A CRASH!
LETTICE could not control her start. Every pulse in her body seemed to leap with the shock. For some seconds she uttered no sound. At first she dared not let herself speak. She could only sit motionless, holding back the burning words which crowded to her lips; while the boy stared at her with half-frightened eyes. Then she said in a muffled voice—
"What makes you think so?"
"I know she did."
"How do you know?"
"I saw her."
"And you never said a word! Never a word!—To clear me!"
"Lettice—I couldn't! How could I?"
She felt the force of the remark. How could he indeed? The marvel was, not that he had not spoken earlier, but that he had spoken now. "Yet, have I not a right to be cleared?" Lettice asked of herself, in a tumult of agitation. "Am I to bear this always—because Keith must shield her?"
It seemed too hard—too much to expect. "I have promised; but I could make Keith give way. I could make him!" came next in the rush of thought.
She saw suddenly a scene in the study—herself confronting Theodosia, accusing Theodosia to Dr. Bryant, and calling upon Keith as a witness. It would be no more than Theodosia deserved. Lettice did not shrink from the pictured scene. Her gentle nature was for once aroused to a glowing energy of anger. What had she done to bring this on her? Nothing could be too bad—no punishment could be too severe—for Theodosia!
Yet she had to forgive! And her pledged word had to be kept. She might not betray the boy.
"But to go away from home, leaving them all to think this of me, when one word might set it right!" she cried passionately in her heart, while outwardly a dumb still figure, only trembling with the shock. "Must I? Must I? May I not do something?—Say something? Oh, it is hard to bear!"
"You don't mind so very much, do you, Lettice? What makes your hand shake? Are you cold?"
"Keith, I want you to tell me all about it—exactly what you saw . . . I am not vexed with you . . . Only I must hear the whole."
He nestled close to her, and spoke in a subdued undertone.
"It was the day Mr. Anderson came, you know. Father and you had gone off to the station with him; and I was hiding in your room for fun. I meant to jump out on you when you got back, and to give you a fright. It was dark, and I slipped under the sofa, and lay down there. And presently Mamsie came in . . . She had a candle, and she looked so queer and pale. And she had a scrap of paper, or something, in one hand—at least, I think she had. Lettice, what does make you shake so, all over?"
"Never mind. I can't help it. Go on."
"Well, she tried to open your boxes, one after another; and they were locked. So she hunted about in your table drawer; and presently she found a bunch of keys somewhere. I couldn't see, but I heard them rattle. And she lifted off the topmost one of the two big boxes—she always says she can't lift things generally, you know, so I wondered she was able! And she found the right key for the bottom box, after a lot of trouble; and she unlocked it, and put her hand in. I saw her arm go in, more than half-way up to the elbow. And I was so afraid she would see me, I hardly breathed. Then she locked the box again, and lifted back the other one, and put the keys away, and went off. And I got out of the room as soon as ever I could; because I knew she would be so angry, if she found I had been there. And I never told anybody. Ought I?"
Lettice could not speak. A strong nervous tremor had possession of her still; and her teeth chattered as if with cold. She put her arms round the boy for support; and rested her cheek against his curly head.
"Ought I? Lettice, you're not ill? What is it?"
"No, nothing. Never mind. I'm only—Hold me tight, Keith; and go on."
"You're speaking in such a queer voice."
"It doesn't matter. Go on. Tell me the rest."
"There's nothing more. That was all. I didn't think about it again—not even when the bank-note was lost. Because, of course, I didn't see a bank-note in her hand; only I'm sure there was something. And then when they said it had been found in your box, I couldn't help remembering."
Lettice shivered silently.
"You've promised you won't tell. But I say, what could make her do such a thing? It wasn't like Mamsie! It has made me feel horrid since—I mean, since I guessed what she did . . . Only you must keep my secret, Lettice. I couldn't have her know that I knew. I shouldn't dare."
"A boy—not dare!"
"Oh, but this sort of thing. I'd fight a boy any day, and not care; but I can't tell about this! Lettice, I couldn't! It would be so—Oh, you know! You'll keep my secret?"
"I must. I have promised."
"And you don't mind?"
"Yes, I do mind. Of course I mind—very much. I want to be cleared, more than you can imagine. It is dreadful to have people thinking that one is a thief. But I do not mean to break my word."
"If it were any one else; any one except Mamsie! I shouldn't mind then. I couldn't possibly tell now. I do wonder, though, what made her do such a thing. What could make her?"
"She doesn't like me, and she doesn't like you to love me. That is no real reason, of course; and I don't know any other . . . I think we had better not talk any more of this just now. I shall be saying something I ought not."
"And then you would be sorry, wouldn't you? Lettice, are you cold still? It's getting near teatime. Why don't you come downstairs?"
"No hurry. What did you want me to do for you?" She could not yet face Theodosia.
"Oh, only to paste in some of my scraps. I've got a nice lot of paste. Will you do it now?"
He rushed away for the scrap-book, his mind at once diverted from the subject under discussion. Lettice longed for a quiet half-hour; yet perhaps employment was better for her than solitary cogitation, and Keith's chatter left no loophole for steady thought. Trembling lessened under the need for careful work, but severe headache came on instead, and at length she was obliged to lay down the paste-brush.
"Keith, I don't think I can do any more till I have had some tea. I wonder if you could get me a cup?"
"I'll ask Mamsie. And some cake?"
"No, only tea. And then I needn't leave this to go downstairs."
Keith ran willingly enough, but he returned with a crestfallen air. "She says it's nonsense, and I shall smash the china; and if you want any tea, you are to get it yourself."
"Very well. You can finish sorting these pictures while I am away."
Lettice made her way slowly, not to the drawing room direct, but to her own room first. She hardly knew how to meet Theodosia; to meet her injurer, and make no sign. Beneath an outer strained calm lay a seething turmoil of indignation. If that should break bounds, what might she not say or do, in this hour of bitter resentment? Lettice dropped on her knees by the bedside, with face hidden, crying out voicelessly for the help needed; and ten minutes of wrestling went by before she dared to venture downstairs.
"You seem fond of cold tea," Theodosia observed, carelessly handing her a cup.
Lettice made no answer in words. Their eyes met: Theodosia's handsome and repellent, albeit capable of pleasant regards when their owner chose; Lettice's constrained and inwardly dark with some new meaning, which Theodosia could not read. The same was inscribed also, though no more legibly, in the firm set of the white lips. Theodosia tossed her head; and Lettice went to a chair, again trembling, so that she had to put down her cup.
"What have you been doing upstairs?" demanded Theodosia.
"Helping Keith."
"Is that all?"
"And—talking." The recollection of what had passed swept over Lettice afresh. Theodosia to have deliberately done such a deed, and to go about for weeks after with no sign of guilty consciousness: it seemed incredible! She had a sense of shuddering repulsion; and she remained with downcast eyes, almost forgetting where she was, only conscious of Theodosia's vicinity.
"What is the matter?" asked Dr. Bryant's voice.
"Nothing," Lettice began to say, and checked herself, for it would not be true.
"Something, surely."
"I have a headache."
"Since when? You had no headache at lunch."
"It came on—since."
"Upstairs?"
"Yes."
"Why do you not take your tea? Have you had some already?"
"No." Lettice put out her hand, and then found the cup held to her lips.
"Stay; this is too cold to do you any good. Have you none hotter, Theodosia?"
"If Lettice chooses to dawdle upstairs, she must take the consequences!"
"There may be reasonable excuse for delay. Has anything happened to upset her?"
"How should I know! She has had a letter from the Valentines."
Dr. Bryant rang the bell and ordered fresh tea. Then he returned to Lettice.
"From the Valentines? About your visit? Any disappointment?"
"O no. I am to go—"
"When?"
"Friday, I think. If you do not mind."
"I do not mind what is for your good. I should like to know the cause of your state at this moment."
Lettice could not meet his gaze of grave solicitude. It went to her heart to know how dear she was to him still, even though he could believe her guilty of so despicable an act, and even though the old tenderness of manner was absent. To let him go on thinking this thing of her, when by a word she might clear her name, was hard indeed, yet that she might not do, because of her promise. The strain and distress were almost more than she knew how to bear. She hid her face in her hands.
"Really, it is too ridiculous," declared Theodosia.
Lettice heard no answer, and was not at first aware that Theodosia had left the room. After a while, she felt the firm touch of Dr. Bryant's hand.
"Now drink this."
Lettice obeyed silently. When she had finished he took from her the empty cup, and she leant back with closed eyes, anxious to escape questioning; but presently he said:
"Look at me."
She obeyed again; and the steadfast gaze led to an inward remark on the part of Dr. Bryant, "I never saw guilt more like innocence." Aloud he said, "The tea has done your head good."
"Yes, thank you."
"What has happened this afternoon?"
She demurred painfully what to say. "I was—worried," came at length.
"About leaving home? . . . Is that it? . . . The prospect of going with this cloud upon you?"
She could truly answer, "Yes;" though after the "Yes," was a qualifying "Partly."
"One course lies open to you still—the course of frank confession. Nothing can undo what has been done; but next to the undoing of evil comes the confession of it . . . Have you no wish for my forgiveness, Lettice?"
There was a pause of some seconds before she answered, "If I had done what you think, uncle, I should wish to be forgiven."
"Still obstinate!" And the Doctor sighed.
Lettice lifted one of his hands, and pressed it to her lips. He drew it away.
"No. I would give anything to have back the old state of matters between us, and to some extent it is not impossible even now. But only one road lies open. Until you take that road—"
She moved her head slightly,—a quick involuntary negation.
"Some day I shall be cleared," she whispered, with unsteady lips. "Some day it will be made plain. I can't say what is not true."
"Hush! We will not discuss the question any further. Let me know what time you go on Friday, and I will take care that you have enough money."
Dr. Bryant quitted her abruptly, and Lettice's tears fell fast. The next moment, two warm arms were flung round her.
"Lettice, you're crying. What are you crying about? Has Mamsie been scolding? My pictures are all arranged. Don't you mean to come and help me paste them in?"
She tried to say, "Yes, when you like."
"I want to get them done before you go. I do wish you wouldn't go. It'll be so horrid. Lettice, you mustn't cry."
"Keith, if you knew how hard it is—to have uncle think such things of me!"
"I wouldn't if I was him," said Keith.
"He does. And how can he help it—not knowing? But I am going to try to be patient. I will ask God to help me. And some day—some day the truth will come out."
"Does God love you, Lettice?"
Lettice burst into fresh tears.
"I don't know what I should do, if I did not feel sure of that," she whispered.
"Then I'll ask Him to make you happy. Shall I? And I'll say my prayers every day, all the time you are away: and I really will try to be a good boy, Lettice."
"So Lettice comes to-day," said Mr. Valentine, over his breakfast on the following Friday. "She was a nice little girl, once upon a time, but girls do alter so . . . I wonder if Londoners call this a fresh egg? I don't! Got another? . . . Well, this is a dull house to come to: but young things like London bustle. That's the difference between them and me. I'm too old for uprooting, and getting used to a new soil."
"It takes time," his gentle wife said. "You've always been used to the country, you see."
"And to fresh eggs! And to country ways. One of which is not lying late in bed," grunted Mr. Valentine. "Where's Prue gone? And what is Nan after?"
"Prue's only gone to see if Nan has overslept herself."
"Shouldn't do it a second time, if I'd the management of her!—" with a reasonable appreciation of his own power in the household as compared with his wife's.
"What time does Lettice get here? I shall find her come, I suppose, when I get back," said Wallace. He had a distinct recollection of his old boyish worship of Lettice; merely a recollection. The feeling had died out through intervening years, as such boyish feelings do die out. Presumably it might be capable of revival; though Wallace was now a young man, and Lettice a young woman. The young woman is often an unexpected development from what the child has been: nothing remaining of the former individual except her identity.
Wallace felt it to be extremely uncertain whether the present Lettice would excite in him such sensations as had been awakened by the former Lettice, nor was he particularly desirous that she should. He could look upon those sensations with the composed and critical interest which a man feels, surveying his sensations in a past illness. The little episode of his early enthusiasm had sunk into a background corner of his canvas. Some interest was aroused by the thought of seeing her again; but it was not keen enough to affect his appetite.
"Who will meet her at Paddington, mother?"
"Prue, of course."
"If Prue has not time, I'll go," Mr. Valentine said, unexpectedly. He was known to detest above all things a huge London terminus. "Hallo, Nan! Taken to fine lady lie-a-bed ways!—" as his youngest appeared in the rear of Prue, buttoning her cuffs.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, father, but I went off sound after I was called. No, never a fine lady!" cried Nan indignantly. "You ought to know me better."
"Well, well, well, sit down and eat your breakfast, my girl; though it doesn't boast country butter:" and the old farmer, mollified by her protest, rubbed his broad hands together. "Hark to the wind! It's getting up for a storm, and no mistake."
"Glass has gone down fast," put in Wallace. "Taken a regular leap!"
"Well, it may or may not mean the same here. I'm not used to a sky mixed up with chimney-pots. I should know well enough, down at the old home, what to expect. Blowing up for a gale of some sort—that's clear."
"I'll tell you what,—I had better go to the station and meet Lettice," said Wallace. "Just as well." In an undertone, he explained to Prue his father's proposal. "Luggage sure to be lost, or something go wrong. I can get away in good time this afternoon, I know, and it will save all bother."
"And I'll meet you at Paddington, just before the train comes in," cried Nan.
So matters were arranged, somewhat to the relief of Prue, who had many little businesses in hand, and foresaw small leisure. But Nan failed to keep her share in the appointment; and she failed through no fault of her own.
Mr. Valentine proved to be a true weather-prophet, so far as that particular gale was concerned. Unknown to him, at the moment when he spoke, a cyclone had been announced in the papers, as on its road across the Atlantic, and the cyclone turned out to be no effete or worn-out specimen of its kind. As the morning passed, ever-increasing howls from warring elements could be heard, and the wind became after midday so violent, that at street-corners women were nearly swept off their feet, while flying tiles rendered walking a matter of danger.
"Do you think you ought to go?" Prue asked, when the younger girl appeared in hat and jacket. Prue was with her mother in the drawing room, the windows of which overlooked the street in front.
"They say a chimney has come down, in the next square."
"Oh, I'm all right. I shall not hurt. It will be fun to see the people."
"You must take care. Father went out to the post-pillar, and a slate fell close to him."
"Like being under fire, isn't it? But everybody can't stay in, and why should I?" asked Nan. "Why! I've got two odd gloves."
"If I went, I would go respectable."
"Of course you would, because you are Prue! As if I cared!" said Nan, flourishing the second right-hand covering. "Not worth another climb. I hate London staircases."
"Wallace will mind."
"Wallace won't see. I'll keep my left hand hidden, so. Good thing my sleeves are so long. I say!—What fun!—Look at that lady holding on for dear life to the railings. I don't mean to do anything so ignominious."
"Nan, my dear, you are almost old enough to leave off saying, 'I say!'"
"If I shall ever be old enough, mother!"
Mrs. Valentine shook her head, with a little smile.
"I wonder what we are all going to do to amuse Lettice! I wonder what she has grown into, and what she is like. Well, I ought to be off. There's a book in Wallace's bedroom, which I promised to take back;—I must get it, and leave it now. What's that?"
The question was not so much as heard. A prolonged heavy crash sounded; not a crash only, but a reverberating mixture of sounds; both roar and rattle, with a continuous grinding downpour, as if some semi-solid Niagara had launched itself into the house from above; and the whole room shook with the concussion. Voices were not at first audible. Prue made one hasty movement to her mother's side, and Mrs. Valentine grew pale; while Nan stared at them both, aghast.
"What is that?" burst from all three, as soon as words could be distinguished.
Shrieks arose from lower regions; and shouts in Mr. Valentine's hearty voice.
"Something must have fallen—or been blown down," said Prue, not losing her composure. "Father is not hurt. I hear him calling out."
"Thank God," passed Mrs. Valentine's lips.
"Wait, Nan! Don't go! It must be a chimney, and more of it may fall."
"Then you're not to go either," declared Nan.
"I will only look-out." She opened the door of the drawing room, which was on the first floor, over the dining room—the back of the house being given up to bedrooms,—and came face to face with her father, hurrying upstairs.
"All right? Nobody hurt?" he called. "Mother safe? That's a mercy! One of the biggest mercies I ever had to do with! Not a soul in the back of the house! Must have been killed if—just look here!"
A cry escaped from Prue, and Nan shrieked outright, as Mr. Valentine flung open the door of the bedroom, across the passage. On that side, the house was a wreck. Almost the whole stack of chimneys had crashed downward, breaking through floor after floor, till the basement was reached by a mighty mass of bricks and broken beams, flooring, ceiling, furniture, all jumbled together. Above, the sky was visible through the rent roof; below yawned a cavern.
"And nobody hurt?" asked the gentle voice of Mrs. Valentine, who had followed her daughters.
"Not a soul. The servants were in front."
"But I should have been behind in another moment," Nan said, in awe-stricken tones. "I was just going into the downstairs back bedroom! I should have been underneath all—that!"
"Hush! Don't talk of it now!" whispered Prue, seeing her mother's cheeks whiten.
"Now, look here, you've all got to get out of this as soon as possible," ordered Mr. Valentine. "There's more to come down, yet, maybe; and any part of the house may give way, after such a shake. You get hats and shawls, sharp—eh, what? Everything in the back rooms! Well, pick up what wraps you can."
"Where are we to go, father?" asked Prue.
"Out of this, my girl! That's certain! Somewhere over the street we must get taken in, I suppose."
A PERSONAL APPEAL.
AS the train came in, Wallace gazed about for the delicate shy child of his recollection; and failing to find her, he laughed at himself. Of course she was child no longer. He had to find a young lady; and what particular type of young lady, it was impossible so much as to guess. For a while, nobody presented herself who could in any degree answer to the mental picture which he failed to banish. And he began to think that she must either have failed to arrive or have betaken herself off, when a gloved hand touched his.
"How do you do?" a sober voice said.
And Wallace's curious gaze met a pale girlish face, with brown eyes, wistful and sad as ever of old. Late trouble had brought back the look which he knew, which a few weeks earlier would have been lacking.
"How do you do?" she repeated, with a faint smile, into which some amusement stole.
"I'm very sorry. I ought to have seen—I mean, of course, I couldn't know you," apologised Wallace, trying to take her bag.
"Am I so altered?"
"Well, yes—no—I'm not sure yet. Will you have a cab?—I mean, of course you must have a cab. What luggage have you got?"
"Only a trunk and a Gladstone bag. A porter has gone after them."
"Hadn't we better go after him?"
"Thank you."
Lettice walked by his side, and then stood dreamily outside the throng into which he plunged. She had a semi-bewildered sensation, for crowds were new and somewhat overpowering after years of country life. All through the earlier part of the journey a load of distress had pressed her down. How to endure the secret let out by Keith; how to bear with patience the false accusation from which at any moment she might clear herself; how not to loathe Theodosia with a detestation which should darken all her spiritual life;—these problems had been of absorbing interest. For a while they had filled her whole horizon.
But as the train rushed on, each moment widening the distance between herself and Mrs. Bryant, each instant bringing her nearer to Felix and the Valentines, a sense of quiet crept into the turmoil. First, the old comfort—old, yet always new; God knew, God loved, and it was the will of God. In His love and in His knowledge, He permitted this; therefore it was well. Then followed pity for her injurer; pity that Theodosia could so act, could so debase herself; pity that Theodosia's child should know what must slay his esteem for her,—and a child's love is largely a love of esteem, because it is almost of necessity a looking up love.
Verily, Mrs. Bryant had prepared a sharp scourge for her own future. All this came to Lettice as she was borne swiftly eastward, and the wrath and loathing died out, till at length she only felt bodily weary and mentally bruised, like one who has gone through a heavy conflict.
"These two yours?" asked Wallace, coming up, with an indication towards the articles in question. "That all?"
"Quite all, thank you."
"I say, you've found the journey rather long, haven't you?"
She smiled at him in answer—the old child-like smile, and Wallace at once said to himself, "She's not spoilt, and hardly a day older."
"Well, yes,—rather, I suppose. What a windy day it is!"
"Regular gale. Haven't seen anything like it since we came here. Tiles are flying about like snowflakes."
"Not quite!"
"Of course that's a figure of speech. I didn't get knocked down, but I might have been; anybody might be. I was glad I had promised to come, so that Prue could stay indoors. Nan meant to meet me, but she hasn't ventured."
The drive was a long one, and much of it was performed in silence. Wallace had not a great deal to say, and Lettice had a great deal to see. Once only had she passed through London before, and visions of that day were strong, as the cab rattled noisily through street after street.
"Nearly there now," Wallace said at length.
"Are we? I'm glad."
"You want a good rest." Wallace had been studying her fitfully, without seeming to do so.
"I want to see them all again—" with another smile.
"Well, just in a minute you will. Nan's sure to be on the look-out. Here we—Halloa! What's wrong?"
Lettice had a bewildered sense of something unusual; of a dense crowd; of a policeman stopping the cab; of Wallace's exclamations. She said nothing herself, waiting to learn what had happened. Then Wallace flung himself out of the open door, and Prue's face appeared.
"Lettice!" There was a kiss exchanged, despite the gaping crowd. "My dear, I am so glad to see you. But only think—such a thing has happened! Just within the last hour our stack of chimneys has been blown down, and the house is uninhabitable. Nobody is allowed to go near for fear the remaining chimneys should fall. The police have made a regular cordon."
"O Prue, I am so sorry!"
"It is unfortunate—to-day of all days. We have gone into some lodgings over the way, the only ones we could find empty near at hand, and I have been keeping a look-out for you. Every one is so busy. Drive to No. 15, please!" Prue said to the cabman, stepping in.
"I don't see—where is Wallace?"
"Gone off with my father. There are men at work bringing out the furniture."
"Out of the house! But didn't you say nobody might go in?"
"Nobody except those who are actually doing the work. Quite enough things are destroyed already. They will save as much as they can. I am so glad to see you at last, Lettice."
"I wish I had not come to-day. I shall only be in the way. I am so sorry!"
"We must think what to do. It is a little awkward, isn't it,—just at the moment when we are turned out of house and home? Awkward, I mean, because we had hoped to make you so comfortable, and now—But nobody is hurt, and that is such a comfort. The chimneys fell on the back top room and smashed through floor after floor, carrying everything with them. Anybody on that side of the house must have been killed. But my father was in the dining room, and mother and Nan and I were in the drawing room, and both servants were in front. Nan would have gone to the back in another minute. Think—if she had been underneath! All the rest is nothing in comparison."
"No, indeed!" murmured Lettice.
"This is the house where we are lodging. Come and find my mother. It will do her good to see you. She is wonderfully composed—wonderfully little upset by it all."
Lettice thought Prue no less marvellous. She was ushered into a shabby little lodging-house parlour, there to be affectionately received by Mrs. Valentine.
"This is a most unpleasant welcome for you, my dear," the old lady said kindly, with her placid look.
She and Prue were actually less pale and shaken, though they had been on the spot at the moment of the catastrophe, than was Lettice, coming in afterwards to hear of it.
"I am only so sorry! If I had not fixed on to-day!"
"No one can tell this sort of thing beforehand. It is all quite right," Mrs. Valentine said calmly. She looked at Prue, and added, "The cabman?"
"Yes; I told him to wait for a minute."
The words startled Lettice. "The cabman—I forgot," she said hurriedly. "But what ought I to do? I might—could I not go back to-night? If there is a train early enough—"
"No, dear. That is quite out of the question," Prue said at once. "It would be wrong, for the sake of Felix. And we could not let you go after dark, alone. You are not used to manage for yourself. You poor child! How tired you are! Take off your hat."
"But the cabman—"
"Only an idea, that we might use him for something! On second thoughts, I will make him bring in the boxes, and send him off,—" with an expressive glance at Mrs. Valentine. "Take off your hat, and lean back."
Lettice was glad to obey, merely delaying to hold out her purse. "But I don't know what I ought to do. If I knew—" she said, when Prue returned.
"Tea first," Prue answered cheerfully. She sat down by Lettice's side, and kissed her brow. "You dear child! How exactly the same you are! It is nice to see you again."
"But I can't stay. If I don't go back to-night, I must go to-morrow." What Theodosia would say Lettice dared not think. "I must," she repeated. "I could not stay to be a burden to you all; and you can't have much room in these lodgings."
"No, not much. That is the difficulty."
"I don't see how you can, even one night."
"I wish I could get some tea—that poor little head of yours is so bad. All the world is distracted just now, and the water won't boil."
Lettice tried to laugh, and nearly burst into tears. "It doesn't matter! I'm only—it's only—thinking about—"
"Don't think just yet. We'll talk over plans presently."
Lettice was fain to submit, and Nan burst in upon them with sensational details of what was going on across the street. The wrecked house could just be seen from their windows; and Nan had also been hovering about near at hand.
"What's going to be done with Lettice?" she blurted out.
Nan received a "hushing" until after tea, and then she was banished from the room. "I suppose we must consider plans now," Prue remarked, taking a seat by Lettice. "You see we are rather cramped here. There is one bedroom for my father and mother, and another for Nan and me. Wallace will have to get a bed somewhere else."
"You can't possibly keep me, Prue."
"I don't know about the 'possibly.' If it were needful, we could. But another idea has come to us. We happen to know that a spare bedroom is to be had at your brother's lodgings. Nan went round to ask, and the woman said it could be ready in half-an-hour. Now I do not see why you should not stay there for at least three or four days, or perhaps a week; and by that time, I hope we shall have something arranged, so that you can come to us. My mother thinks the same."
"If Felix would like it—"
"It would be so good for him, and surely he would be pleased. Don't at all events settle hastily against the plan. We are not attempting to send word to your brother. Far best to let him come home and find you there. A short telegram could not make clear what has happened."
"I don't know what to think. If I could be sure that he would not mind—"
"I think he would not. He has seemed to look forward so much to seeing you again. What if this were the right step for you to take, Lettice?—a means for getting back into your old place with him? You two have been apart so long. And really this afternoon you have almost no choice. We literally have not room for you here. Of course I could put you to sleep with Nan, and go somewhere else myself, only—"
"O no, indeed! I wouldn't let you do it."
"But—" in an undertone—"I don't quite like to be away from my mother to-night, after all this. And for you to go to your brother seems such a simple and natural plan. Don't you think so?"
"Yes; I'll go, Prue. I don't think he will be vexed."
"He ought to be delighted."
"Yes. I dare say—"
"You are unnerved by all you have gone through lately, poor child."
"I've grown so used to nobody wanting me—" with trembling lips.
"It will not be so here, Lettice." She put her arm round the girl, and held her affectionately.
Mrs. Valentine had moved away, and was looking out of the window.
"Shall I go now?"
"There is no hurry. I do not suppose your brother will get home for another hour or two. The only question is, whether you might like time just to unpack and settle in, and to have a little rest. I should like you to look rather more fresh when he comes in and finds you there."
Lettice shivered; then tried to laugh. "What will he say?"
"I know what he ought to say. My dear, you will be only two streets off—quite close to us. If he did not want you, you could but come back at once. But I am not afraid, and I don't think you would be either, if you were not so weary."
"Perhaps not. Prue, I'll be brave. And I think I had better go at once. I shall feel more cowardly if I wait; besides, you must have enough to see after."
A fact undeniable: nevertheless, Prue insisted on seeing Lettice, with her luggage, to the lodgings.
Felix had two rooms by this time—a small bedroom and a diminutive front sitting room. After saying good-bye to Prue, who had to hasten back, Lettice inspected her bedroom under the landlady's guidance, unpacked so much as was needful for the night, and then went downstairs.
The abrupt collapse of pleasant plans could not but be depressing. She had not the slightest doubt that three or four days at most would see her once more at her uncle Bryant's. Felix would not want her longer; and she could not be a burden on the Valentines in their trouble. She tried to believe that the seed of some unexpected good might be hidden in this withered flower of disappointment. Had she only felt sure that Felix would give a hearty welcome, the delight of even one night under his roof might have sufficed to outweigh all else; but severe doubts assailed her as to what he might say or do. It would mean additional expense; and Felix was wont to calculate his outlay to the penny.
Suppose he gave her no welcome? Suppose he were annoyed, even angry? Lettice scarcely knew how to face the possibility. To be repelled here, and then to go back, unwelcomed, to her lonely life in the cottage—she hardly knew which of the two was worst. A wave of distress rolled up anew and overpowered her. She was so thirsting for love and kindness.
Her thoughts went back to his old promise of a "little home" when he should be able to provide it—a promise, the repetition of which had flagged of late. Did he wish to provide for her still? The dullest home with Felix would be sweet, because it would be her own—not merely somebody else's home to which she was admitted on sufferance. "But only if he really wanted me," she murmured.
A recollection came up of the dear old Brighton days, and with it a craving for Cecilia. The years between faded to nothing, and she seemed again to see Sissie's face, to hear Sissie's voice, to feel Sissie's touch. Little jars or misunderstandings of that period had died into unimportance. Only the love remained.
Lettice dared not yield to this mood. She was shaken by it to the core, and was in danger of a complete break-down. With a desperate effort to put away thought, she strolled round the little sitting room, examined the titles of a row of books on the prim chiffonier, took another look-out at the window, then, deciding that Felix could not reach home for another hour, she resolved to follow Prue's advice and her own resolution, and to have a rest. It was, to say the least, undesirable that she should greet Felix with dull looks, or with the smallest tendency to feminine tears. So thought Lettice, weighing the matter soberly. Sleep might not be possible; but at least she would lie still, and would control the vagaries of her mind.
The latter intention might not have been easy of fulfilment in her unstrung condition; but the resolute quietness took happy effect. In ten minutes, Lettice was sound asleep.
Felix, wending his way homeward somewhat late, partly by omnibus, partly on foot, had not the remotest idea of what awaited him. He knew that Lettice would be at the Valentines' house, and he meant that evening to go in and see her. Some words of commendation, spoken to him by one of the heads of the business, had put him into good spirits. It would be pleasant to tell this to Lettice.
Though Felix never made an effort to win a friend, he did sometimes wish for a friend. It is not good for a man to be alone, and Felix was alone. Not merely sleeping alone in lodgings, as many have to do, but literally living alone, apart from other men, neither giving nor receiving sympathy. This is a terrible kind of solitude, and the worst that can happen to a man is to grow so used to it that he ceases to wish for aught else.
Felix had not reached so far, though he was on the high road to it. On this particular evening, rather curiously, a feeling of loneliness assailed him. Perhaps it was born of the consciousness that nobody in London cared for the praise he had received. Nobody would look the brighter for it—unless Mr. Kelly. It mattered to nobody except himself whether he succeeded or did not succeed—unless to Lettice. But the question arose involuntarily—Did he work now with any view to Lettice's future? Well, anyhow she would be glad—unselfishly glad. He wished he could see her alone, not surrounded by a crowd of people who were nothing to him. The unwonted sense of solitude and of desire for his sister deepened as he entered the narrow passage, politely called a "hall" by the landlady. He hung up his overcoat, and entered the back parlour, opening the door with no peculiar gentleness.
There he came to a standstill, petrified by the sight he beheld. Work lying on the table, a travelling-bag on a chair, and on the sofa Lettice asleep!
She did not wake with the jar of his entrance. It was as profound a sleep as Felix had ever seen. One hand supported a pale cheek, the other lay carelessly on a shawl which half-covered her. The eyes were closed, the brow peaceful.
Felix shut the door softly, and stood gazing. He did not know what had brought her there, and at the moment, he did not much care. There she was, and his sense of solitude was gone. It was enough for him to stand and look. Presently, he brought a chair to her side, moving with great caution, and sat down, to continue watching.
The extreme quiet of her face was entering into him, invading the cold crust which had been building itself around his heart. For that was a living quiet, not a frozen stillness. It had in it warmth and life underlying. The parted lips—not dropping open, but just parted—were full of sweetness. Sometimes the brow became dented, as if with some kind of pain or distress; and then another wave of calm would smooth it out. Felix wondered if she were dreaming.
Perhaps the steadfastness of his gaze disturbed her, for the troubled look recurred. She stirred restlessly, and her lips grew sorrowful. "I did not do it!" she said aloud. "It is so cruel! I did not take the money!"
Her eyes opened, and looked full at Felix. "Tell them I didn't! O please, please believe me!"
Then she slept again, but no longer profoundly. The restless movements continued, and she clenched her hand. "Please believe me! Please believe me! I did not take it! . . . Sissie would believe me! Sissie would know! O Felix! O Felix, take care of me!"
The last words were cried out sharply, in a voice of fear, and the open eyes again gazed blankly.
Felix had not for years been so stirred. The personal appeal went home, for it seemed that in trouble she had habitually turned to the thought of her brother. Somehow he had never pictured Lettice as needing help. He had been content to take it for granted that all was right in that quarter, since she did not complain.
"Wake up!" he said. "You're only dreaming. Nothing is wrong. See—I'm here! And there's nobody going to touch you."
"Felix! Oh, don't let them have me!"
She clang to him, confused still with the sudden awakening, and scarcely conscious of her whereabouts. He could feel the quick beating of her heart against him.
"But what is it all about?" he asked. "Why are you so frightened? Nobody's in the room except ourselves. Who did you think was going to take you?"
A sigh of relief came. "It must have been a dream. But it did seem so real."
"Well, here you are, safe and sound! I don't know yet why you have come, only I know you are in no danger from anybody."
"I thought they were taking me to prison—because of the bank-note. And Mrs. Bryant looked so dreadful. I wanted to scream, and I could not. It was like a sort of nightmare."
"You did call out pretty loud. What is that about a bank-note?"
"You will believe me, will you not? I couldn't bear to have you think it! Will you believe me, Felix? It has been so hard to bear. And I did not know what you would say, to find me here. If only you can believe me, I don't think I shall mind anything."
"Of course I shall. What do you mean? Speak out, and tell me all about it."
RULING PASSIONS.
LETTICE dropped her head on Felix's shoulder, and he slipped an arm round her, as he had done long before on the Brighton Parade. Looking down on her pale face, that day came back to him; and with the sudden recollection came also the old sense—almost forgotten of late—that he had to care for her. If she had reached him, happy and in gay spirits, it might not have been recalled; but the pale lips, the shortened breath, the clinging hands, all cried out to the manhood in him for protection.
"Don't cry! What's the matter?"
"You won't mind having me, will you? Just for a day or two! I didn't know if you would like it, but Prue said I ought to come. May I stay only over Sunday? They can't have me at the Valentines'. And I'm not wanted at home. Except—Keith—but I do dread going back."
"Can't have you at the Valentines'?"
"The wind has blown down part of their stack of chimneys; and the floors are all broken through. It is such a smash! Nobody can stay in the house; and they are in lodgings. Only two bedrooms; and Wallace has to sleep somewhere else. Of course there is no room at all for me, unless Prue turned out, and I couldn't let her do that. She is wanted, and besides, they will have such expenses now? And we thought you would let me come here."
"When did it happen?"
"Only this afternoon; not long before I arrived. Isn't it terrible for them? Mrs. Valentine and Prue were so good; but they couldn't keep me! At least, I couldn't let them! Felix, do you mind? May I stay, just a very little while? I couldn't go back to-night; it is too late. And to-morrow,—that would be such a tiny little peep . . . I do dread going back . . . Mrs. Bryant can't bear me; and even uncle thinks I did it."
"Did what?"
"That—oh, you know." She forgot that she had not told him. "It has been so hard to bear. Sometimes I have felt as if I must come away to you, and never go back . . . Felix, do love me just a little. Won't you?"
She tried to smile, and broke into a flood of tears.
Felix at first answered nothing. He was dumfounded by the revelation of what she had suffered, even though the cause of that suffering was still hidden. A wonder sprang up, how he could have been content to go carelessly on for so long a time, knowing no more. She clung to him as if for comfort; and Felix was glad that she could not see his face. In an unnecessarily gruff voice, he asked—
"What is all this about a bank-note?"