday till Tuesday or Wednesday?"
"No: certainly not!" Felix decided this at once, with his unnecessary vehemence, crushing the sheet in his hand. Even for Lettice's sake, he would not be indebted to the Valentines further than was unavoidable. Things were bad enough already. If he had not feared to show disrespect to Cecilia's memory, he would have stayed away altogether. The thought of seeing Dr. Bryant would alone have been almost enough to deter him. But he knew what would be said: and a weak little pencil scrawl from Lettice implored him to go.
Felix was pre-disposed to dislike the Valentines. He objected much to certain things in this letter of Prue's. What business had she to speak of Cecilia's "hope" and "trust," in terms which distinctly implied that they were new, the outcome of a recent experience? If Cecilia had not before been so ready for the great change impending, this would at once leave him where she had stood, would place him apart from her in a kind of outside category, as requiring still what Sissie had somehow found. Felix would accept no such view of the question. He "pished" over it indignantly.
"A set of fanatics!" he declared, with the glib contempt of ignorance: and he flung the letter on the fire, careless that it contained a message to Mr. Kelly. He would not go in Mr. Kelly's way. Miss Valentine might write to Mr. Kelly herself, if she chose. Nor would he spend a long Sunday at the Farm, to be talked at and preached to. So he telegraphed that he would go on Monday; and he wrote a line to Lettice, making the excuse that he must wait for his mourning.
Then he went through a brief interview with Mr. Thompson, asking for Monday's absence, and uncomfortably begging an advance of salary to pay for the journey. Had it not been for the message to Mr. Kelly, which Felix would not give, he would have preferred to ask a loan in that direction.
"Why did you not tell me yesterday?" Mr. Thompson asked kindly. He offered another day or two beyond the Tuesday, which Felix declined, and he advanced the needful amount without hesitation.
Nan was the first to descry Felix's approach, before early dinner. She rushed out to meet him, blushing all over her plain face.
"Oh, we were so sorry you couldn't get here sooner," she cried. "It is such a dreadful disappointment to Lettice. And we are depending on you to put things right. Dr. Bryant can't come, after all—he has a cold or something—and Lettice is bent on going off to him this week: and we want to keep her here another month. Do, do please persuade her to stay."
"Nan!" a reproving voice said behind. And gentle Mrs. Valentine came forward; whereupon Nan subsided and vanished.
Felix had listened with an air of rigid reserve to Nan's outburst, attempting no response, and he met Mrs. Valentine's kind greeting in the same manner. Dinner would be ready in a few minutes, she said: and after that—But would Mr. Anderson like to see Lettice at once? Up in her room. She had not come down yet.
"I would rather wait," Felix answered.
And strange though the delay might seem to Mrs. Valentine, she had learnt the rare art of letting people be unhappy in their own way. She could believe that he dreaded anything which might cause him to lose his self-control before the sad ceremony near at hand: though she had never seen any one less likely in appearance to break-down, than this good-looking young fellow, with his confident and reserved air.
Dinner was a constrained meal, well over in everybody's opinion. A note from Dr. Bryant was given to Felix, which he read and pocketed without remark. Then followed the last sad office for "Sissie," and Felix comported himself as chief mourner, with a composure which might easily have been mistaken for lack of feeling.
When they returned to the house, Prue asked, "Will you not see Lettice now?" and Felix acquiesced. He followed Prue upstairs, and found himself alone with a quiet pallid girl in deep mourning, who met and kissed him, then sat down, visibly trembling.
"So you haven't been well either, Lettice?"
"No—" she said faintly.
"Nothing much wrong?"
"I don't know. I thought you would come—before—"
"Before lunch. I couldn't. There were all those people to see. And I—well, I felt I'd better not."
There was a sound of something like heartlessness in the tone: but Lettice would not hear it, would not believe it. She knew the reality of his affection, and the assumed manner did not take her in. Indeed her mind was so full of other thoughts, and so bent upon the present fight for self-command, that she noticed it less than might have been expected. Only, the absence of expressed sympathy brought a chill.
"You see, Lettice, it's no good to talk," he said. "Nothing can change—that! We have to keep up and go on. Things are as they are, and nobody can make them different. And you've got to be brave."
Her lips quivered. "Yes, I will," she said. "I do mean to be good, indeed, and not to give trouble. And I'll do—anything you tell me."
"Of course you will. Get well and strong, the first thing."
"I'll—try."
"I've got a note from Dr. Bryant. He couldn't come, and so much the better, perhaps. But he offers you a home still. And you must go the first possible day."
"Yes. She told me—"
"Of course," as voice failed. "That's the right thing. The Valentines are strangers, and we are too much indebted to them already. You can get off in a day or two?"
"If Mr. Jasper will let me. I am so tired now, with everything."
"Change will do you good. I can't have you put off. Only mind—you belong to me, not to the Bryants."
"Must I love nobody there?"
"You'll like them well enough. Quite as much as signifies. It's only for a time. Be sure you write to me once a week, and tell me everything. I mean to get on, and to have a home for you by-and-by."
Lettice was nerving herself to deliver the dying message of Cecilia, which she knew Felix had not yet heard. Twice she began to speak of it, and Felix led away to other subjects. The third time she held to her point, refused to be diverted from it, and with resolute tearlessness repeated the impassioned words which had made a vivid impression on her own mind. Felix heard in silence.
"Of course it has all been very trying for you," he said at length, finding some remark expected.
"Felix, what did she mean? I have not liked to ask anybody, but I don't understand. I want to do what she said, and I don't know how. What did she mean?"
"I wish she had never come to this house," was Felix's answer.
"O no—if we hadn't—and it made her so much happier—not afraid! I should be afraid." One sob, long pent-up, had at length its way, and Lettice pressed her forehead against his shoulder. "O Sissie! O Felix, I don't know how to bear it!"
"You've got to be brave," said Felix, by way of impotent comfort.
"I do try. I do try. But I shall be so lonely," sobbed the girl, and Felix had no help to offer.
FROM READING TO BRISTOL.
SAY what Felix might, he could not send Lettice off that day, before his own departure by the night-train; and he could gain no promise from the Valentines, further than that Lettice should travel westwards "so soon as Mr. Jasper allowed it." Lettice was powerless against that fiat; and Felix knew it. Inwardly, he fumed; outwardly, he urged the advantages of change. Lettice was growing morbid, he declared.
"She has gone through enough to make her morbid," said Prue. Then, without warning, came the question: "Did you give my message to Mr. Kelly?"
"I have not seen him yet."
"If you would rather that one of us should write—"
"As you like," Felix replied coldly. To himself, he declared, "I shall not say anything!"
And Prue read this in the hardening lines of his mouth.
"Then I will write," she said under impulse. "The Rev. Robert Kelly—is it not?" And with the sound of the name, a swift warm flush leapt to her face.
"Yes."
Prue stood with downcast eyes, thinking—not of Felix.
"It is best not to trouble you. And the message was entrusted to me by—her. I must see that it reaches him."
"As you like," repeated Felix, in frigid accents.
Prue put the question aside until bedtime, till she sat in her room, by candle light, after the departure of Felix, practically alone, since Lettice was asleep. Then she weighed the question again.
Should she write or should she not? Should she ask Bertha to do it? Yet—why not herself? There had been a time, many years sooner, when during six happy weeks, Prue had seen much of Robert Kelly. She had liked him, and he had liked her—so much that some had counted it to be far more than mere liking. But nothing had come of it all. A cloud had crept between somehow, and Mr. Kelly had drawn back—gently, so as not to give needless offence, but unmistakably.
Prue suspected a misunderstanding, but she could do nothing. He might have taken steps to clear the mystery, if mystery existed. She could not stir. Then he went away, saying good-bye kindly and calmly, only looking rather pale: and Prue suffered in secret, but made no sign. Her life had been shadowed by the long pain of that girlish disappointment; yet she never spoke of it—even to her mother. Nor did she blame Robert Kelly. He might have been deceived about her: or she might have misread him. She was only sure of one thing, that he had not deliberately sought her, with any intent to deceive. She could far more easily believe, in the teeth of her own memory, that he had not sought her at all.
This was seven years ago, when Prue had been a girl of twenty-one: and still at twenty-eight, something of the shadow rested on her. For three or four years she had heard of Robert Kelly fitfully, casually; and since then she had lost sight of his whereabouts, but never of his vision in her mind. When Cecilia spoke of "Mr. Kelly," it had been a possible revelation—a possible certainty that at least he was alive still: and before many days she had satisfied herself, without seeming to ask questions with an object, that Cecilia's Mr. Kelly and her Robert Kelly were identical. Old longings, half-asleep, had been awakened.
To write to him herself—might not that step be misconstrued? Yet why? They were acquaintances: no more: and Prue had a message given her to deliver. Was it not her duty to give it direct? She could not trust Felix.
Prue drew her writing-case near, and indited a note slowly, spoiling three sheets in the process. It contained the simplest and barest statement of Cecilia's message. It began "Dear Mr. Kelly," and ended "Yours truly, Prudence Valentine." It made a slight allusion to past acquaintanceship and no more. The writing was firm and clear; only in the doing of the signature she had a vivid recollection of his face, and her hand shook. The tremulous curves of those two words held a message for Mr. Kelly.
He was very thankful for the contents of the letter: thankful, not only to have done no harm, but to have done positive good, which in his self-distrust, he had not expected. But this was, for the moment, not the leading thought. Robert Kelly was a man, and a lonely man. He had given his heart once to the young girl, Prue Valentine: and he would have asked hers in return, but for some foolish local gossip which had checked him. It had not occurred to him to doubt the truth of the gossip: to find out at least whether his informant were trustworthy. He had simply drawn back, and had fled from the place.
And now—he found her still unmarried. The thought came—what if it were not too late?
He spent an indefinite time looking at the signature: and the very words of that old piece of gossip, which had so marred his happiness, came up again. Not only that she was already engaged, or as good as engaged to another; but also, that she had spoken slightingly, laughingly, of him—Robert Kelly. That had cut deeply. And it might have been true: why not?
Mr. Kelly had a humble opinion of himself; and he was not in the least surprised that some people should laugh at him, or talk slightingly of him. Only that Prue Valentine should have done so—there was the sting!
After all, it might not have been true: since the other half of the tale was not. If the other half of the tale were not! Mr. Kelly doubted again here. Prue might have been engaged, as report had said, and the engagement might have been broken off. The little note told nothing. It was friendly, but calm and distant. Only—that quiver in the signature stirred him. Yet, why should it mean anything? Somebody might have touched her elbow as she wrote.
He thought of Prue by day, and he dreamt of Prue by night; and he worked harder, neglecting none of his clerical and parochial duties, but rather throwing a fresh fervour into them. He wrote a brief line of thanks to Prue, not too warmly expressed, hoping "some day to see them all again." Prue's heart leaped in silent response to the hope: and there the matter stood still. Mr. Kelly took no further steps—though she was nearly thirty, and he nearly forty. He was not sure what he wished.
As Felix had feared, Mr. Jasper stepped in, ordering delay for Lettice—naturally enough, as she had not left her room since Cecilia's death. Lettice could hardly have told whether she were most grieved or relieved. She dreaded leaving these kind friends, to go among fresh strangers: yet the one fixed desire of her mind was to carry out Cecilia's will, and to do what Felix wished. Each day spent at the Farm was in contravention of both these aims.
Another three weeks in the house, however, did good, bringing strength to body and mind. Her sorrow and fragility made them all set her apart as something to be cared for and tenderly guarded. Mrs. Valentine gave her motherliness: Prue and Bertha looked to health and spirits: Nan crouched at her feet in blundering devotion. But the one of them all who understood her best, the one to whom she could turn freely for comfort, was Wallace. Nobody understood why. He had been until now a mere overgrown clumsy boy, with his mother's affectionate disposition, but with an excess of his father's bluntness and angularity. During this month, he grew fast towards becoming a thoughtful man.
So soon as Lettice was released from her bedroom, she found Wallace waiting for her. No matter what had to be done, he was never busy if Lettice wanted him. Every change in the little pale face was noted by him, and not even the trained Bertha was so quick to read it. He would sit by her side, and read aloud or keep silence, by the hour together, sometimes giving only a dumb sympathy which comforted Lettice more than aught else, sometimes drawing her out to say what she thought and felt.
"Lettice, you must not go yet. I can't spare you!" he said one evening.
Mr. Jasper had at length granted leave for "early next week," and an escort had been found in the shape of a farmer's wife, going to Bristol. A letter was to be written next day to Dr. Bryant, telling him when to expect Lettice.
Wallace had gone about for hours, looking moody, and when he found Lettice alone in the twilight, resting on the rug, with her head against the arm of Mr. Valentine's arm-chair, he broke into a remonstrance.
Lettice did not move. She only looked up slowly, and said, "I must."
"There's no 'must.' It is nonsense. Why can't you stay here, always? We want you, and Dr. Bryant doesn't. How can he, when he doesn't so much as know you? Don't you see what I mean? And we do want you here."
"Sissie told me I must;" in the patient undertone with which she would allude to Cecilia.
"She didn't know or understand. How should she?"
"But I must keep to what she said. And Felix made me promise."
"He had no right. He doesn't know us all, and you do. Say—couldn't you be happy to stay here? Do you want to go to Dr. Bryant's?"
"I don't think I want anything—much—only to do what Sissie told me."
"Not even to stay here?"
She lifted her eyes slowly again. "I'm tired," she said. "I should like to put off—if—but I can't, because of what Sissie said. I mustn't let myself want anything, except what Felix wants."
"You can't be a slave to him all your life."
"I'm only his. Nobody else's."
"Yes, you are. You are ours too. Say you are. Say you mind going, just a little. We shall always be thinking of you. Don't you know you are our little queen—Nan's and mine?"
Lettice smiled quietly, not blushing in her childish freedom from self-consciousness. "O yes, you are all so good, and you all try to spoil me, and, of course, I love you all—" hesitating,—"like you all, I mean."
"Don't change the word. The first was best."
"But I have to go, all the same. Please don't say any more, because nothing can change what Sissie told me. I want to ask something else. May I?"
"Anything in the world."
"Who will pay all the bills?"
"What bills?"
One hand held the other fast. "All that for—for Sissie—the doctor, and everything?"
"Mr. Jasper will take nothing, and Dr. Bryant undertakes all that is necessary. Didn't your brother tell you?"
"No."
"He ought. Dr. Bryant wrote to him, and to us too. He says it is the last he can do for—her, you know! And it is a pleasure to him."
"Thank you," murmured Lettice, and she said no more.
Wallace sat gazing upon her.
"You'll be sure to let us know if you are unhappy. If things don't go straight."
"I have promised to write."
"To me?"
"No—to Prue. I have always slept in Prue's room, and Prue has been so good. Bertha says Sissie cared most of all for Prue."
The day of parting drew near, and hour after hour Lettice had a question in her mind, which she longed to ask. Day and night she was haunted by recollections of her last brief interview with Cecilia, and of Cecilia's eager words, more especially the message to Felix.
"Nothing—nothing—worth living for, but to serve God. Tell him from me! I would give anything now to have lived a different life! . . . Too late for that! . . . There is forgiveness, but oh, to have lived for Him! . . . The pitifulness of coming to Him only at last! . . . The difference now if I had lived for Him! Don't put off! Pray to be shown!"
These sentences Lettice would never forget. They were stamped upon her brain. She knew that Cecilia had spoken to Prue of no longer fearing to die. But then, why these burning regrets? What did Sissie wish to have done differently? And what did she mean that Lettice was to do? Lettice would lie and think herself into a maze of bewilderment; yet in her shyness, in her dread of seeming to blame Sissie, she could not endure to speak out. But the pressure became at length too severe, intensified as it was by the knowledge that very soon she would have no one whom she could ask. When Prue came to her room, on the last evening of all, she found Lettice waiting for her, wide awake.
"Not asleep yet, my dear."
"No. I want to speak. I must say it before I go. Please come and sit here. I want to know what she meant."
Prue obeyed, with an arm round Lettice.
"What who meant?"
"You know. She—the last time I saw her—you were there. When she said I was to tell Felix."
"I understand."
"What did she mean? I don't know."
"It is eleven o'clock, and you have a journey to-morrow. I wish you had not put off till now."
"I couldn't say anything sooner. And I can't go without knowing."
"Try to tell me exactly what it is that you want explained."
"I don't know what she meant. She said to you she wasn't afraid . . . And she told me about—there was pardon . . . and yet she said—said—it would have been so different—if only—if only—"
Lettice caught back a sob. "You know, don't you? Please tell me. I'm always thinking, and I can't understand."
Prue drew the child's head down on her shoulder. "It is not so very difficult," she said. "Would you be satisfied now, looking back, if you felt that you had always neglected and ignored Sissie, forgotten her wishes, disobeyed her, and only pleased yourself—even if at the last she had forgiven it all! I think that the more entirely she forgave you, the more you would long to have loved her, and to have shown your love."
"I did love her," in a whisper.
"You did and do. No need to speak of the love as past. You love her, and she loves you; only for a while you are parted. But how different it would be now if you had not loved; if you had been cold, and hard, and neglectful. Now do you see what I mean? Sissie only learnt in those last few weeks how much she owed to our dear Lord, how cold and neglectful she had been to Him. She learnt too how ready He is to forgive; and she asked Him to forgive her. And I know that she was heard. Her fear of death was taken away.
"But the more she understood His love, the more she grieved that she had not served Him earlier. Not really served Him. She had worked hard, and had tried to do her duty, but she had not done it unto Him! She had not thought of Him, or loved Him."
"She said—said—the difference—" broke from Lettice again.
"Yes. It is a difference. It must be. Instead of going to a Home, and a Divine Friend, known and loved for years, it was like going to a strange land, and a Saviour almost unknown. I do believe that she is there, in the fair Land of Paradise, with Him, learning to know Him better. But the going must have been very different from what it would have been, if she had given her life to Him here. And so she wanted you and Felix to do otherwise,—not to please only yourselves, and to forget God, until the end should be near. Very often there is no time, or no strength, then to think of Him. And even if there were, it is so much nobler to live for Him."
"Oh, I will, I will. I'll never forget. I will try;" and Lettice burst into a flood of tears.
It was long before Prue could soothe her; and neither of the two had much sleep that night. Yet in the morning Lettice seemed brighter, relieved from a certain mental pressure, and glad to be going because Sissie had wished it. After long expectation, the reality is sometimes not so bad as the expectation has been.
A letter had been sent to announce her coming, and a post-card in reply stated, "Shall be met," the handwriting not that of Dr. Bryant. On reaching Bristol station, however, no one from Quarrington Cottage could be found; and the farmer's wife put Lettice into a cab. It was only about a two miles' drive.
"All this yours! What a pile of rubbish! Where do you expect it to go, I wonder?" demanded Theodosia Bryant.
She had come out upon the doorstep, tall and good: looking, with lifted eyebrows of dissatisfaction. A pretty boy peeped inquisitively in her rear. Lettice descended from the cab, longing for a kind word of welcome which did not come. Two fingers were tended, and hastily withdrawn.
"Why on earth couldn't you leave some of it at Reading or Brighton? Four big boxes, I declare—and a portmanteau—and a carpet-bag. One would think she meant to take up her abode here for the rest of her life!" A very audible aside, this, and Lettice's pale cheeks burnt responsively. "Well, I suppose it can't be helped. Tell the man to take them all up to Miss Anderson's room," in disdainful accents to the maid. Then to Lettice, "You may as well come in."
Theodosia swept across the passage into the drawing room, and Lettice followed—once more a mere awkward child, acutely conscious of her unwelcome. No Dr. Bryant appeared. Theodosia descended into an easy-chair, motioning Lettice to another which was not easy; and Keith cast askance glances at the newcomer, standing by his mother's side.
"My husband is away for a few nights," Theodosia remarked carelessly. "He may come back to-morrow. It is uncertain. I could not send the pony-carriage, after all. Keith and I wanted it in another direction. But, of course, you could easily manage."
"There were plenty of cabs," Lettice said, with some difficulty.
Theodosia's cold manner was in painful contrast with all the love and petting which she had had at the Farm: and the journey, though not long, had tried her considerably. She had eaten nothing since early morning, and she felt unnerved and shaken. Theodosia surveyed her critically.
"I thought they said you were well again. Why did they not keep you a little longer? Now, Keith, you are rumpling my collar. Hands off, my sweet. Let me see—how old are you?—" to Lettice.
"She grown-up, Mamsie," pronounced Keith.
"I'm sixteen, next month."
"I should have taken you for thirteen. Have you ever seen Dr. Bryant?"
"No, never."
Theodosia yawned in an obtrusive manner. "Well, I suppose you have lunched."
"I had sandwiches with me." It was not necessary to state that she had been unable to eat them.
"Nearly half-past three now. We have tea at about five. You will like to go upstairs, and unpack some of your things. And there is the cabman to be paid. Keith, love, you'll show Miss Anderson the way, won't you?"
"Up to the garrets, Mamsie?"
Theodosia frowned slightly. "Nonsense, darling. To the top spare bedroom. You don't call that a garret, I hope. Go, like a little dear. Mamsie is tired."
"And it's such an awful long way up," said Keith.
"Long! Rubbish, you dear little goosie. You should see the stairs in a Town house."
Keith marched out of the room, and Lettice followed, stumbling over a chair on her way, and eliciting thereby an impatient murmur from Mrs. Bryant. Lettice paused in the hall to pay the cabman, emptying her purse in the act, and then pulled herself wearily upstairs—mounting two short flights to the first floor, then a steep and narrow flight to the garret-floor. Not an "awful long way" as compared with London staircases, certainly, but long at that moment to Lettice's sensations.
The room, which Theodosia in her husband's absence had decided upon as "good enough for that child," was small and low, with slanting roof and window of limited capacity. A square of worn drugget covered the centre of the floor: the plain deal furniture was scanty; the window boasted no curtains; the four big boxes were piled together, two upon two: and lesser packages lay about.