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"You take a bank-note! I should think not. My sister a thief!Who ever dared to hint at such a thing?"
"I didn't take it! Felix, I didn't, really." She lifted her head to look eagerly at him.
"You take a bank-note! I should think not. My sister a thief!! Who ever dared to hint at such a thing?"
"But it disappeared! Don't you remember? I told you, ever so long ago. And you never answered me."
"I remember something, not much. You said they couldn't find a bank-note; but I supposed it was all right, as you never said any more."
"They found it afterwards—some time after—locked in one of my boxes."
"Whew!"
"And ever since—even uncle believes that I stole it."
"Then he's a noodle!" declared Felix shortly. "What sort of box?"
"My biggest,—the one I have all Sissie's things in. I always keep it locked."
"Who found the note?"
"Mrs. Bryant and Susanna. Mrs. Bryant wanted to have my room turned out, and she insisted on having the keys of my boxes. I was going off for the day with uncle, so I could not help myself. And when we came back in the evening, she had found the bank-note; she and Susanna together."
Lettice found it a wonderful relief to pour out all this; and Felix drew her on to tell a good deal more, by questions at intervals. If his tone were dry, it was not indifferent. A lurid gleam came into his eyes.
"Plain enough!" he said at length. "Mrs. Bryant put it into your box herself."
Astonishment at his penetration rendered Lettice dumb.
"That woman hates you like sin. I saw,—it was clear enough. She's afraid you may stand in the way of her interests. You're not half sharp, child! But I should have thought Dr. Bryant had more sense."
"He did hold out for a long time. He wouldn't believe I could do such a thing. But when the note was actually found there—"
"Where it had been actually put by his own wife!"
"Felix—you can't know—"
"Can't prove it, if you like. I know well enough. Why else should she have arranged so cleverly to get to the box, and to have Susanna at hand just at the right moment?"
"But still—"
"And you have no more doubt of the fact than I have!"
What could Lettice say?
"Well!!" and Felix drew one long breath of resolution. "You don't go back to them again in a hurry! That's flat."
"But—"
"You don't! It's settled! I'll have you to live with me. So you just send for the rest of your luggage."
"Felix! O Felix! May I? May I really? Will you let me?"
"Of course. I'm not going to have my sister treated in that fashion."
"Oh, you dear, dear boy! You don't really mean it! Not—to live with you always!"
"Yes!"
"It will be so happy! I can't believe that it's true . . . And I'll work . . . I can work, you know . . . I'll teach, or copy, or do anything . . . And I'll eat as little as ever I can . . . I won't be a burden on you."
"You keep quiet, and don't talk nonsense! I've had a rise lately." Felix gulped down a sudden recollection of his beloved savings. "If you don't eat, I'll make you. So you just be a sensible girl, and stop fretting. You have done with those people, once and for all."
"Not uncle Maurice!"
"If he counts you a thief—!"
"He wouldn't, if—I think she talks and persuades him! And till it was actually found in my box, he always trusted me—though I had been alone in the room with the note, when it was left out."
"So had I!"
"Ah! That was the very thing. I knew you had, and I couldn't bear them to remember that, and so I did not dare at first to speak. Uncle almost begged me to deny taking the note, and I would not. I was so afraid of making them suspect you . . . Felix, I must tell you the truth. I didn't feel quite sure of you, and that made me wretched. And now I see how horrid it was of me to doubt. Will you forgive me?"
"I should think you might have felt sure," Felix said, in a constrained voice. "I'm not that sort of fellow."
"O I know, and I do hate myself for it!"
"Now, look here! I won't have any more crying. You'll wash the house away next. It's been a mess, and you've been an arrant little goose: and that is the long and short of it . . . I suppose, if we hadn't been so many years apart, things would have seemed different . . . Anyhow, it won't happen again . . . You just have to banish the Bryants out of your mind, and make yourself happy here."
"Make myself happy! Felix, if you knew!" She wrung her hands together in an ecstasy.
"Well, I've got to see about supper now. There's a single mutton-chop in the house; and I'm as hungry as a bear."
"And I'm not hungry in the least. I couldn't eat to-night—I couldn't, really. I'm not shamming, Felix. I think I'm too happy to eat."
"Rubbish! I'm going out to pick up something. My landlady never has a notion what to do at a pinch!"
"I don't really want any supper. My head aches."
"No wonder; after lakes of tears. You just tuck yourself into the corner of the sofa, and go to sleep again till I come back."
Felix used gentle force to induce obedience, and departed. Lettice leant back with closed eyes, in a dream of delight. Dearly as she loved Dr. Bryant, the relations between him and her had been of late far too constrained to permit any enjoyment: and the very thought of escape from Theodosia was relief unutterable. Only—poor little Keith!—what would he say?
"But Felix must come first! I couldn't go back," sighed Lettice. "I'll write to Keith very often."
Then a tap came at the door, and in answer to her "Come in," Wallace's voice asked, "May I?"
"Yes; please do. I want to hear about them all."
Wallace entered, glancing round the small room, perhaps rather gratified to find Felix absent. Then his regards travelled back to Lettice's face, and remained there.
"I'm afraid—things haven't gone straight," he said gravely. "Prue wanted very much to know; so I offered to come round. Has Anderson been in?"
"O yes. He is only gone out to get something for supper. It is all right," said Lettice, a brighter smile flashing over her face than Wallace had ever seen there, though her reddened eyes and pallid cheeks had at the first moment sent a shock through him. He would not have expected to care so much; but, as of old, he never could endure to see anything slight or weak in suffering.
"I am afraid you are awfully tired," he said.
"Yes, I think I am—perhaps," assented Lettice, with another flash of a smile. She went back to the corner of the sofa, and dropped her head down on the arm. "I hardly know how to sit up. But that's nothing—it only means going to bed. Please tell Prue I'm happier than I have ever been in my life. I am to live with Felix altogether,—not to go back to Bristol at all."
"That is good news indeed, if—" hesitated Wallace.
"There isn't any 'if'—there isn't, indeed. Felix is so good! What makes you look at me like that? Are my eyes red?"
"Well, just a little; and I thought—"
"I couldn't help crying. It wasn't Felix, only I have been so wretched, and now it is all changed. Don't worry Prue, because everything is right. Indeed it is."
"I'll be sure to tell her. She will see you, of course, to-morrow, while your brother is away. I was to ask if you would spend the morning with us,—at least with them. I shall be in the City, I'm afraid."
"Should I not be in their way? But I'll come round, and I shall soon see. Do tell me now about your house. Have any more chimneys fallen? Is nobody hurt?"
Nobody, Wallace assured her: and the furniture had nearly all been carried out by this time to a neighbouring warehouse. All, except what had been destroyed; and the amount thus lost was considerable. Whether any further collapse would take place remained to be seen; but since the wind had gone down, it was less likely.
"Things are bad enough without that," Wallace said. "The house can't be habitable for weeks, I suppose."
"And the expense—"
"Doesn't do to think of that yet!" responded Wallace.
It was hardly to be expected that Felix should go through no after-regrets on the score of his new resolve. His was not, indeed, a nature to fluctuate feebly to and fro over a determination once arrived at. If Felix made up his mind on a point, no matter how rapidly, he would carry out at all costs the programme laid down; and having given his word he would stick to it. He had plenty of faults, but neither fickleness of purpose, nor lack of honourable feeling, had a place among them.
Still, the prevailing habit of thought through years could not be broken by an instant's resolution. The original desire for "success," generally expressed by himself as "getting on," had gradually resolved itself into a definite desire for wealth. To this end he had toiled with a persistency rare in one so young: for this end he had laid by with remarkable self-control. In pursuit of this absorbing aim, all gentler outlets of his nature had been in danger of getting permanently clogged up.
To take Lettice into his little menage meant hindrance, to say the least, in the carrying out of his aim. It would imply some reduction in the amount of his savings it might even mean an infringement upon those savings. Under the influence of aroused feeling, he had experienced no doubt as to what had to be done; but a measure of reaction was almost inevitable. No hesitation existed as to the carrying out of his resolution; for to that he was pledged: but none the less the battle had to be fought. Questionings assailed him with respect to the wisdom of what he had undertaken to do. He blamed his own impulsiveness, and regretted that he had not at least waited for fuller consideration.
All Friday night he lay awake—an unwonted experience in his healthy youth—debating with himself; looking on the question from all sides; finding fault with his precipitancy; and grieving over the thought of his now diminished saving powers.
In the morning, when he came down to breakfast, one glance at the sunshine of Lettice's face chased the regretful mood away as if by magic. She had slept peacefully all night through, and had awakened to a new life of freedom and happiness. Felix, contrasting her joyous smiles with the tears and pallor of the evening before, felt that he could have done no otherwise: and to her no signs of his inward conflict were allowed to appear. Yet the same regrets assailed him over his work that day; and though on his return they were dispelled afresh, a fierce renewal of them at night drove him nearly frantic.
Next day, Sunday, he came down in a restless and worried state, which was only in part soothed by her companionship. "I shall have you all to myself to-day," she said repeatedly, and her delight awoke a response in him, even while those gnawing doubts went on. One shadow alone rested on Lettice, and that was the thought of Dr. Bryant. She could put aside bitter recollections of Theodosia, but not loving and pained recollections of him. Still, her prevailing sensation at present was of freedom and relief.
The brother and sister went to Church in the morning, and for a long walk in the afternoon. Felix once more found his inward battle lessening as her sweetness won him back to the old love of their childish days: and a keen consciousness was dawning that better things might exist in life than a hasty acquisition of wealth. In the evening, Lettice wiled him to Church again. She had been always used to go twice, and in London she could not, unless he would act escort.
He had not listened with any particular attention to the morning sermon; but this evening Mr. Kelly's text took hold upon his mind, and refused to be forgotten.
"For no man liveth to himself."
Some part at least of the sermon following was more or less an outcome of a certain conversation once held between Mr. Kelly and Prue, with reference to Felix himself. Of this Felix knew nothing; but he could not help listening. He had undoubtedly lived to himself of late, so far as such living is possible, and he knew it—nay, he had rather prided himself upon the fact. He had not lived for other men. He had not lived unto God. His one aim had been wealth; not wealth to be used for the good of fellow-men, but wealth purely and exclusively for his own advantage.
Such thoughts floated in a back region of his mind, while Mr. Kelly drew sharp distinctions between the life that is lived to God, and the life that is lived to self.
"In one sense," he explained, "no mean ever lives, or can live, utterly to himself. Our lives are so intertwined, one with another, that the lives of others must affect us, and our lives must affect them, at every point of contact. We must influence, and be influenced. We must help to make others more or less good, more or less happy. No choice here is left to us. From the very constitution of our nature and of human society, no man ever can live or die absolutely to himself alone. The manner of his living, and the manner of his dying, must tell upon the living and the dying of his fellow-men."Yet within limits we have choice—not only a choice whether our influence shall be for good or for evil; but also a choice whether our lives shall be unto God—unto our fellow-men—or exclusively unto self. The wide margin of aims, of motives, of intentions, is left to our decision. You must live; you must act; your living and acting must affect your neighbours and friends; all this, whether you will or no. But the spring of action, the motive-power of life, shall be as you choose. And remember, whatever you do or leave undone, God looks straight to the motive."In most men's lives we find one or two or more dominant motives, occasionally one only, so strong as to become a 'ruling passion.' Those who are so governed are commonly the men who get on, who do well, who succeed. That is to say, they succeed in their sins; they get on and do well in the thing which they have set before them to accomplish. The aim may be high or low: the thing may be good or bad; but at least they seldom fail in their object, because the full strength of body and mind is bent to the obtaining of it. When such men are won to the side of God, in the great battle against evil, they are men worth having. From them you will not see lazy or half-hearted service."If the leading aim, the mastering passion, in a man's life be Self, then the object for which he toils is poor and low; he gives money for that which is not bread, and his hunger and thirst cannot be satisfied. If the ruling aim and passion of his heart be to live unto God and unto men, then his object is noble, and unlimited possibilities lie before him."The love of self takes many different developments. It may desire money for self, success for self, comfort and ease for self, admiration for self. Or it may desire these things for the one being best loved on earth; and self may actually be worshipped and toiled for in that being, so that here we find another form of selfishness, though by no means so ignoble a form as the first."Now I do not for a moment say that these desires are intrinsically wrong. It is natural that we should like a measure of ease and comfort, that we should wish for wealth and success—natural and not evil. The evil lies in overbalancing. That which is right in moderation becomes wrong in excess. That which is harmless, even laudable, as a well-controlled aim, subject to high principle, becomes contemptible as the one sole object of a man's existence—becomes perilous as his mastering passion."Love God first; and other love will take its due place. Live for God first; and all your life will be in fair proportion. Work for God first; and you will work for fellow-men; Self sinking into a reasonable background. But put self first; live for self; toil for self; and the whole of your life will be ill-balanced, crooked, out of order and proportion."You need not for a moment suppose that this high aim is incompatible with a useful and successful career on earth. Rather, it should help you towards success, because it should ensure a single-hearted devotion to labour. Surely a man ought to work better for God and for others than for himself alone. No more inspiring, no more grand and uplifting motive can be found than this—'To do the Will of God!'"Was ever any life loftier than the Life of Christ? He said, 'I come to do Thy Will, O God!' We too, in our little measure, may say and do the same. If that be the ruling passion of your heart, 'To do His Will,' then no success will injure you, and no adversities will shake your firm foundation. Whatever your line of life may be, it makes no difference. Christ is there; and you have to do His will. He may give you success; or He may not. But one thing is certain. You will not do your work less well because you do it 'unto Him.' You will not live a less beautiful life because you live it 'unto Him.'"Success is more commonly His Will for the diligent; and He bids us to be diligent. He would not have us feeble and indolent servants. He would have us strive our utmost. And suppose He gives to us success and wealth—what then? What of the money so gained? My friends, remember, 'No man liveth to himself!' And wait upon your God for orders. The silver and gold are His, not yours. Whether you have much or little, you hold it all in trust for Him; and you have to do His Will."
Felix walked out of Church with those words sounding in his ears—
"You hold it all in trust for Him, and you have to do His Will."
He said not a word to Lettice. Like Cecilia, he was reserved. They talked of other things at supper; discussed Lettice's troubles; and planned little changes in their mode of life together. Lettice was in gay spirits, joyous as a kitten; and Felix was thoughtful, but not sad.
That sentence clung to him still, "You hold it all in trust!" His savings were not strictly his own; they were only held in trust; and if he were called upon to spend more, to lay by less, why should he resist? Further than this he did not advance before bedtime; and then the old struggle recommenced. But in the last few hours he had learnt something, and he was stronger to fight. These persistent regrets were far from noble. They drove him at last, in the dead of the night, to prayer, and from his knees Felix arose, victor over himself.
A NEEDED TOUCH.
"THREE months since I came! I seem to have been years in London,—years and years!" said Lettice aloud.
She had been busy all the morning over some mending for her brother: singing to herself as she darned and patched. To work for him was a pure delight, because she loved him, and because he was good to her. Lettice had fitted easily and completely into her new home, finding great happiness there. The dull little room, and uninteresting outlook, signified nothing. Perpetual cheer existed in perpetual freedom from Theodosia's rasping temper, in constant power to devote herself to Felix. She could often forget for hours together the unjust and cruel suspicion under which she still lay; and only the thought of Dr. Bryant weighed still.
He had written two or three times kindly, but with brevity; expressing no marked regret at losing Lettice, only trusting that she would be happy. What had passed between him and Felix, Lettice could merely conjecture. That a hot letter had gone off in her defence, she did know, though she had not been allowed to see it; and Dr. Bryant's temperate answer, while it made Felix "Pshaw" angrily, was quoted to her only in parts. Lettice knew thus much, that he still counted her guilty, and that his affection for her was not dead. Sometimes she feared that the cloud never would be lifted from her pathway in this life.
Once a boyish ill-spelt letter arrived from Keith, vehemently lamenting her defection. "It is horrid without you," he said. "There's nobody to talk to now, and not a scrap of fun." Lettice dared not answer the scrawl with any freedom, nor could she honestly say that she wished to be back.
After three months in lodgings, the Valentines were at length in their home once more. They and Lettice met frequently, spending many a spare hour in company. Prue was still the prime favourite of Lettice, but she heartily cared for them all; and Nan had dropped into something of her old awkward devotion to Lettice. Old Mr. Valentine once quaintly styled her his "outside daughter," and the name clung to her thenceforward. Wallace seemed to find particular pleasure in using it. Lettice was most willing to be his sister. Had he wished for a closer tie, he might have found the wish denied; since Lettice was too supremely happy in her new sphere, too entirely wrapped up in Felix, to give her heart easily elsewhere. But though Wallace liked to call, liked to chat with Lettice, and liked to show brotherly kindnesses, he failed to develop into a lover.
"I seem to have been years and years here," repeated Lettice, standing to look-out of the window upon the quiet street. It was a warm and bright day, with only the ordinary slight murkiness of atmosphere, which a true Londoner does not so much as perceive. Lettice, being not yet a true Londoner, did perceive it, with a transient recollection of the exquisitely clear air about her country home.
"But I would not go there again; oh, not if I could," she went on aloud. "I would do anything for uncle—anything; but until he believes in me again, I cannot make him happy. Being together is not real enjoyment. There is always a sort of shadow between us. And Mrs. Bryant—to live with her. Oh, no! And to leave Felix—so good as he is to me now—dear boy. And I am sure it is right for him—the best thing that could have been, even though it does mean not making money so fast. Prue says it will be the making of him, which is much more important. I want Felix to be a really nice man—a man that everybody may look up to. Who is coming now? I know that way of walking. Why, it is Bertha! Bertha herself."
Lettice ran out to open the front door, and Bertha presented a rosy cheek to be kissed. The two had never met since Cecilia's death: and those smiling eyes awakened a rush of memories. Not altogether sad memories. Lettice could not but feel how Cecilia would have rejoiced in the present arrangement.
"Bertha! How good of you! I knew you were to be at home for just one day, and I meant to leave you all to yourselves so carefully."
"And I meant not to be defrauded of a peep! Let me look at you. Yes, just as they say. The same, only more."
"More what?"
"Any agreeable adjectives that you like to string together. So you really are settled down with your brother—busy, and well, and happy! No need to ask if you are that."
"Sometimes I wonder if any girl is quite so well off as I am. Of course there are some things—I don't mean that I have every single thing in life I could choose. Only I do delight in being with Felix always, and having a little home so near all your dear people."
"I'm sure they are equally delighted to have you near."
"Sit down, please; if you can spare just a few minutes. And you are fond of nursing as ever? Not tired of it?"
"Tired! Never! Yes, I know what you mean by the 'something' that you want. Prue told me, of course. She knew you would not mind."
"About the bank-note?"
"It is a horrid shame, Lettice. That is all I can say. And you are the dearest little angel to bear it as you do. There—now you know what I think."
"Ah, you can't tell how I have often felt. Anything but angelic!"
"I can only toll how you haven't acted. I couldn't have borne it so in your place, that is certain. Never mind. Your brother understands, and so do we. So would anybody that really knows you, as mother and Prue and I do. Those people near Bristol don't signify. If I were you, I would just ignore their existence. A set of—"
"O no; I am very fond of uncle Maurice, and of Keith."
"So much the more shame for them. To treat you in such a way; you, with that dear little transparent face of yours. How anybody, with a grain of commonsense in his brain, could look at you for half a second, and believe that you could do such a thing—! It's perfectly insane!"
"I don't think your nursing-work has tamed you down yet," Lettice said, smiling.
Bertha's eager defence could not but be pleasant.
"It never will—if that means turning me into an automaton. I'm subdued enough in a sick room; but I hope I always shall have a little indignation to explode on injustice . . . Now I won't talk of that any more, or I shall be saying too much . . . Though I don't see that any blame could be too strong . . . To turn to something else. What do you think of Prue?"
"Of Prue?"
"Yes. Is she well? Is she happy?"
"She is always so good to me," said Lettice slowly. "And I think—one doesn't seem to expect Prue to be anything but well."
"Because she never talks about herself. She never contrives to draw attention to the matter. You don't hear Prue informing other people, unasked, how she has slept, and how she has eaten, and what are her latest sensations."
"No; that is it. Prue always seems to go quietly on just the same, whatever she feels. She does look very pale sometimes—and she is thin—but all this worry about the home—and the shock of the chimney falling—"
"My theory is different. Prue does not look as she should look: but I don't believe the chimneys have had much to do with the matter. I believe it is wholly and entirely Mr. Kelly."
Lettice opened her lips, and shut them again.
"Nothing but Mr. Kelly," repeated Bertha, watching Lettice critically.
"I never thought of such a thing."
"You know Mr. Kelly well."
"He comes to see us sometimes, not often. He has always been kind to Felix; and now I do a little work in the Parish for him."
"And you find him pleasant?"
"Yes—very. Why not, Bertha?"
"Does he ever speak of Prue?"
"Sometimes."
"But he does not show any especial liking?"
"He likes Prue, of course. Every one does."
"Don't you understand me yet? I am treating you as one of ourselves—and trusting you. Of course this is in strict confidence. But for Prue's sake, I thought I would ask you if you had noticed anything. Did you ever hear of the past time, when Prue knew him? Years ago."
"I know he is an old acquaintance."
"More than a mere acquaintance. For weeks we were thrown together, and he seemed to be definitely seeking Prue. I should have said there could be no mistake about the matter. And Prue gave him her whole heart. Poor dear! How happy she was! Then suddenly he drew back, and went away without a word. We lost sight of him for years. Prue suffered terribly, but she would not talk of him—would not allow any one to blame him. And I was as sure as she was that there must be some mistake—only, what could one do?"
"And you believe that Prue cares for Mr. Kelly still?"
"If Prue gives her love once, she gives it for ever. Don't you know her well enough to know that?"
Lettice sat lost in thought.
"The question is—does he care for her now?" Bertha went on.
"Bertha, I almost think he does."
"You don't imagine that he has taken to somebody else?"
"No."
Bertha saw that a certain conjecture in her own mind had not so much as penetrated into Lettice's thoughts; the idea of Mr. Kelly in connection with herself was non-existent.
"No," she repeated; "certainly nobody that I have come across. I don't know most of Mr. Kelly's friends, of course. But now that I think of it, I have noticed how he talks of Prue. I thought it was because she is such a friend of mine, only—"
"Men are not so accommodating. They don't understand the force of female friendships."
"But if he does care, why should he not speak?"
"Ah, there it is! He may not be sure of his own mind—he may still less be sure of Prue's mind. That self-restrained manner of hers is not easy to read. At all events, you know now how things stand."
"I wish he would! It would be only too delightful!"
"Well, you and I, of course, can do nothing. He must just please himself. Perhaps I feel a little more hopeful, after speaking to you—and I know it is safe! You will never breathe a word to anybody—least of all to Prue? . . . Tell me now all about yourself. I must not stay many more minutes."
After Bertha's departure, Lettice stood again, gazing out of the window, busied in consideration. She did not quite see why Bertha had said so much. It seemed that the conversation could lead to no particular result. As Bertha had truly remarked, they could take absolutely no steps in the matter. If Mr. Kelly did not come forward of his own free will, no living person had power to induce him to do so.
"And, after all, it may be a mere fancy," decided Lettice. "Mr. Kelly may have forgotten his old liking; and Prue may not really care any longer. Prue always seems contented."
Then, to her surprise, she saw Mr. Kelly himself in the street, apparently steering a straight course for the front door—Mr. Kelly, with downward-bent head and intent visage, evidently much occupied with some subject mentally viewed. Lettice did not open the front door this time.
"How odd that he should come now, just after Bertha's call! I have a great mind to make him talk about Prue, just for the sake of watching how he does it . . . Did Bertha think that perhaps I was getting to like him a little too well?" This idea flashed up unbidden, and Lettice burst into a soft fit of laughter.
"O how absurd! Then she really came in Prue's interest. Dear Prue! Why, he is old enough to be my father!"
"All alone, Miss Anderson?" Mr. Kelly surprised the laugh, only half completed; and he was not sure whether to be disconcerted, since it might be that she was laughing at him. "You seem very cheerful," he hazarded.
"O yes: I am as cheerful as possible," Lettice answered, composing her face with all speed. "Please sit down. I have a good part of the day alone, of course. And sometimes my own thoughts amuse me."
"Your mind to you, in fact, a kingdom is."
"Not always, I am afraid."
Mr. Kelly sank into profound silence. This was not his usual mode; and Lettice became speedily aware that he had something on his mind. He had been very friendly and pleasant of late, and she enjoyed a call from him; but the abstraction to-day became somewhat heavy. Lettice tried to get up a conversation, and there was no response. She spoke of Prue, and he only said, "Yes."
"I don't think Prue is looking at all well?" hazarded Lettice.
"No? Indeed?"
"For a long time past. Ever since I came."
"Ah, yes!"
"And Bertha thinks the same. Bertha has just been to see me."
"Yes, indeed," murmured Mr. Kelly.
Lettice gave up, and imitated his silence. For three minutes, at least, the noisy little clock had things his own way, undisturbed.
"Dear me, I'm afraid this is very unsociable," said Mr. Kelly at length. "I had no intention—I am sure—"
"I am afraid something must have gone wrong in the Parish."
"No, thanks; nothing at all. Nothing in connection with the Parish."
"Then, is it anything you would like me to do? Any work—?"
Another prolonged pause.
"Miss Anderson, you once came to me years ago, to ask a question—was it not to ask advice?" His memory was slightly at fault, but Lettice made no attempt to set it right. "I am come to-day, on something of the same errand—that is to say—to ask a question, for a particular reason."
"My advice would not be worth much."
"That may depend upon certain circumstances. If, for instance, you had better means of judging—"
Did he mean—Prue? The thought whirled through Lettice, producing an inward turmoil. Could it be? Yet, why should he come to her?
"Better means of judging—" reflectively repeated Mr. Kelly.
"If I have. Please ask me anything you like!" Lettice's cheeks were bright.
"It is, of course, in confidence. I may depend upon you—should there be no result."
"Quite!"
"Then, could you tell me this? Is there the slightest hope, that—say, under any circumstances—Miss Valentine might marry?"
"I don't see why not!"
"I imagined—that perhaps—she seems so entirely the home-daughter—"
"If it were for her happiness, how could they not be glad?" asked Lettice. "And they all love Prue so much! Everybody does, who knows her."
"As you know her!"
"Yes. I have never seen any one else like her."
A smile stole over Mr. Kelly's serious face, and vanished.
"She was once, I believe, engaged."
"Was she?"
"It was years ago, long before I first saw you. I knew her then, well. In fact—though I had not meant to reveal any personal interest in this question—I do not mind saying that she made a very strong impression on me then. But I was told that she was engaged; and I at once left the place."
"Fled! Without making sure if the report were true!"
"Perhaps I acted too precipitately. My information seemed reliable."
"It was not!" Lettice spoke decisively. "You were told what was untrue."
Mr. Kelly showed some slight agitation. "And all these years since—"
"All these years since, she has never been engaged." It seemed very strange to Lettice that Bertha's visit should have been just in time to prepare her for this interview. She could not but speak out, however, having the requisite knowledge.
"You are sure? It was a long while ago."
"I am sure: because I have heard particulars. Prue was not engaged at that time; and she has never been engaged since. I know so much, positively. There cannot be any mistake."
Mr. Kelly kept profound silence, and Lettice's heart beat fast. Would he ask any more? Had she said enough?
"Thanks!" came at length, and he stood up. "I must not pay a longer visit to-day."
"And this is all you wanted to know?"
"Yes, thanks. Of course you will not repeat this—this little talk of ours?"
"No, indeed. And I suppose I must not ask you one question in return. Would it be wrong? That impression—the impression Prue made upon you, all those years ago—I wonder if it has gone quite off? Do people change?"
"Some do!"
"I could not, if once I cared for anybody very very much."
"Nor I!" said Mr. Kelly.
She lifted her face to his, and said markedly—"Nor Prue!"
The light that broke over his face was very singular. Lettice had never seen anything exactly like it.
"Thank you very much," he said at length. "You have given me courage."
Then he was gone; and Lettice saw him striding off, at "double-quick-march" in the direction of the Valentines' house, that house which they had only reentered two days before. He would find things in some confusion; but what did that matter.
"I'm so glad I could say a word. If only he will come to the point!" murmured Lettice.
Three hours later, a note was left at the door, and Lettice read:
"DEAR LETTICE,—You must be the first to hear. Mr. Kelly has asked me to be his wife, and I have consented. He says it is your doing. Thanks, dear little 'outside sister.'—"Ever your loving,"PRUE."
"Lettice, I say, here's a telegram for you."
Felix had overtaken the telegraph boy at the door, on arrival at the close of his day's work. Lettice looked up with dreamy eyes.
"A what! O Felix, I have such news! Guess—good news! What do you think is going to happen?"
"Can't tell."
"Mr. Kelly and Prue are engaged to be married."
"Time they should, if they ever mean to do it. I thought they would have dangled on to the end of the chapter. When did he speak?"
"Only to-day. Prue wrote at once to tell me. I am so delighted. Nothing could be nicer. And she will have a home so near to them all. But what do you mean? Did you expect it? How came you to think of such a thing?"
"How could anybody avoid seeing it? Here, what is this?"
"A telegram!" Lettice tore open the envelope and lifted scared eyes to her brother.
"Don't stare! What is it? Anything wrong?"
"Felix, I must go!"
"Go where?"
"Keith is dying." She sat down, trembling.
He looked over and read aloud. "Come at once; late train. Keith dying, wants to see you. Bring companion if needful. Will pay all expenses. No delay. Maurice Bryant."
"I must go directly. The very first train. Poor little Keith."
"Now, Lettice, be sensible! Don't upset yourself. It's no manner of use, and you'll only lose time. I will look-out trains, while you run upstairs and put your things together. You may have to stay a few days. There's a train, I fancy, about nine or ten. The boy is waiting, and a reply has been pre-paid. I'll say we are both coming. Yes, I shall go too. You can't travel alone at midnight."
"How good you are."
"I don't see much goodness in the question. There's nothing else to be done. That woman is having her deserts."
Lettice gave him a look, and rushed away. When she came back, he had settled everything, and was seated in the arm-chair.
"Supper will be up directly, but there is plenty of time. I declare it would serve the Bryants right if you did not go."
"I couldn't do such a thing."
"No; I dare say not. Only, it would serve them right."
"Felix, do you think you ought to come?"
"Why 'ought'?"
"If you feel so—"
"What! You think I might give Mrs. Bryant a piece of my mind?"
"You could not. You couldn't say anything unkind, when she is in trouble. And Felix, dear, you would not. I am sure of that. If you knew how she cares for that boy. It will almost kill her to lose him. O no; I am not afraid."
"I don't think you need be,—" in rather an odd voice. "But I do wonder what is the matter. I do wonder whether he may not, after all, get well!"
"Telegrams don't give very abundant information. You'll like to leave a message for the Valentines?"
"I had written to Prue, before you came in. I'll just add a word of postscript . . . What a day this has been. I am so glad for Prue! But oh, that poor little Keith! Felix, if you knew how loving he was to me before I came away: and how he said he would miss me. Oh, I hope we shall be in time!"
"Here comes supper. Now, mind, if you don't eat, you don't go!" Felix spoke with a determined air of authority.
RETRIBUTION.
THE next few hours were to Lettice one prolonged whirl. She did what had to be done, with some measure of outward quietness; but her mind was in a dizzy tumult of feeling. After all that had passed, it seemed such a fearful reverse for Theodosia! Lettice forgot injuries to herself, and her whole heart went out in passionate pity to that unhappy woman, who in losing Keith might almost be said to lose her all.
Felix said little during the journey, but he saw to everything, looked well after Lettice, and made her lie down on the seat, while nobody except themselves occupied the compartment. She found herself involuntarily tracing and retracing the course of late events. Things had turned out utterly unlike all previous expectations. But for Theodosia's determined antagonism, she might not have come to London at this time, and she might never have lived again with Felix! This new phase of affairs had sprung from a chain of circumstances over which she had small control; not one of which, separately viewed, could have been deemed likely to produce any such result.
"I suppose things often are so," she meditated, reposing in the lamplight, with the rush of the train in her ears. "And after all, it has been worth going through the trouble, to bring about my home with Felix. Yes; worth the whole. I would not undo a single step, if it must mean undoing that too . . . I never fancied Felix could be what he is now to me. Three months ago, if I could have looked ahead, how little I should have cared about Mrs. Bryant's unkindness . . . At least it would have been a different feeling altogether—not desolate! I do care now: but I shall be cleared some day, quite cleared. I am sure of it. And meantime life is so happy! How can I help being contented? . . . That poor little Keith? Ought I to be glad about anything, when he is dying?"
So the hours passed, in alternations of feeling; and after midnight, the journey ended, in a dark drive to Quarrington Cottage.
Lettice sprang out, to be met at the door by Dr. Bryant.
He looked grave and tried; but at the first glimpse of Lettice, something of the old light came into his eyes. "My child, I have missed you!" he said.
"Have you? I did wonder if, perhaps, you might!"
"Hardly possible that I should not!"
"And Keith?"
"You are in time. Not much more than in time, I fear. Your brother was right to come too," as he held out a hand to Felix.
"I could not let Lettice travel alone at night."
"No: you are perfectly right."
"Uncle, what is the illness?"
"A chill first. Bronchitis, with complications. He cannot last many hours now. At this moment he is not conscious."
"Will he know me?"
"I hope so. He has asked for you incessantly, poor little lad. Theodosia would not consent, until yesterday afternoon, to have you sent for. I feared then that it might be too late. The boy was so distressed that she had to give way."
Lettice shivered at the thought of Theodosia; not with reference to herself. "It is terrible for Mrs. Bryant!" she murmured.
"Yes; and the boy has seemed to turn from her in this illness. It has been most painful. My dear, will you take off your wraps; and then you must have supper. After that you shall see him."
"O let me go to him first. We had supper at home."
"You must take something more now."
She had no choice as to submission, and obedience was the quicker mode. Fatigue could not be thought of; and she had no desire for sleep. Felix at least was glad to avail himself of the food provided; and Lettice did her best to satisfy Dr. Bryant.
"You are looking well in health. Not the worse for London!" he said, after an earnest scrutiny.
"Felix takes such care of me."
Felix grunted slightly, as if in token that he desired no compliments.
"Anderson will be no loser in the end."
Then came a summons. "Master Keith was sensible, and he wanted Miss Lettice. He had asked if she were in the house."
"Come, both of you," the doctor said unexpectedly. He could hardly have explained why he extended his invitation to Felix. The words sprang from a momentary impulse; and Felix followed without hesitation.
Keith was sitting up in his little bed, supported by pillows. Beside him stood Theodosia; haggard, wretched beyond description. After one glance, as Lettice entered, her eyes were averted: while the boy extended eager hands, and gasped, "Dear old Lettice! Come!"
She bent over him, and he held her with his thin arms, until they dropped through weakness. The breathing was sorely oppressed. He seemed striving to say something, and unable to bring it out.
Theodosia drew nearer; but with one hand, he tried to push her away—a hasty childish motion.
"No, no, Keith!" the doctor said in a gentle voice.
"I can't! Lettice! Not Mamsie! It was she—did it!" The boy could with difficulty speak, and he looked towards Dr. Bryant, panting. "I want—want—to tell you! . . . Mamsie did it! . . . I saw her! . . . Lettice knows! . . . Ask Lettice!"
"What does he mean?" asked Dr. Bryant, in a low voice.
Lettice shook her head. How could she reply?
"Lettice knows!" repeated the boy brokenly. "Hold me, Lettice! Don't go! . . . She put the bank-note . . . her own self . . . into Lettice's box! . . . I saw her . . . Mamsie knows quite well . . . And Lettice knows!"
Theodosia's face grew stony; and Dr. Bryant's changed to a grey whiteness.
"Who put the bank-note into Lettice's box, Keith?"
"Mamsie! Her own self! I saw her! . . . I can't think—how—she could!"
An oppressive silence followed, broken only by the boy's gasps.
Lettice was the first to speak.
"Keith, darling, don't think of all that now. Try to forget about the money. You have not to do with it, you know. Think of the stories I used to tell you, up in the playroom on Sunday afternoon. About JESUS, dying on the Cross, and how He loved the children always."
"Yes, I know! Will He take me—right away—up there?"
"I am sure He will. He loves you so; and He died for you, Keith. Ask Him now to forgive you all that you have done wrong; and to take care of you."
"I can't speak—it hurts! You ask?"
There was an instant's shy reluctance, but at such a moment she could not think of self.
Others simply stood around, waiting. Lettice looked at none of them. She knew that Theodosia, Dr. Bryant, Felix, Susanna, were present; yet as she knelt, with bowed head, clasping the boy's hand, she had a sense of being alone with Keith before the Heavenly Throne.
In soft tones she uttered the words of her own old evening prayer, learnt long ago from Cecilia, and taught later to Keith, only changing the pronouns to suit the needs of the present occasion, and bringing in Keith's name. He joined brokenly in the familiar sentences: and then a fit of choking came on. Theodosia interfered to give help: her own face ghastly. When the attack passed off, it left the boy unconscious.
"Is this true?" the doctor asked, in a voice of suppressed pain.
He had no immediate answer. Theodosia's gaze was riveted on her boy's face, over which a marked change was creeping. It had come without warning: and it deepened fast. Again he struggled for breath: and once more, with returning sense, his eyes sought Lettice's face. A smile glimmered: and one word passed his lips, that word of "hope for the dying." He said distinctly—"JESUS!"
"Keith, darling, look at mamsie! Give poor mamsie one smile."
He made an effort to obey: but in the act, his eyes closed.
There was another slight struggle: and the child was gone.
Silence again fell upon them all; and Lettice trembled, holding the small lifeless hand. Theodosia stood up white and stern.
"Yes: it is true," she said, "I did it! I wanted to get rid of Lettice,—for Keith's sake! I could not have done such a thing for anybody else's sake,—only for Keith! . . . Only for Keith! . . . I know what I am saying! Don't stare at me—all of you! I tell you—Lettice stole my boy's heart from me! And she would have robbed him—robbed him of his rights! I saw it all—and so—for his sake—my boy's sake—"
"Come out of the room, Theodosia!" Dr. Bryant spoke with infinite pity.
"Why should I go? Nothing is left to me now. Oh, I know—it was wrong, of course—but this is an awful punishment!" And she sank over the child's body, uttering a wail of such misery, that Lettice burst into weeping at the sound. Who could comfort the unhappy woman? She had sacrificed her truth, her sense of right, deliberately wronging an innocent girl, as a gratification of her own jealousy, and for the supposed advantage of the single being whom she loved: and now, not only was he taken from her, but before he went, she had the additional anguish of knowing that she had forfeited his esteem, if not also his love.
There was a bitter irony in the fact that her own idolised boy should have been the one, of all others, to make known her wrong-doing. Either, his resolution not to speak of it had broken down under the weakness of suffering, or his childish conscience had refused to let him pass away without clearing Lettice from unjust accusation. Whichever way it might be, Theodosia's cup was thereby filled to the brim.
"Go away! Go and leave me!" she cried. "I want Keith! Nobody but Keith! Lettice may have all your money now. Now Keith is gone."
To Lettice the scene was heartrending: to Felix it was a revelation. If the love of money could lead to this—love of money, not for self even, but for another—who might count himself free from peril! He said nothing; but that which he saw sank deeply, and was not forgotten. Theodosia's jealousy of her boy's affection for Lettice was an additional motive which he could not so well see or appreciate. One side of the matter was clear enough: and it carried its own lesson.
"Take Lettice into another room," Dr. Bryant said quietly, and Felix obeyed. Half-an-hour later Dr. Bryant appeared alone, entering the study where the brother and sister had taken refuge. Lettice, not a little shaken by the past scene, was sobbing still: but at the sound of his step, she stood up.
"Is Mrs. Bryant—!" she tried to say.
Dr. Bryant was still ashen pale, with the look of a man who has received a severe blow. He came in front of Lettice, and said, "My child, forgive me!"
Lettice clung to him, without a word.
"Forgive me!" he repeated. "You have been cruelly wronged."
"You couldn't know! You couldn't tell. It was not your fault. I have nothing to forgive."
"You have much! I ought to have been sure! The marvel to me now is—how I could ever have thought it possible. My own credulity amazes me."
His grieved look wandered to the brother, and Felix said promptly, "The other would have seemed much more impossible."
"True!" Dr. Bryant sighed heavily. "The least of the pain is that our little lad is safe at Home!"
"Don't mind about me! Don't think of that again," entreated Lettice. "You have been so good, so dear and good to me always. And if I had spoken out at first—"
"That was always a mystery! I never could understand your silence. Why not have denied it from the beginning?"
Lettice was dumb, and Felix spoke for her. "She thought she might divert suspicion upon me. I was in the room, also, with the bank-note."
"I see!—" with a flash of understanding. "But, no! How could that affect you? You were not in the room alone?"
"Yes,—alone!"
"Ah!" The sound was almost a groan.
"It is all right now—I mean, you will never doubt me again—and I shall always be your child!" murmured Lettice, longing to comfort him.
His lips touched her brow, as he echoed,—
"Always my child!"
"Is she any better, uncle?"
A negative mournful movement came in answer.
"She has insisted on being alone for a time. After all—what can one do? What can any one say to comfort her? . . . Now you must both go to bed? And do not hurry up in the morning, either of you. Breakfast can be made ready at any time."
"And you, uncle?"
"I must have a little time to myself. Good-night, dear child. Try to sleep . . . There is need to sorrow more for the living than the dead; and that touches me more closely than you."
"I think—what touches you touches me!" she tried to say.
"Thanks, my comfort!" and with a stirred face he was gone, able to bear no more.
"I am glad I know him," Felix observed abruptly. "There's something noble about that man—something unlike other men!"
Four days later, Keith was laid to rest in the little village churchyard; and some who knew Theodosia well, said plainly that it was a merciful stroke which had taken the boy thus early away from her influence. Dr. Bryant, whatever he might have felt, passed no such judgment. He uttered no reproaches, and showed to his wife only a steadfast compassion.
She bore up sullenly till after the funeral, only keeping to her own room, and refusing to see Lettice. Then she broke down, and for many weeks she was laid low with brain fever. Out of this illness, she emerged a permanent invalid, shattered in body and mind, childishly sorry for her past conduct, so far as she was capable of recalling it, yet apt to be amused with the veriest trifles.
Lettice could be no help to Dr. Bryant, so far as Theodosia was concerned: since her presence proved always in a measure harmful, by exciting more vivid recollections. A good nurse was in constant attendance: and Dr. Bryant devoted himself, with patient and forgiving assiduity, to lightening, so far as was in his power, the burden of his wife's existence. Hers truly was a spoilt life. In less than a year, she was laid beside her boy.
Dr. Bryant had been thoroughly shaken out of his love for Quarrington Cottage by these painful events. Without consulting anybody, he put the place into the hands of agents, to be let or sold: and six weeks after his wife's death, he betook himself to a London hotel, within five minutes' walk of the Andersons' lodgings.
Nobody expected him. Lettice had been greatly exercised of late, wondering whether her first duty lay with Felix or with Dr. Bryant, now that the latter was left alone in the world.
"If only I could live with them both!" she said often to herself. But Felix was tied to the neighbourhood of London: and that Dr. Bryant should be willing to quit his old home was a notion which never so much as occurred to her imagination. Everybody looked upon him as a fixture there.
The day on which he arrived happened to be the day of Prue Valentine's wedding: a quiet affair, with only Bertha and Nan, Lettice and one other girl, for bride's-maids. The ceremony took place in Mr. Kelly's own Church.
Prue looked calmly happy, in her neat white dress: not only happier but younger than for years past. The bride's-maids wore mauve and white, in consideration of Lettice's mourning, which was of course slight in degree.
It was a morning of much excitement for Lettice, who had never been a bride's-maid before: and for about the first time during six weeks past, her mind did not dwell continuously on the thought of Dr. Bryant in his solitude.
Coming out of Church, after the happy pair, a vague sense took possession of Lettice that somebody familiar and unexpected was present. She could not at once give shape to the notion, and she did not exactly see the "somebody." It was rather a dim consciousness that such an one might be seen—and her eyes roved about anxiously. Had she caught a glimpse, or had she not—almost without knowing? An answer came in the porch, when a kind finely-outlined face, framed in grey hair, was suddenly close at hand; and then she was aware that she had before detected him in Church, though her brain had not fully translated what her eyes had seen.
"Uncle Maurice!" burst from her lips.
"Presently!" he said, as his hand clasped hers. "Go and enjoy yourself, my child. I shall see you by-and-by."
The next two hours were passed in pleasurable suspense. When at length bride and bridegroom had taken their departure, Lettice was free to go home,—and there, according to hope, she found Dr. Bryant comfortably established.
"So this is where you live!" he said.
"It isn't a palace, uncle. But big rooms don't make happiness."
"That's an aphorism worthy of a copybook. Wedding gone off all right?"
"O yes. But how did you know?"
"I called here, and learnt where you were gone."
"Didn't you think Prue looked nice?"
"I thought somebody else did . . . Lettice, are you and Felix wedded to this neighbourhood?"
"To London? Felix has his work."
"Business men often live outside London: within easy distance."
"But the expense of going in and out every day! Of course I should like it, and so would Felix: only it can't be thought of. You see, Felix ought to lay by, if only a little, every year, and I cost him a great deal. But I do try to be economical, and to save in every possible way. And Felix is so glad now to have me with him."
"My dear, I want you also."
"If only Quarrington Cottage were not all that great distance—!" Lettice spoke distressfully.
"I am not going back to Quarrington Cottage. It holds too many sad memories. The place is to be sold. I think of finding a new home outside London,—perhaps in the direction of Reigate or Dorking. And I must have you to live with me."
"But—Felix!"
"Felix too! I would not on any account separate you. I want you both to make my home your home. Why should you not? All that I have will belong to you by-and-by: and my will is already made, to that effect. No,—I shall leave something to Felix—" as she uttered her brother's name—"but the bulk will be yours. Felix can make his own way: and he will make it the faster, if by this plan, he is able to lay by present earnings. I should undertake all his current expenses, as with a son of my own. Will Felix object?—And would you mind?"
"Mind! If Felix consents, I shall be only too glad!! To be with you always:—and to have Felix:—and to live in the country! I didn't know life could be so lovely!" cried Lettice, enraptured.
No difficulties arose in the path of the plan. Felix was both touched and grateful.
"Nonsense!" he said to Lettice, when she expressed privately her regrets as to Dr. Bryant's intentions for the future, which he had plainly stated to the young man. "Of course he is free to leave his money where he likes. Neither of us has the smallest claim upon him, but you deserve it, if anybody does. He is uncommonly good to me, I can tell you: and this will be a capital lift. To have a home provided, and expenses paid, just when I am making my way! Don't you see what a lot I shall be able to save?"
"I hope we shall not both get to care too much for money," Lettice said seriously.
"Not much danger for you. That isn't your sort. And mind—if you think I'm getting into an avaricious groove—just speak and warn me, Lettice."
Quarrington Cottage was sold, and a pretty home was chosen within forty minutes of the City by rail. There the brother and sister lived with Dr. Bryant, finding in him a true father. Neither of the two had after cause to regret the arrangement, and Dr. Bryant's old age was the happiest period of his life.
Although the desire to "get on" was no longer the ruling passion of Felix Anderson's mind, to the exclusion of higher aims, he did get on, and gave promise in time of becoming a thoroughly prosperous man. But in after years, he never lost sight of one main fact, that what he possessed was literally not his own, but only "held in trust."
THE END.
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