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"While this mystery lasts, things cannot be between us as they have been."
FOUND! AND WHERE!
AS days went on, however, Theodosia was not satisfied. She had had her will: but results did not shape themselves according to her expectations. The money was still lost—so far as Dr. Bryant was concerned—and suspicion pointed its finger direct at Lettice. Moreover, Lettice still declined to refute that suspicion by denial. Yet the separation between her husband and Lettice, for which Theodosia craved, had not come about. Though the Doctor called himself "displeased" with Lettice, it was a calm and affectionate displeasure, devoid of heat; rather indeed an acknowledgment of what he ought to feel, than a showing of what he really felt. He did not believe that Lettice had helped herself to the money: he only thought she had not treated him with becoming openness: and he said so to his wife, plainly. No arguments shook his opinion.
Unpaid bills had to be paid, and the Doctor supplied his wife with a £20 cheque uncomplainingly. He would not even tell her how careless she had been—perhaps because it was useless, perhaps because he disliked to rouse her self-assertive annoyance. To suggest that Theodosia had done anything not entirely wise and right, meant always a wordy outburst on her part. In hopes of finding the lost bank-note, he instituted various inquiries, but with no result.
Vain, too, was his effort to shield Lettice from general suspicion. Theodosia took that matter into her own hands, and the Doctor had very limited power over his wife's tongue. If he had but known it, the one real power which he did possess was through Keith's interests, and the future disposition of his money. The one thing which would have restrained Theodosia, would have been the knowledge that aught she said or did might harm her boy's prospects. The crooked path upon which she had entered was for Keith's sake—at least so she counted it to be. Jealousy and ill-temper had also no small hand in the matter. Theodosia knew, and could not forgive, her boy's love for Lettice.
True, the two did not indulge before her in affectionate demonstrations. Keith had sense enough to see that such demonstrations would bring trouble: and as a rule, he abstained, reserving bear-like hugs for Theodosia's absence. But love is not easily hidden for any length of time. Keith might put on spoilt-child airs, and speak with a certain imperiousness to Lettice; yet the look in his eyes when he turned to her was unmistakable.
And even if Theodosia had doubted, the servants and villagers were not loath to supply her with the unwelcome information. "Master Keith do care for Miss Lettice and no wonder!" "He's that devoted to her!" "Well, I says he just worships the ground she treads on!"
These and other like remarks could not be ignored, and they were as gall and worm-wood to the heart of Theodosia. She never quoted them, and she persistently treated Lettice as a person of no account in the household; but deep down in her own mind she knew that Keith loved Lettice with a love which he did not give to herself. For the one was the affection of relationship only; the other was the love which grows and is sustained by what the loved one intrinsically is. Where both co-exist, the tie becomes very strong indeed; but the first without the second is apt to prove more of a trial than a joy in life, if not to snap altogether.
Theodosia knew, and smarted under the knowledge, that this higher love of her boy's heart was given to Lettice, not to herself; yet she made no effort to become different, that so she might win it. She only scorned and hated Lettice for having what she had not.
In fear of what her husband might do, Theodosia had effectually silenced Keith's prattle as to the lost bank-note. The boy had his own thoughts, doubtless; thoughts which caused no diminution of his love for Lettice. But before her and Dr. Bryant, he did not again allude to the subject during many weeks.
To lie under suspicion could not but mean sharp suffering to Lettice's sensitive nature; and the suffering did not lessen with time. True, Keith was silent; and the servants in the house scouted as utterly false Mrs. Bryant's accusation; so in this quarter Lettice had no needless pain to bear. But among acquaintances, and even in the village, she could not but be aware that the thing was known. Askance glances and unpleasant whispers were only too patent. Everybody had heard the tale.
Yet these things, disagreeable as they were, she could better endure than Theodosia's sneers. To have it perpetually thrown in her teeth, that she had done what her whole being loathed, and to be unable to deny the same, for fear of diverting suspicion upon Felix, was hard—especially hard, because the agony of shame was real for the possibility that he might be guilty. There lay the sting. Had she been sure of his innocence, she could have held up her head, and gone forward cheerily. That which made her droop and grow thin, through succeeding weeks, was not the pricking of Theodosia's gibes alone, though they did prick sharply. It was rather the dread, ever-present, that Felix might actually have done the deed of which she was accused.
Only she did not know. There was no certainty. Had there been, the question must have arisen, whether she were right to hide the truth from Dr. Bryant. So long as uncertainty existed, her main care was to avert from Felix a suspicion which might be totally undeserved.
Writing to Felix, she spoke of what had occurred, mentioning that the bank-note had been left loose on the desk that afternoon, and asking whether he had observed it. A reply was long in coming; and when it came it contained no allusion to what she had said. The silence might arise either from guilt, or from indifference. Felix seldom answered piece-meal her items of news; still, in this case it perhaps had a serious signification.
She could not at all times feel confident that Dr. Bryant believed in her innocence. There was a slight change in his manner—too slight to be apparent to Theodosia's superficial observation: decided enough to mean sorrow to Lettice,—a slight loss of the old confiding affection. It seemed to Lettice that he watched her soberly, and waited anxiously, holding the expression of his love in leash, till matters should become more clear. The rift was a small one: and as weeks went by it narrowed rather than widened; but it brought unhappiness to Lettice, even while to Theodosia it brought disappointment.
"I thought you meant to take Lettice for a day's excursion somewhere," said Theodosia.
The remark excited considerable surprise. Theodosia to wish Lettice a pleasure!
"I did speak of such a plan," the Doctor responded moderately.
"I wish you would fix the day. I shall be glad to have you both out-of-the-way for a few hours. For house-cleaning purposes."
Another shock of surprise! Theodosia had always declared on such occasions that Lettice could not be spared.
"Would you like to go, Lettice?" The girl's face glowed. "Well, I am willing enough. Where shall it be? To the top of West Hill? I don't mind if we name to-morrow. The sooner the better this fine weather."
Luncheon was over, and Dr. Bryant arose, to find Lettice at his elbow.
"Ought I?" she whispered.
"Ought you—what?"
"Have such a treat, just now—when you are not pleased with me?"
The Doctor looked steadily into her eyes.
"If I believed that you really had done it, child, I should demur. But—I do not. Breakfast at 8.30, sharp!"
"I shall have your room thoroughly turned out, Lettice. It is a good opportunity," said Theodosia, in an unwontedly agreeable manner.
Lettice was perplexed again: since she saw no need for such an opportunity. The room could have been "turned out" any day, without the slightest difficulty. She supposed, however, that in some manner Theodosia meant kindness.
A faultless morning dawned, and the Doctor was early astir, eager as a boy for his treat. He and Lettice were seldom permitted a whole day together, unchecked: and whether he were or were not still judicially "displeased" with the girl, her companionship gave him satisfying pleasure. By nine o'clock breakfast was over, and the Doctor stood upon the front doorstep, basket in hand, with the day's provisions. Lettice ran downstairs, and Theodosia emerged from the breakfast room.
"I suppose I am not to expect you back until dinner-time," she said.
"Hardly! Such a day as this! Come, Lettice. Ready?"
"One moment, Lettice. I want to have all your boxes moved, and one or two are too heavy. Are your keys upstairs?—In case we should have to lift out a few things to lighten them?"
"Tuts, my dear!" remonstrated Dr. Bryant, and a flood of colour rushed into Lettice's face. The Doctor looked at her curiously.
"Are the keys upstairs?" repeated Theodosia.
"I don't think the boxes are so very heavy," faltered Lettice.
"Much too heavy for the maids to drag about," said Theodosia decisively. "Quick—where are the keys?"
"Come, child," said the Doctor.
"The keys, Lettice!"
"Just inside my desk—and the desk is not locked," murmured Lettice. "But—" with an effort which brought another rush of colour—"please, please, don't move any of the things that belonged to Sissie."
"Why not?"
Lettice could not have told why. Tears filled her eyes.
"Which box are they in?"
"The big one—underneath another. Please may that wait till I am at home?"
"I'll see—if it is not too heavy."
Which of course it would be, seeing that it was the heaviest. Lettice followed Dr. Bryant slowly, her pleasure marred for at least an hour. The idea of Theodosia turning over and handling with cold critical fingers all those sacred relics of the loved past, was painfully repugnant to Lettice. She almost felt at first as if she must give up the excursion, and stay at home to protect her treasures. The thought of Theodosia's sneering laugh, and careless toss to one side of dresses worn by Sissie, knick-knacks valued by Sissie, books treasured by Sissie, sent a positive shudder through the girl. Many of these things she would naturally have had out in her room for use, but she had always been restrained by the dread of Theodosia's chilling remarks and questions. Theodosia now had stolen a march upon her.
Another recollection had helped to hinder her ready acquiescence. A half-written letter to Felix lay In her desk, speaking of Theodosia in terms which, however true and moderately expressed, and by no means unkind, were not intended for Theodosia's eyes. In searching for the keys Theodosia could hardly fail to come upon the letter. This would have been a matter of indifference, if Lettice could have felt sure that Theodosia was honourably incapable of reading another person's letter: but no such confidence was possible. She knew too well that Theodosia was not honourable. The small wrong of the letter, however, went down and sank into nothing before the real pain of having her cherished treasures at Theodosia's mercy.
"Eh, Lettice! What is the matter?" asked the Doctor.
Lettice looked up silently. She had not heard the question, till it was twice repeated.
"Something is disturbing you, child."
"Oh, nothing—I mean nothing really of consequence," said Lettice cheerfully. "It was only—about my room."
"What about it?"
"Mrs. Bryant wanted to be able to open my boxes. She said they would be too heavy to move. I don't know why—they never have been." Lettice usually made it her rule never to complain to the Doctor of his wife: but resentment was for once too strong to be mastered. "I shouldn't care with any of them—except one."
"Do you keep your boxes in your bedroom?"
"Yes. I don't mind. Mrs. Bryant said there was not room anywhere else in the house. And I shouldn't like that one to go—the biggest."
"Why?"
"Sissie's things are all in it—" very low.
"Theodosia will not hurt them, child." He could not enter into the girl's feelings.
Lettice shivered, and said, "No."
"Then what are you afraid of?"
"I am not—afraid."
"Not of anything? I don't understand." Dr. Bryant was regarding her attentively.
"It isn't being afraid. She will not hurt anything—of course. It is only—I don't think I can explain. I don't like the things I love so much—to be—to be handled—by—"
"By one whom you do not love! Is that it?"
"Oh, I did not mean—I do want to love Mrs. Bryant."
"I would not give way to that feeling, Lettice."
"I do try not," she murmured.
"And to-day you will be wise to banish all recollection of the box. It cannot be helped now,—and we cannot go back, to tell my wife that you do not wish her to touch those things. It would be—rather an invidious thing to do . . . After all, the feeling is mere sentiment, and not a very healthy kind of sentiment . . . Could you not make a better use of your sister's possessions, than to keep them locked up,—useless to yourself and to everybody?"
"I don't know. I didn't think of that before." Tears came fast.
"Well, give a little thought to the question when you get home. Now you have to forget it, and to make the most of this perfect day. See what a blaze of sunshine!"
Lettice made a resolute effort to obey, smiled, chatted, and seemed to forget her trouble. But the Doctor did not forget. A transient wonder more than once crossed his mind—had Lettice told him all? Was it possible that some other cause existed for this odd reluctance to let Theodosia open her box? The reluctance seemed "odd" to the Doctor, since such a feeling would not have been natural to himself in her place. He could not now feel absolutely certain of her truth and transparency, as once he could; and if he continued to trust her in the main, it was resolute trusting in the face of doubts. Such doubts assailed him to-day, once and again. Lettice looked up wonderingly, at the sound of a sigh, in the midst of their cheerful talk. She would have liked to ask the reason, but did not: and the Doctor vouchsafed none.
"You are late!" declared Theodosia, as the two came in, close upon seven o'clock. "I expected you an hour ago. Dinner has had to be put off, and of course everything will be spoilt."
"I suppose we are both rather tired. It took us longer coming home than I reckoned."
"People always manage to knock themselves up in these ridiculous excursions." Theodosia forgot for the moment that she was herself the originator of the excursion in question; and nobody reminded her of the fact. She stood looking at them, a restless exultant gleam in her eyes.
"I suppose you know that it is past dinner-time. The gong will sound directly."
"Five minutes to seven. And you said just now that you had put off dinner."
"I told them to wait if you were not back. Of course they have seen you come in."
"Well, we have a little superfluous mud and dust to get rid of, before we can sit down. Get ready, child, as fast as you can."
Lettice went to her room, in sudden dread of what she might find there. She had managed pretty well, during the day, to banish recollections of Theodosia and the keys; but the pent-up wave of foreboding broke bounds now, and rushed through her mind, to the exclusion of all else.
Two boxes, the heavier ones, stood open; and that which contained her chief treasures was more than half emptied. Cecilia's dresses lay about on bed and chairs; Cecilia's little treasures were tossed together on the floor. What Theodosia's object could have been in leaving things thus, Lettice was unable to conjecture.
A torrent of recollections took possession of her, at the sight of an old brown merino, which Sissie had worn incessantly the last autumn, going to and from her lessons . . . Those dear old days! Gone for ever!
Sissie's face came back with an extraordinary vividness: and Lettice knelt by the bed, kissing passionately the old merino which Sissie's hand had touched. She forgot dinner: forgot the need for haste: forgot her own muddied condition. There was no room in her mind for such thoughts.
"But oh, dear, dear Sissie, I would not have you back, if I could," she murmured. "So much happier there! It would be selfish! And it isn't so very long to wait. I shall see you again—by-and-by. O dear Sissie!"
She kissed again the brown dress: then folded and repacked it reverently, putting in the other dresses and all the little knick-knacks, with loving tender fingers. "Dear Sissie!" she whispered again and again, and she strove to forget Theodosia.
Then the gong sounded: and Lettice knew herself to be inevitably late; blamed herself for it too, since Theodosia would be offended. Make haste as she might, muddy boots could not be in one moment unlaced, or disordered hair made straight, or evening dress put on.
"Have they begun?" she asked, meeting Susanna in the hall as she descended. Susanna was the parlour-maid, a middle-aged and most reliable person, of long-standing in the household. It was she who had from the first taken a resolute lead in declaring "Miss Lettice" innocent of Mrs. Bryant's charge; and she had always shown a marked affection for her master's adopted niece. This evening she looked strange and pale, and she scarcely answered when Lettice spoke, keeping her eyes averted. Lettice noted the unusual manner, and was perplexed; but no time could be spared for questions.
"You certainly are not remarkable for speed in dressing," Theodosia remarked. "The soup is gone. I suppose you do not wish for any."
"No, thank you . . . I ought to have been in time, but—"
"If you would like some soup it is not too late," the Doctor said.
"Oh, I would rather not, uncle. I ought to have been down,—only I waited to put away some of my things."
The restless gleam appeared again in Theodosia's eyes. Some absorbing thought seemed to hold her in possession: and she talked in an odd broken way, forgetting to finish her own sentences, and plunging into the remarks of others. Dr. Bryant scanned her steadily once or twice: and Lettice was conscious of an unusual atmosphere.
"Where is Keith?" asked Dr. Bryant, when dessert appeared.
"I told him to go to bed, and not to come in to-night. I thought we might be late."
"Ten minutes past the usual time. I do not think Keith would have been the worse."
"It doesn't matter. I gave him some fruit—instead. And I wanted—I had something to say—"
Nobody asked her what it was. The other two simply waited. Susanna was gone; and Dr. Bryant peeled an orange for Lettice. Theodosia's colour deepened, and she played with a bunch of raisins, pulling it slowly to pieces.
"I have something to tell you," she said again, breaking silence.
"Well?" responded the Doctor.
"I have found the lost bank-note." Theodosia tossed a crumpled bit of paper across the length of the table, towards her husband.
With a visible sharp movement of surprise, Dr. Bryant leant forward to pick it up.
Lettice sprang to her feet.
"The bank-note! Found!" she cried. "Oh, I am so glad! Oh, I am glad!"
Theodosia sneered—a wordless but distinct sneer. Dr. Bryant glanced from the one to the other.
"You have stumbled upon it at last! Not in your desk surely?"
Theodosia's eyes glittered. "No! No; not in my desk."
She took another bunch of raisins, and broke them from the stalk, with nervous haste, as if unable to keep still.
Lettice sat down, glowing with pure heartfelt delight; for this discovery entirely exonerated her brother. "Poor Felix! How could I ever have thought such a thing?" she asked herself; and then she came to a rapid resolve not to let any one know what she had imagined—not even Dr. Bryant. This, at least, was in her power, by way of reparation for the wrong she had done to him. "I must have been crazy! Of course he never did, never would, never could! Of course not! Nobody must ever even guess that I had such a fancy. It might make people think that he really could do that sort of thing, if they knew I had suspected it—I, his own sister! I ought to have understood him better! Poor Felix! What a shame it has been!" Then she woke up to hear Theodosia speaking, with a repetition of former words—
"No: not in my desk. Do you wish to know where it was?"
"What does that matter, so found?" cried Lettice joyously. "So long as the wrong person cannot be blamed."
"Not much fear of that—now!" declared Theodosia hardily, gazing past Lettice. "I should say that it mattered a good deal—to the person in whose box it was hidden."
THE VALENTINES AGAIN.
DR. BRYANT made a hasty movement. "What do you mean? Where did you find the note?"
"You are not likely to guess."
"Guess! Nonsense. This is no matter for jesting. Where was it?" A vague alarm had seized him, and he was in danger of losing his usual equanimity.
"I advised you once to have Lettice's room searched, and you would not hear me. So I took the matter into my own hands, and on the whole I consider that I have managed it pretty cleverly. If she had had the least notion beforehand—well, naturally, the note might have found its way elsewhere." The keen and angry sting of conscience, following upon these words, found no expression in Theodosia's face. "I took care not to speak of the keys till the last moment. What her object was I cannot so much as guess—keeping it hidden away all this time. No good to herself or anybody."
"Lettice!" The word was rather a groan than an utterance.
"Of course. Who else could you suspect? Deep down in her biggest box."
Lettice's cheeks were bright still with happy relief, on behalf of her brother. "But that is nonsense!—I mean, that must be a mistake," she cried impulsively. "I never took the bank-note."
"O yes, you will deny it now, of course! Now that we have full proof!"
"Who found it?" the Doctor asked.
"Susanna and I."
"I do not see what Susanna had to do with Lettice's boxes."
"I dare say not; but I do. I asked for the keys on purpose, because I had my suspicions, and I meant to institute a regular search. You saw how Lettice behaved, and how she begged me to leave the largest box alone. It didn't need much cleverness to suppose why. I took good care to have Susanna present: and it was she, not I, who unpacked that box, while I stood by. She didn't understand, of course; and she made a fuss, but I insisted. If there had been no other reason, I would have had all those musty old clothes turned out for an airing, and I told her so. Near the bottom—at least, about half-way down—Susanna picked out a crumpled paper; and she was, dropping it on the floor, when I said: 'What is that?' I shall not forget her face, when she opened it, and found the bank-note in her hand. I thought she would have fainted."
"But I can't imagine how it ever came into that box. I never put it there," urged Lettice.
Dr. Bryant turned slightly from her; his face grey. Lettice went to his side.
"Uncle, won't you believe me? You know I would not do such a thing. Indeed, indeed, I never touched the bank-note. How could I, after all your kindness?" She grew crimson, then paled and trembled. "Somebody must have slipped it into my box on purpose."
"A box always kept locked," commented Theodosia.
"Yes: I do keep it locked; but I might have forgotten, or have left my keys about. I don't know in the least how the thing has happened; only I am not to blame—really and truly."
Dr. Bryant gave her a look, and remained silent.
"If I had known where the note was, should I have given up the keys this morning?"
"You had no choice," Theodosia said promptly. "You did your very best to escape giving them up."
Dr. Bryant could not but recall Lettice's marked reluctance, as well as her after uneasiness, and the avowed cause which to him had seemed so inadequate. He had felt a measure of perplexity all day on the subject; and these recollections now told heavily against her.
"Of course," continued Theodosia, "you hoped that I should not come upon the note. A bit of paper crumpled up is easily overlooked. If I had not been on the look-out, we should not have noticed it."
Lettice glanced despairingly at Dr. Bryant. The ground seemed to be slipping from under her feet.
"Then this is why you have refused to speak!" he said slowly. "This—the reason! And I could trust you throughout—"
"Won't you trust me still?" besought Lettice. The temptation to tell him all was strong; but after her unfounded suspicions of Felix, it seemed too cruel to avow them to another, as a means of defending herself. Such a confession, tantamount almost to a declaration that he was not trustworthy, might never be forgotten. Lettice restrained the words which almost broke from her lips, and repeated passionately: "Won't you trust me? Won't you believe me? I had a reason for not speaking; but indeed this is the truth. I don't know how it got into my box. Indeed, I am innocent! Won't you believe me?"
Dr. Bryant made no answer whatever. He rose, quitted the room, and was heard to enter his study, shutting the door heavily. Lettice knew that at last, he condemned her as guilty.
The Valentines had been nearly a month in London. Only in the outskirts; but the veriest fringe of the great City's garment is apt to seem overpowering to country people. After the "dear old Farm," where every patch of grass was familiar, and every bush was a friend, where cottages could be counted on the fingers, and people might be numbered by tens, the ceaseless rivers of human beings, the never-ending roll of human noise, and the uncountable blocks of human dwellings, had a tendency to weigh upon the spirits.
Perhaps Mr. Valentine felt this weight most severely. He was a thorough old yeoman, absolutely at home among the clods of a ploughed field, utterly lost among bricks and mortar. Not only had he lived in the country all his life, but love of rural quiet was inherited by him through a long line of yeomen forefathers; and dislike of crowds was ingrain. His gentle old wife grieved over the change, and was tried by the narrow limits of her new sphere; but she had no strong inherited proclivities either way, and her girlhood had been mainly spent in town. The brick and paving-stones, the hum of sound, seemed natural enough, only wearying from want of use. She grew at times pale and tired, but her placid face had not the forlorn look which fixed itself permanently in the lines of her husband's features.
Nan fretted and fumed, hated town restrictions, and above all things kicked fiercely against the wearing of gloves every time she set foot outside the front door. It was "like being in a prison," she wrathfully declared. But she had no support in the grumbling line from Wallace, who fell into the new manner of life with unlooked-for readiness, seeming to like it as well as the old. "Takes to London like a duck to water," grunted his father discontentedly.
And Prudence! Everybody had expected Prue to suffer under the uprooting. Quiet Prue, retiring Prue, the good home-daughter Prue, how should it be otherwise with her? A good deal of pity was wasted upon Prue; and people found themselves a little out of their reckonings. Prue showed no sign of suffering, beyond a reasonable amount of sorrow in bidding farewell to the old home. When they reached London she was not depressed; nay, she showed herself the most alert of the whole party, the quickest to spy out pleasant points in their novel surroundings, the readiest to discover fresh interests, the most eager to settle down and change "house" into "home."
"London seems to suit you, my girl, anyway," the old father sometimes observed, not quite approvingly. Prue had not for years worn so young and cheery a look. When it was remarked upon, she smiled, and even blushed a little.
Mrs. Valentine understood, and she alone. Others of the family knew that, on finding this new home, they had dropped—oddly, because without intention—into the Parish of a former acquaintance; and some of them remarked on the "curiousness" of so doing.
"Rev. Robert Kelly—yes, I remember him. Not a bad fellow. Dare say we shall like his sermons," Mr. Valentine said carelessly.
But Bertha was far-away, nursing a long and severe "case," while Nan and Wallace barely recollected the name of "Kelly." It had not been a prominent factor in their lives. Only Mrs. Valentine divined what this resuscitation of an old friendship might mean to her eldest daughter.
She was sorry for it. Prue had seemed uniformly happy of late years. Would it mean the former trouble over again—Prue caring too much, hoping too much, only to be disappointed.
"Such a pity," mused the old lady. "And Prue remembers him still, I know. She has never really forgotten."
If it did not mean disappointment to Prue, it might mean to Mrs. Valentine the loss of her daughter. That she could bear, for her child's sake; so that only it might mean Prue's happiness. Yet what if, for Prue, the best thing which could happen should be the denial of earthly happiness? Or what if that which seemed to promise happiness should mean life-long sorrow?
"After all, we're but blind creatures," murmured Mrs. Valentine, mechanically knitting, while she glanced backwards upon certain passages in her own early life. "If I had been allowed to choose for myself, I should have had a very different story. Not a happy one, either. I couldn't guess then. And now I'm wanting to choose again for Prue . . . Perhaps not to choose altogether—only to wish we had not come to live just here . . . Yet if that is the very thing God meant for her? How do I know? We didn't come—knowing—and perhaps He has just guided us to this very spot."
They had not yet seen Mr. Kelly. On the day before their arrival, he had gone off for his annual holiday; and the exact date of his expected return was not known to them. Still, it would be soon; and Prue must see him. Mr. Valentine had left his card at the Vicarage, and Mr. Kelly would therefore know where they were. "And then—" sighed Mrs. Valentine almost audibly. "And then—"
She looked up, to find Prue near at hand; Prue, with a faint colour in her cheeks, a faint indefinable glow and brightness over her sometimes too impassive face. It was like a dim imprisoned light, shining outward from within. "If he were to see Prue now, he would think her as taking as ever," Mrs. Valentine thought. She, like Prue, always believed that Mr. Kelly had cared, and that some hindrance had come between.
"What was that sigh for, mother?"
"Did I sigh, my dear?"
Prue sat down, unoccupied; a rare state of things. Her thoughts were too busy to allow the hands to work.
"No letter yet from Lettice," she said, becoming aware of a solicitous glance. Lettice had not been the subject of her cogitations.
"How long is it since you heard?"
"One has to reckon. A good many weeks. Nothing since the little scrawl written the morning after her birthday. I fancied the tone of it unhappy, and I wrote again soon; but she has never answered."
"I wish we could get hold of the child."
"I wish it too. She refuses invitations so persistently—yet I always feel sure that she does wish to see us again. There is some obstacle in the way. Not money, of course; for Dr. Bryant is well off; but something. Is it Mrs. Bryant?"
"Lettice never seems very fond of her. But after all we don't know much."
Then a pause.
"Mother, Mr. Kelly has come home. We shall hear him preach next Sunday." Prue had never spoken more composedly.
"He used to preach well."
"I have heard no sermons equal to his."
Mrs. Valentine could have sighed again.
"How do you know he has come back?"
"I saw him—going in at the front door. He did not see me."
"You are sure you would know him again?"
Prue's face exhibited a gleam of amusement. "Know him!" she repeated.
"It is a good many years since you both met. He must be changed."
"No, not much. But perhaps I am! If he saw me—I don't know whether he looked, but if he did, he passed me by. Am I so altered?"
Mrs. Valentine could have said "No!" with all her heart, but she hesitated. Would it be true?
"I suppose there must always be a difference between twenty-one and thirty," she said. "Not in my eyes, but to outsiders."
Disappointment stole over Prue's face. "Yes, of course," she said in flat tones. "But still—"
"He would see the old look still. Anybody must."
"If he takes the trouble to think about the matter."
"He has fresh interests now. I hardly expect the old intimacy to revive—do you? We must expect to be merely one family among hundreds."
Prue could have given vent to a rebellious protest. She said: "Only he has known us, and he has not known them."
Then the door opened to admit a caller, taking them both by surprise. For it was none other than Mr. Kelly.
Mrs. Valentine welcomed him, after her kind and placid manner, casting not a glance towards her daughter; and Prue held back somewhat coldly. Light and colour had fled from her countenance. How should it be otherwise, when she was utterly in the dark as to his sensations? She was conscious of a quick heart-beating, quick enough to shorten her breath; but all tokens of agitation were veiled; and her "How do you do?" was emotionless.
Beforehand she had not looked for this prosaic type of meeting. The prominent idea in her mind had been her own pleasure in seeing him. Not till the actual moment arrived did the reverse side of the picture present itself, the possibility that he might experience no particular pleasure; and not till then did she see the imperative need to hide aught which she might feel, lest he should not feel the same. Prue acted her part so well that Mr. Kelly had no part to act. Ere merely had to greet her as he had greeted hundreds in his new Parish; and if a slight touch of disappointment came to him also, it was mingled with something like relief. He had been so long a bachelor for Prue's sake, that he was not now at all certain whether, even for Prue's sake, he wished to be anything else; and yet he was glad to see that Prue remained distinctively herself. More gone off in looks, perhaps, than he had expected; but still unlike any other woman of his acquaintance. At least Prue would never be ordinary.
"So many years since we saw you last," Mrs. Valentine was saying.
"Yes, indeed." He was glad to turn from Prue, and to put on one side awakening recollections. "When I found your husband's card, I felt sure that it must be yourselves. It was an agreeable surprise. Are you spending a summer in Town?"
"We have come to live here. Our old home is given up."
"Not permanently?"
"It is sold."
Mr. Kelly asked a good many questions, and expressed due sympathy. His manner with the elderly lady was kind and gentle, all that it should have been; but Prue's still reticence baffled him, and aroused a growing desire to draw her into the conversation. He wanted to see if she were indeed the old Prue, or whether she were greatly altered: and Prue would not be drawn in, without more obvious efforts than Mr. Kelly cared to make. Not fully knowing his own mind, he had to be cautious. The girl, Prue, had been, in his estimation, everything that a girl of twenty-one ought to be; but the woman, Prue, at thirty years old, might be another individual. He had not gauged her yet. The fact that the Valentines would live in his Parish was an unexpected complication. "I shall be thrown a good deal with them," he thought: not sure whether to congratulate himself: and when the question arose, "Why not?" He made no attempt to answer it.
Lettice Anderson's name presently came up. "Yes, I have seen much of her brother off and on," Mr. Kelly said, responding to Mrs. Valentine. "He often came in to supper with me on Sunday evenings: and I have been able to get him into a good house of business in London. Did you not know that he was in this neighbourhood? He is likely to make his way."
"You think him clever?" Prue's still tones asked.
"Capable, certainly. He has in him the making of a good man of business, and I should expect him to be a successful one. I am not—not thoroughly satisfied—however—" This was said slowly.
"Lettice wrote lately, just after they met, and I thought she seemed disappointed."
"He is very difficult to know. In fact, I do not know him, often as we meet. Any more than I knew his sister—Miss Anderson, I mean: not little Lettice. But there is a serious difference between the two. Miss Anderson lived a self-devoted life for others. Felix lives—I fear—a self-devoted life, for himself. I hardly know how else to express my meaning. It sounds like a contradiction in terms—but you understand? There is a growing absorption in his work, which seems to wall off all external claims. He cares for nothing but how he may advance towards success."
"Is the wish for success wrong?"
"Intrinsically, no. It is needful, to some extent. No man is likely to get on well in life, who has not set success before him as a goal. No doubt we are meant to make the best use possible of our gifts. The desire is perfectly lawful in its right place, as a main object, but not as the sole object of existence. Do you not see?"
Mr. Kelly looked appealingly towards Prue, who had been noting with pleasure his greater decision and readiness of speech. The old self-distrust and shyness had markedly lessened. "If the entire horizon of his life is filled with that one object, no room remains for a higher aim to come in. He is absorbed in his work for its own sake—and that is the sum of the matter. I wish one could bring some other element into his life—something outside and beyond mere personal success."
"There is Lettice," Prue said.
"True: but they rarely meet. Perhaps in London his circle may widen. He has been in a narrowing groove at Brighton. The young fellow works manfully: and he is self-controlled—almost extraordinarily so. The resoluteness of his life would be admirable, if only the expenditure of will were for some loftier object—including this, but not this exclusively. I would not do away with the good I find in him, but certainly I would add to it." Mr. Kelly did not often flow so easily in conversation. He was subject commonly to fits of silence, or of shy hesitation: but Prue's intent serious face drew him on: and unconsciously, he enjoyed having her for a listener. She was appreciative.
"Will you ask Mr. Anderson to come and see us, if he is within reach?" asked Mrs. Valentine.
"I have found him lodgings in this Parish—not wishing to lose sight of him. Thanks: nothing could be better. I shall hope much from Miss Valentine's influence . . . I have seen this self-absorption closing in upon an older man, but rarely in one so young. There is danger of its becoming a positive ossification."
A little more in the same strain, and Mr. Kelly took his leave.
Prue closed the door, and came back to her mother.
"That explains—partly—the grieved tone of Lettice's last letter," she said.
"Mr. Kelly is very good to interest himself in Felix Anderson."
"He has the power. It is part of his work. It would not be right not—" said Prue dreamily. "Mr. Kelly looks older."
"Naturally."
"Yes, quite naturally. He will be very busy here. I do not suppose we shall see much of him."
"No—perhaps not."
"You have dropped a stitch, mother. Let me see."
She worked steadily at the knitting for some minutes, then gave it back, remarking, "Now I have put things right."
"Prue—"
"Yes."
"I have been thinking so much to-day about my own past. About when I was a girl."
Prue was a little surprised. Mrs. Valentine seldom talked voluntarily of herself.
"One sees the meaning of things—looking back. There was a time when I would have given all I possessed for a different life from this that I have had."
"Don't most people go through that—more or less?"
"A good many. It was before I knew your father. Somebody else—somebody who seemed to care for me—for a time I thought he did care. And when I found my mistake—found he had deceived me—I thought my life was over. Nothing seemed left . . . And yet my life really was hardly begun: and that which I wanted would not have been happiness, but misery. Nothing short of misery. He could be winning enough when he chose, but there was no strength of principle. His wife has had a bitter story since, poor thing—and it might have been mine, if I could have had my choice . . . The real happiness came later: and I have often thanked God that He guided me away from those quicksands, and denied me my heart's wish. Though at the time it seemed almost more than I could bear. Nobody ever had a better or truer husband than I in your dear father."
Perhaps Mrs. Valentine was unreasonable to expect that her past experience should serve for Prue. There was a slight pause, and then—
"Some men one can be sure would not act so."
"Yes: but one cannot be sure what other kind of unhappiness might be bound up in the thing one wants. God knows best."
"I never doubt that . . . One doesn't question His knowing best . . . The difficulty is not to wish for the thing He denies—even if it is bad for one. Or to believe that it can be bad."
"If we could see a little way on, I suppose we should be willing always, Prue. I mean if we could see beyond the border of this life. If we could know how much each single step here tells upon our future there . . . I suppose we should choose for ourselves the very things that God does choose for us now, because they would so clearly be the best . . . Perhaps that is clearer to me than to you, because I am nearer the border."
"Mother—you may not be. Who knows? . . . Do you think we should choose—not to have the things we want most—even if we could see—"
"If we could see the evil they would bring? Yes, surely we have sense enough for that."
"But if God gives the thing we long for, cannot He keep it from being an evil? He has all power. Is there ever a 'must be' of that kind?"
"In one sense—no. But He will not work needless miracles, dear. Why should He? If you drink a cup of poison, however unconsciously, you will die. God could save your life, of course, but in most cases the poison does its work."
Prue smiled faintly. The "thing" which she had in her mind seemed so far removed from any poisonous tendencies.
"Sometimes, not having what we want means only waiting for it—till God's time. And that time may not be in this world . . . I often love to think how wonderfully all our longings will be satisfied, and all our emptinesses will be filled, there—in the life to come."
Prue made no answer in words. She bent slowly forward, and was folded in her mother's a long close tender embrace. One or two tears might have dropped unseen: but when she sat up, she was smiling. "That always does me good," she said.
A DISCOVERY.
LETTICE, away in her western home, had no such comfort as Prue; no loving mother-arms to enfold her; no gentle mother-lips to kiss away heart-ache. Those who have never known this sweetest of all earthly comforts cannot realise the emptiness of not having it; and the grief of conscious loss is not theirs. But Lettice did sorely feel the need of some such love and sympathy.
She had comfort: the highest comfort: a love deeper than even mother-love; a tenderness exceeding even mother-tenderness; because the love and the tenderness were Divine. But while Divine comfort is in a sense all-sufficing, it cannot do away with the human need for human sympathy.
The Son of God Himself, as Man of Sorrows, though He had angels to comfort Him, yet experienced this lonely human craving; and so much the more fully He can understand its strength in the "children of earth." True, we never need stand where He stood; because, while He was absolutely cut off from all human sympathy, while there was literally "none" among His brother-men to comfort Him. We may have always, in unlimited measure, the most Human sympathy of Christ,—our Lord and Master, yet truly our Brother-Man! But the full realisation of this fact is not to many so vouchsafed, as that it shall entirely take the place of need for other human sympathy.
And Lettice was very lonely. Dr. Bryant's confidence in her had broken down under the stress of Theodosia's discovery. He now looked upon Lettice as guilty of the theft.
It was to him a bitter grief: scarcely less, if indeed not more, than to Lettice. For she had the full consciousness of innocence to bear her through; while he had the pain of believing himself utterly disappointed in her.
Once only he spoke on the subject; and that was on the morning after their excursion. Gravely and sadly, he avowed his fixed belief, refusing to hear denial.
"No other view of the matter is possible," he said. "Assertions are useless, unsupported by the slightest evidence. What have you to bring forward in your defence? Absolutely nothing. All these weeks you have not even attempted to clear yourself, and I have endeavoured to trust you in the face of all appearances; but this is too much. The very fact that you will speak now, when you would not before, seems to me an additional argument against you. Your past silence I do not understand, coupled with your present denial; but whatever your motives may be, or may have been, I can feel no doubt whatever as to your guilt."
"I did not take it," she said, her lips hardly able to frame the words.
"Hush! No more useless denials. At least you can abstain from further untruth. For the present, the matter must be dropped. When you can resolve to confess freely what you have done, then I will hear. Then you shall have my forgiveness, though you can never again be to me what you have been, because the old trust is no longer possible. But until then, you are under my displeasure."
A sob broke from her. "Oh, it is hard! How can I confess what I have not done?"
"Hush!" he said again. "No more of that. The proofs are unhappily too strong." He paused, looking into her agitated face. "It will be better and happier for us both, when you speak out . . . This is a great sorrow to me, greater than you imagine. At least, you can make it possible that I should forgive, that I should take you to my heart again! . . . Wait a moment; do not speak hastily. Think of the sin against God, and of your need that He should forgive. If you do not confess the truth to me, how can you look for His pardon? You will have a hard fight to get back to your old standing, after so grievous a fall. The first step must be full confession. That is absolutely essential. Why put it off? Why not speak out now—at once—looking on me as your father?"
"I do—oh, I do!" sobbed Lettice. "You have been—"
"Then treat me as a child should treat her father. Tell me freely, openly, how you came to take such a step, and what led up to it."
Lettice mastered her distress with a great effort, and lifted to his, her straightforward glance. "But, uncle, I did not take the bank-note. I do not know in the least how it came to be in my box."
Dr. Bryant turned, and coldly left the room, without another word. From that day, a barrier of separation divided the two, robbing their intercourse of all its old sweetness.
Theodosia was at last satisfied. At last she had obtained her wish. And perhaps in all England no more unhappy woman could be found. Such gratification of the heart's desire carries its own vengeance with it.
As wilful injurer to injured, she naturally showed small kindness to Lettice; and but for Keith, the girl would indeed have been solitary. His affection never varied; yet now and then the boy seemed constrained, and not fully himself; while before his mother he was more careful than ever to hide his feeling for Lettice.
Once upon a time Susanna, the parlour-maid, an old and tried servant, of weighty influence in the household, would have been entirely on Lettice's side; but Susanna, like Dr. Bryant, could not stand against the discovery of the bank-note in Lettice's box. The collapse of her trust was severe in proportion to its previous sturdiness. "Anything short of that!" she avowed to her confidante the cook, "and I'd have held out still. But bank-notes can't walk, nor open locked boxes; and that box, I know for certain, wasn't never left unlocked. I don't say Miss Lettice wasn't drove to it by some as ought to know better. She's had a deal to bear; but there's no manner of excuse for dishonesty. I wouldn't have believed, short of seeing; and when I did see, why, you might have knocked me down with a straw. And I'm sure, to see master's face, it just goes to my heart. He did think a lot of Miss Lettice, and no mistake. But, anyway, Miss Lettice took the money; more's the pity; and I'll never be certain of nobody again in this world!" Susanna ruled the kitchen view of matters.
Lettice had not now the consolation, which had been hers earlier, of enduring for the sake of Felix. Her present suffering bore no fruit of advantage for another; at least, so far as she could see. It may be that all undeserved pain, borne meekly for Christ's sake, does bring advantage to others: but this we cannot yet perceive.
Still, the trouble was permitted,—was the Divine Will for her. So much she could know with unquestioning knowledge. She had to bear, because the burden was laid upon her; she had to bear bravely, because by so doing she would please God. If she had done the thing she was accused of, she would have been required as a simple duty to take the blame patiently, deserving no praise whatever for the same. But "this" quiet endurance of hers, because it was endurance of unmerited blame, did deserve praise, being "acceptable with God." Lettice found consolation in the thought.
Others might look coldly and sternly; but her Heavenly Father saw, understood, and was pleased. He would set all right in time. He would clear away the cloud. He would establish her as blameless. Whether sooner or later, whether in this life or the next, the truth would be made manifest. Till then she would not murmur, but would put her trust in Him.
She wrote no word to Felix of what had happened, beyond the early intimation, which he had never so much as answered. Doubtless to him, absorbed as he was in his own work and prospects, it had seemed an unimportant matter. To tell him now how matters stood would only be to arouse useless anger in him. He could not clear her; and she resolved to wait until they should meet, and she could explain all by word of mouth. He did not very often enquire by post if she were well or happy; but he sent full particulars of his move to London, and of his new surroundings. Lettice wrote cheerily in answer, showing no sign of depression.
A letter came from Prue one day. "Your brother has been to call," she said, "and we hope to see something of him. He is in lodgings near us. Will not this tempt you to pay us a visit? Our present home is small—very different from the Farm—but you will not mind, when Felix is at hand. For his sake come if you can. A sister may have power over a brother; and it seems to me that he has been too long alone, with no softening home influence. You will forgive me for saying this! I am not finding fault with your brother; only I cannot help seeing that there is a need. Will you not give us a month or six weeks? Would Dr. and Mrs. Bryant object? Your last letter was very sad—so sad that it gave me a heart-ache. Has anything been troubling you very much of late?"
"If I could go! Oh, if I could!" murmured Lettice, a wild desire taking possession of her for kind looks and loving voices, in place of the cold indifference which now fenced her in. She realised all at once how long it was since she had seen the Valentines, how complete the separation had been between herself and Felix for years. Was it right that she should stay away, if by any means she could get to her brother? What if the character of Felix should undergo permanent deterioration, for lack of the sisterly softening which she might have power to supply?
"And there is no real reason! I am of no use here. I may just as well be there!" she uttered half aloud. "Prue does love—does care; and I think Felix does too, down below—if I could only get at him. If I only might go!"
"Go where?" demanded Theodosia by her side. Lettice had not known any one to be present; and she turned a stirred face to Mrs. Bryant.
"I did not mean to be heard. Prue Valentine asks me again to pay them a visit."
"Where are the Valentines?"
"In London. Close to Felix. I should see him too."
"Well, go, if you like. Why not?"
"You always said I could not. I thought it would be the same now."
"Go, and welcome." Theodosia spoke shortly.
"But the journey. I have no money."
Theodosia sneered.
"Perhaps you meant to spend part of the twenty pounds in that way."
Lettice neither flushed nor whitened. She had reached a stage beyond such demonstrations. Her clear eyes looked into Mrs. Bryant's.
"I did not take the note," she said. "I do not know how it came into my box."
"Perhaps you think I put it there." Theodosia had so accustomed herself to the present state of things, and to continuous deceit, that she could say such words without a change of colour, almost without a twinge of conscience. Conscience, habitually unresponded to, becomes in time deadened, and loses its power to speak. Theodosia had set before herself a certain end, and that end she was in a fair way to attain. She had not indeed yet found out what were the terms of her husband's will, but she had brought about estrangement between him and Lettice; and for the continuance of their estrangement, nothing perhaps could be better than Lettice's absence. This dawned upon her in a flash; and it was at once subversive of her previous policy with regard to Lettice's friends.
There was a pause, Lettice looking earnestly at Theodosia; and the change of colour, which had not come with Theodosia's own utterance, began under the pressure of that quiet gaze. Lettice noticed, but attached little meaning to the flush.
"No," she said slowly, "I should not like to accuse you or anybody of such a thing, unless I were very very sure. It is too terrible, and I know too well how hard it is to bear being falsely accused. Sometimes I almost think you know a little more than you will allow,—I mean, that you could perhaps help to clear me, if you would . . . But I do not know how. It is only a feeling . . . Why do you dislike me so? I have tried hard to please you ever since I came here; and it seems of no use."
"If not you—then your brother—"
"You do not suspect him, really," Lettice answered, with the calmness borne of long endurance. "If you did, you would have spoken long ago. Felix was not once in my room after lunch that day; so how could he possibly have put the note into my box? But talking does no good. I cannot clear myself yet. The truth will come out some day. Do you wish me to go to the Valentines?"
"Yes."
"For a month or six weeks?"
"For as long as you like."
"When?"
"Whenever you please."
"I will ask Dr. Bryant."
"There's no need to trouble him. I shall explain, of course."
"He would have wanted me to speak—"
"Before he knew you to be a—" The lying word stuck in Theodosia's throat.
"I shall speak to him all the same," Lettice answered resolutely. "If he wished me not to go—but I think he will be willing. To-day is Monday. I can ask if the Valentines would like to have me on Friday or Saturday."
Theodosia merely said, "Very well," and walked away.
Dr. Bryant entering immediately after, Lettice put the question before him.
"You wish to go?" he said, in the measured voice which had become habitual.
"If you do not mind, uncle?"
"No. It is quite as well. Fix your own plans; and I will supply the money."
She looked wistfully into his face, longing for a touch of the old kindness. "If I thought you wanted me, I would rather—rather stay here."
No softening came into the set features. "I could wish it on one condition," he said. "That condition you know. When you resolve to speak out, in plain confession—but until then intercourse is only pain to me. It is better that you should be away."
Then as usual, he broke the conversation off, and Lettice had to struggle with rebellious tears. The change in him was hardest of all to bear. Keith, now nearly ten years old, but small, pretty, and childish, not to say babyish, for his years, made no small outcry over the prospect of losing his playfellow. She never minded trouble, and was always unselfishly ready for an active game, when it suited him; and perhaps nobody had realised, Lettice least of all, what a difference her absence would make in the boy's life. Keith himself saw it instantly; and from that moment he flung aside his usual caution, lavishing kisses and caresses upon her, in a manner which brought chronic blackness to the brow of Theodosia.
For years, Theodosia had done her best to spoil the child. It never so much as occurred to her that, in later years, she would herself pay the penalty for this mode of training. She could not endure to part with him, even for his good; and she sent him daily to a small second-rate school, a mile off, instead of consenting to place him, as Dr. Bryant wished, at a first-class Bristol school. At home, she gave in to all his fancies, seldom enforcing obedience.
Theodosia counted that she and she alone had main possession of her boy's heart; but suddenly now she found that, despite all her efforts, his chief delight was in Lettice. In his indignant distress at the thought of losing his companion, he made no secret of the fact, but openly declared that "nobody" could be what Lettice was. Even while afraid of consequences, Lettice could not but find pleasure in the avowal.
She spent some serious thought over her answer to Prue. If the Valentines knew of the cloud under which she lay, would they wish to have her still? True, the accusation was undeserved, and she could scarcely be bound to tell of it: but she chose the safe side, and a touching little letter went off:—
"I shall love to come, if you will have me," she wrote. "I could get away on Friday or Saturday, if that is not too soon for you. But I must explain first about what has happened lately. They believe here that I have done such a dreadful thing. I am accused of stealing a £20 bank-note. Mrs. Bryant left the note lying about, and it disappeared, and after some time it was found locked up in one of my boxes."I did not do it, Prue dear: and I cannot imagine how the note came there. Only, there it was: and even my dear uncle now thinks that I took it. I have been very unhappy. Will you believe me? Or had I better stay away? I do long for your kind faces: only I could not bear to come among you all, and to have you doubt my word, or think that I could do such a thing. So please tell me what to do."I have not mentioned this to Felix, because I knew how much it would worry him."
Prue's answer, by return of post, was decisive.
"Come, and you shall have a welcome," she wrote. "Come on Friday, by all means. I have told my mother of your trouble, and no one else. We believe you perfectly. Poor child how you must have been tried!"
Lettice had hardly finished reading the letter, when Keith rushed in. He had been kept at home for a slight toothache, which vanished so soon as school was given up: and he wanted Lettice in the playroom.
"Come! Come along," he cried, clinging round her waist, regardless of the fact that Theodosia was present. Lettice tried in vain to loosen his grasp. "It's no good; you can't make me," he cried. "I mean to have all I can of you—every day—and there's lots of things for you to do. You don't mean to be long away, do you? I wish you wouldn't! When is it to be?"
"On Friday."
"Oh!" The boy gave vent to a kind of indignant howl.
"Pray stop that noise!" ordered Theodosia. "You make yourself quite ridiculous. The sooner Lettice leaves, the better, if you behave in this absurd way.'
"It isn't absurd. I wouldn't care if everybody else went. I only want Lettice. She's never cross."
"Hush," whispered Lettice.
"But I don't mean to hush: because I hate to lose you. You are the dearest old thing: and I shall be all alone. Come along to the playroom, do! I want you to myself."
Lettice yielded, in fear of worse to follow: and she really did not dare to look towards Theodosia. The boy dragged her upstairs, clinging all the way to her waist and when the playroom was reached, he flung himself upon her afresh with boisterous affection.
"I say; what makes you do such a stupid thing? Why can't you stay at home?"
"Why should I? Nobody wants me."
"Yes, they do. I want you. I want you a great deal more than anybody else. I want you always, and always. Lettice! I say, you're not crying?"
Lettice dashed aside a bright drop, trying to smile.
"Haven't I some reason to cry?"
"Why? What do you mean? Because Mamsie doesn't like you?" Theodosia encouraged him to keep up still the old baby-term, when strangers were not present.
"Because I am accused of doing a thing I did not do; and no one will believe me."
"But I do. You didn't take the money."
"No, I didn't, of course. Only I can't prove it. Do you believe me, really, truly?" She longed to feel that at least one in the house, even a child, put faith in her still: longed it the more, because she was going away.
Keith laughed. "Why, I know you didn't," he said.
"How do you know?"
"Why, I know! I know quite well. Mamsie won't let me say you didn't: but I do say it, all the same. She can't guess why I'm sure. But I know it, all the same. I know it perfectly."
Lettice stooped to kiss him, and was subjected to a bear's hug.
"I shall tell her I'm quite sure, if she says anything again. I'll declare you didn't do it."
"No good, I am afraid. Keith, you'll be a little sorry to have me gone? Just a little! Nobody else minds."
"Father does."
"No; not now. He would have minded—once."
"Father minds!" positively. "Mamsie doesn't. And of course I do. I should just think so. I shall count and count the days till you come back. How long will you be? More than a month! Oh, I say, that's too horrid! . . . Lettice, I've a great mind to tell you something! It's such a shame!—And I don't see why I shouldn't!—Only—you must promise you won't tell anybody else! Not a single person."
"Why?"
"Oh, because I couldn't tell you, without. And I have nobody else to say it to. I want to say it to somebody. Promise, won't you—like a dear old girl!"
She could not withstand the coaxing affectionate manner: and his complaint of "nobody else to say it to," appealed to her own loneliness. The pretty boyish face looked up into hers. "Let me tell you," he entreated. "Do, Lettice. It's so horrid not to have a fellow to speak to; and I shan't when you're gone. Only you've got to promise most faithfully that you'll never say it to anybody else—not to anybody! And more particularly, not to let Mamsie know."
"I'll do anything you like, so long as it isn't wrong—Yes, I promise not to repeat it to any one, without your leave, unless it is something that I ought to speak out about for somebody else's sake. And then you must give me leave."
His hand came over her mouth. "But it isn't! It isn't! It won't hurt anybody, except you."
"Oh, then that does not matter. I can't have much more to bear than I have had lately. What is it?"
"You promise not to tell?"
"Yes."
"Promise faithfully!"
"So long as it is right."
"Not to tell Mamsie—"
"No."
"Or anybody?"
"Not unless you let me."
He glanced at the door apprehensively, pressed nearer, and whispered—
"Mamsie put that bank-note into your box herself!"