The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe AndersonsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The AndersonsBrother and sisterAuthor: Agnes GiberneRelease date: June 25, 2024 [eBook #73910]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United Kingdom: James Nisbet & Co., Limited, 1894*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ANDERSONS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The AndersonsBrother and sisterAuthor: Agnes GiberneRelease date: June 25, 2024 [eBook #73910]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United Kingdom: James Nisbet & Co., Limited, 1894
Title: The Andersons
Brother and sister
Author: Agnes Giberne
Author: Agnes Giberne
Release date: June 25, 2024 [eBook #73910]
Language: English
Original publication: United Kingdom: James Nisbet & Co., Limited, 1894
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ANDERSONS ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
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"They've not got there! Never arrived!"
BROTHER AND SISTER
BY
AGNES GIBERNE
AUTHOR OF
"THE DALRYMPLES," "MISS CON," "SWEETBRIAR," ETC. ETC.
"Live to thy neighbor: live unto thy God:Not to thyself alone."
LONDON:
JAMES NISBET & CO., LIMITED
21 BERNERS STREET
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I. IN BRIGHTON LODGINGS
II. LETTICE'S DREAD
III. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE
IV. PRUE AND BERTHA
V. THEIR NON-ARRIVAL
VI. QUARRINGTON COTTAGE
VII. SUMMONED
VIII. FROM READING TO BRISTOL
IX. A NEW HOME
X. AGED NINETEEN
XI. A VANISHED BANK-NOTE
XII. FOUND! AND WHERE?
XIII. THE VALENTINES AGAIN
XIV. A DISCOVERY
XV. A CRASH!
XVI. A PERSONAL APPEAL
XVII. RULING PASSIONS
XVIII. A NEEDED TOUCH
XIX. RETRIBUTION
THE ANDERSONS:
Brother and Sister.
IN BRIGHTON LODGINGS.
"IT doesn't matter! That's to say, it can't be helped. I wouldn't have done the same in your place, Sissie. But perhaps you were right. I don't know exactly how we should have managed. I don't mean to be indebted to him or to anybody. I have my own way to make in the world; and I mean to make it. I'll get on—somehow."
The words were spoken resolutely, and the speaker, a lad of about seventeen or eighteen, gave a slight toss to his head, which shook back a loose lock of hair, given to dropping over the brow. It was a gesture characteristic of Felix Anderson. He was a good-looking young fellow, not tall but well-made, with a resolute square jaw.
"I mean to get on, and I will," he repeated. "Anybody can who chooses. I have to begin at the bottom of the ladder: but that's no reason why I shouldn't got to the top some day. Anyhow, I don't mean to be easily beaten. If I take this thing now, it is only as a stepping-stone to something better. I shall not be a bookseller's accountant all my days."
There was a touch of egoism in all this, but egoism is almost an essential part of youth, and the boy was thinking of others besides himself. "I wouldn't have written to Dr. Bryant in your place,—after the way he treated my father and your mother. But if you thought it best—"
"I could not see what else to do. It is hard enough to ask help of anybody. For myself I would not—only for you and Lettice."
"Not for me. I can do without him, thank goodness! I wouldn't touch a dirty penny of the old fellow's with a pair of tongs! Not for anything you could mention," declared Felix, with unnecessary vehemence. "It is different for you and Lettice. Not that I couldn't have kept you both."
"On seventeen shillings and sixpence a week! Forty-five pounds a year!"
"It will be a pound a week soon. Besides, I shall make more somehow. Something would have turned up," said Felix, with juvenile hopefulness. "And in time, you will be able to teach again,—not a great deal so as to knock yourself up, but enough to be a help. I mean to have a home for you both before long."
The faded woman, lying on a sofa near the fire—faded, though scarcely thirty-five in age—knew better. She was too well aware that the prospective home would not be for her.
It was a shabby little room: a most ordinary specimen of a second-rate lodging-house "parlour" in a dull back street of Brighton. Yet there was about it a certain refinement of air and tone. Cecilia Anderson was a lady, both by birth and by education: and her personality told upon her surroundings. Rows of well-bound books spoke of better days: and a graceful arrangement of moss and ferns gave evidence of somebody's love for beauty. Moreover, the three present, though to some extent shabby, were also scrupulously neat; and while work lay about, it was not flung about: and neither table-cloth nor carpet was bestrewn with the shreds of white cotton, too often seen in the wake of tasteless females.
Lettice had not spoken yet. She knew well that Felix's opinion, not hers, was the important question, even though her future might be more acutely affected than his by the correspondence between Miss Anderson and Dr. Bryant. Not being self-assertive, she was in no haste to thrust herself into the discussion, but sat quietly, work in hand, glancing between the stitches from one to the other.
"What did uncle Bryant do?" she at length asked, in the rather long silence following her brother's last words.
"He's not your uncle,—or mine."
"He is Sissie's,—" with a glance at Miss Anderson.
"And what is mine is yours, of course," added Cecilia Anderson.
"Oh, well—but you can't make a thing to be, when it isn't," rejoined Felix. "He's no scrap of relation to Lettice or me, you know—really—and he must have behaved abominably to your mother."
"What did he do?" persisted Lettice.
"He objected to my mother's marriage. I suppose there were hot words spoken—as usual, in family quarrels. I am not sure about the 'behaving abominably.' He tried to prevent what he did not think would be for her happiness. My mother had her way,—and there was no further intercourse between them."
"And you to write to him—after all these years!"
"That is it! So many years and years ago;—before I was born! My uncle must be quite an elderly man now. I don't think one ought to make too much of things spoken so very long since! He thought he was in the right,—and he did not really know our father. At least, he never learnt to love him. That is what I mean. It is all over now; and one has to forget sometimes. And he is my uncle. Better to be helped by him than by strangers."
"I wonder why Dr. Bryant didn't like your mother to marry papa," Lettice conjectured dreamily. "Did anybody mind our mother marrying him?"
"People sometimes take fancies—unreasonable fancies. Dr. Bryant was always strong in his dislikes, I have been told. Mind, Lettice, you know now all that there is any need for you to know. You are not to ask any more questions, and you are never to discuss the matter with my uncle."
"No." The word came slowly, and Lettice's eyes widened into a thoughtful gaze, her needle lying neglected. She had a somewhat childish look for her fifteen years; and her small-featured pale face scarcely told of the firm nerves or indomitable pluck of her brother and half-sister. Yet it was a happy face, contented and cheery: and the girl, if of more sensitive make than they, was capable of resolute effort, and of patient endurance, though as yet she had not been greatly called upon for the exercise of either.
Cecilia Anderson was a woman of remarkable force and courage. She had been practically a mother to Felix and Lettice, since the death of their own mother, when Lettice was only six months old: and from the death of their father—hers and theirs also—whereby they were at once reduced from ease to penury, she had borne up with unfailing determination.
Not only by her exertions had she made a home for the two children, and given them thus far a good education: but she had also paid all her father's debts—not large, perhaps, in actual amount, but very large in proportion to Cecilia's means. She knew no rest till they were liquidated: and she would have done twice as much in love to her father's memory. He had not been a gifted man, or an estimable man, or a man of high principle: but he had had the power to make all women believe in him.
Cecilia was cultivated in no common degree; thoroughly well taught, and well read: a good French and German scholar: a good musician: a passable artist: and with these powers she possessed also an unlimited capacity for work. No doubt her handsome face, her refined and dignified manner, helped her to make way. Until recently, her time had been for years more than full: and the incessant toil had been sufficiently repaid.
But of late, a change had come. She had begun slowly to drop out of the ranks of the always employed, and to find large gaps in her time, once entirely occupied. Competition in a place like Brighton is very keen: and perhaps she was wearing out physically under the long strain, not able to teach so well. She had often sat up for hours at night, correcting exercises, when her days were over-full. And even in her holidays, she had known no rest with incessant holiday-engagements. Nature will in time take its revenge.
One pupil after another dropped away; and fresh pupils no longer sprang to supply the vacant places. The worry of this told upon her severely. She could stand work, but she could not stand the absence of work. It was scarcely a year since the last of her father's debts had been paid; and she had hoped for a time of less pressure, when she might lay by a little for the future. Now, this new reverse was come!
Treading upon the heels of lessening work came soon the direful question how to get on? How to pay rent and bills, how to procure food and clothing, how to meet educational expenses?
Lettice went daily to a school near: one of the earlier modern High schools. Felix, who showed signs of considerable ability, had only left school this last Michaelmas. Cecilia idolised Felix. She loved Lettice, quietly: but her whole heart was bound up in the boy, this young half-brother, to whom she had been sister and mother and friend, all in one, and for whose success in life she would gladly have flung away her own happiness. Once upon a time she had indulged in a wild dream of College; but this dream had faded under the stringent necessity of finding work for him, without delay.
At first she sought the "something" with ideas far too lofty of what might be expected; since, surely, there were few boys in Brighton like her Felix. Employers did not view the matter with her sisterly eyes, however; and step by step she had to descend in her notions as hope after hope faded.
Had Felix and Lettice been a little more experienced, they might have read in Cecilia tokens of the impending break-down, during the autumn term: but they did not. To the last she never complained, never gave in, never failed in a single lesson. When the collapse came, it was sudden and entire. In the morning she went out as usual: before night she was dangerously ill.
The immediate danger lasted only a few days; but recovery was fitful and slow. Cecilia at length insisted on hearing the whole truth from her doctor: and it was a truth which she had long suspected. She was the victim of complicated and hopeless disease. She might to some extent rally, and even resume ordinary life; but she would never again be strong, or fit for teaching; and at any time, an acute attack might carry her off.
Miss Anderson said not a word of this to Felix or Lettice. She thought it over quietly: and when again able to sit up, she determined to write to the only near relative she possessed—her uncle, Dr. Bryant, alienated many many years earlier by his only sister's marriage to Francis Anderson.
This decision was hastened by an opening for Felix, as accountant in a stationer's shop. He would begin at once going daily, to learn his business: and after a fortnight, would receive the sum of 17s. 6d. weekly, with prospects of an early rise, if he gave satisfaction. Cecilia had looked for something widely different, but others told her how fortunate he was; and the commonsense of the boy acquiesced. Cecilia gave in, and wrote to Dr. Bryant, resolved that Felix should at least, if possible, be unhampered.
The reply was prompt. If Cecilia would travel down to the west with Lettice, as soon as she could bear the journey, Dr. Bryant would give them both a home. To meet immediate expenses, he enclosed a £10 note. The letter was not in style affectionate, but Maurice Bryant never had written affectionately. Some people, demonstrative in manner, are icy by post; and some, who never thaw in personal intercourse, are unexpectedly genial in correspondence. He might be none the less warm, because he expressed himself coldly.
On the whole, satisfaction predominated in Cecilia's mind. To be compelled to seek aid from any one was a source of distress; but she was not a person of puny make, always in arms against imaginary slights, neither was she herself demonstrative. Why should she expect a show of feeling from others?
"We will offer you a home!" Dr. Bryant wrote, and she wondered over the plural pronoun. She had always thought of her uncle as an old bachelor, possibly an eccentric one: but he might have married, without the fact reaching her ears. If so, the future happiness of herself and Lettice would depend greatly upon the manner of wife he had chosen.
Cecilia was not a woman of many friends, using the word in a sense which implies intimacy—partly in consequence of her innate reserve, partly because she held back from possible friendships. She was proud as well as reserved; and she would not endure to have it said that she went after anybody with an object. Neither would she permit towards herself kindness which might border on patronage. Even the families of long-standing pupils would drop away, when the engagement ended. People admired and respected Miss Anderson, but few loved her; and all her thought and care were concentrated in Felix and Lettice—more especially in Felix.
So when these troubles came, she had no one to turn to for help: none except the lodging-house keeper, Mrs. Crofton, who, like everybody, admired and respected her lodger, and who would have done anything in the world for Lettice. Mrs. Crofton did do much; nursing the invalid night and day through the worst of the illness, and afterward sparing every possible moment from work to the sick room.
The doctor, summoned at haphazard from a neighbouring street, was kindness itself: and the clergyman of the parish called often. But though Miss Anderson had been years in this house, she was a stranger to both of them. Despite all their efforts to break through her shield of reticence, she and they remained "strangers yet." Nor was she so grateful as she might have been for their exertions on behalf of Felix, since the result meant to herself deep disappointment.
"I have been talking with Mrs. Crofton about you, Felix; and we both wish you to stay on here, when Lettice and I are gone."
"If I can afford it." Felix did not seem enamoured with the plan. Freedom had its charms for him, and he might be more free elsewhere.
"She will let you have the top back bedroom for half-a-crown a week, and will do everything for you. It would be impossible to get a furnished room anywhere else for so little."
"Ten shillings a month. About six pounds a year. I could manage that, of course. But I say, Sis—" and the lad flushed up hotly; "will it repay her?"
"She says so. I did hesitate—and I told her it ought at least to be more in the season: but she would not listen. She declares that she owes us a great deal, and perhaps it is true. We have never been behindhand, all these years, in our rent; and of course I have done her many little kindnesses. By-and-by, it may be in your power to repay her more fully."
"I hate to be indebted to anybody."
"Yes, I know!—" with full understanding. While Lettice glanced uncomprehendingly from one to the other. "But Mrs. Crofton is a good creature. I would rather be indebted to her than to most people. And the room is not bad—it is neatly furnished, and only one side of the ceiling slants. I told her the plan would be a comfort to me."
"Oh, it will do as well as anything. I just have to get along for the present. I don't mean to be in a shop all my days—or in a garret bedroom."
"You won't—I am sure. It would make me wretched to think so."
"I shall not. I'll get on, somehow. I mean to get on. The chance will come to me, and I shall use it. You'll see."
Would she see? Or would she soon be far-away, beyond reach of this idolised brother?
The question came acutely, bringing a shadow with it. For no brightness lay in the thought. Neither by bringing-up nor by after-conviction was Cecilia in any sense a religious woman. She had a philosophical way of viewing troubles, and a spirited fashion of making the best of things: and what was inevitable she would accept courageously. But death for her meant simply being cut off from her dearest ones—above and beyond all, from Felix! The land on the other side of the grave was, for her, not a Paradise of joy and reunion, but a blank existence of absence and forgetfulness. All her energies had been expended on this life: all her treasure was lodged in this world. She had only a faint confidence in a vague "Providence" to help her through the last straggle, when it should come.
It was not exactly fear that she felt, looking forward. On the whole, she counted that she had done her duty, and that things would not go hardly with her. She had kept up a respectable show of religion, going pretty often to church on Sunday morning, if wet weather did not offer an excuse for staying at home—though no rain kept her in on other days. She had a Bible in her room: not often opened. She had been scrupulously honourable as to her father's debts; strictly true in all her dealings: a hard-working, careful, and self-denying sister. Could more be required? She dreaded having to leave all whom she loved: otherwise she was prepared—or she thought so—to meet the last enemy bravely, as she had met many lesser enemies.
"I wish you would get me another shawl, Lettice. I am so chilly."
Lettice sprang up eagerly: rather too eagerly. A certain impulsiveness and rapidity of movement were natural to her; unlike the dignified ease which had always characterised Cecilia, and unlike the confident composure of Felix. The impulsiveness worried Cecilia, who had done her best to engraft her own manner upon the young girl, hitherto without success. They had never "suited one another," so completely as Cecilia and Felix "suited," but Lettice was scarcely aware of this fact. She was of a happy disposition, humble as to her own merits, passionately fond of Cecilia, and always sure that Cecilia was in the right.
It had become a received fact in the little circle, that Lettice, though well-meaning and affectionate, was hopelessly awkward and dull—a mere foil to her handsome and clever brother. Lettice acquiesced in this version of affairs as fully as any one. She never expected to be anything else than dull; and that her occasional gaucheries should arouse Cecilia's vexation was a matter of course. Lettice was always more annoyed with herself than Cecilia could be with her.
The hurried start to obey was a mistake. As she sprang up, she caught her foot in the rug, and stumbled against the couch—then, in her desperate effort to avoid coming down upon the invalid, she fell sideways towards the fireplace, striking her head sharply against the corner of the marble mantelpiece.
"Lettice!" Cecilia said reproachfully—aware only of the unpleasant jar she had herself received.
"You stupid child!" exclaimed Felix, with brotherly frankness.
Lettice pulled herself up slowly, and laughed—keeping her face turned away. "I'm sorry," she said, in a lively voice. "I didn't mean—I'll get the shawl—"
"Don't knock anything down by the way," said Cecilia, with some sharpness.
"O no—I'll—" Lettice laughed again, and went straight out of the room.
"Did you ever see such a child?" asked Cecilia. "And she doesn't care in the least!"
Lettice fled to the top of the first flight, and there stood still, holding the balusters. Resolution failed for the moment to carry her further. The blow had been severe enough to half-stun her, though not to overcome her courage, and tears streamed from her eyes with the pain—an involuntary overflow: muscular, not mental. Lettice would have scorned to cry for such a cause: but she was stupefied, and five minutes passed unmeasured. Then the parlour door opened for a shout:
"Lettice! What are you after? You little slowcoach! Sissie wants her shawl."
Lettice rushed to Cecilia's bedroom door, and called out, "Yes, yes, I'm coming."
"Make haste! What an age you have been!"
Lettice caught up the shawl and ran downstairs.
When she entered, the other two were again in earnest conference, and they scarcely noticed her.
Cecilia only remarked carelessly, "I do wish you would learn to be a little more attentive, Lettice;" and went on with what she was saying.
Lettice attempted no defence. She sat down, not in her former place, but well in the shade behind the couch, and made believe to be at work again.
A tap at the door was followed by the announcement,—
"Please, ma'am, Mr. Kelly wants to see you!"
"Mr. Kelly! O dear!"
"He've been a lot of times, ma'am, when you was too ill: and he said maybe you'd be able now."
"Well, I suppose he must come in for once. It is to be hoped that he will not stay long."
Felix crossed over to where Lettice sat. "I'm off," he whispered. "I'll be back in an hour. I say—you didn't really hurt yourself? I saw you got an uncommonly hard bang."
"Oh, it's nothing—" and she smiled.
"Not bad now."
"It's getting better."
"Sis didn't notice, so I said nothing. She'd only lie and bother. You'll be all the colours of the rainbow in a day or two."
Felix dashed across the room, intent on escape; and Cecilia's eyes followed him with hungry looks. She could hardly bear to have him out of sight, now that the parting was so near. Parting! For how long? Suppose the separation were to be final? Suppose she should never meet the boy again in this world? If not in this world—but beyond, all was blank. Such questions haunted her continually: and they came now with a sudden vehemence which, for the moment, caused forgetfulness of all beside. She forgot to look up and welcome the clergyman, advancing dubiously, after a collision with Felix in the doorway. She entirely forgot the presence of a silent girl in the shade behind her couch. All Cecilia's force was for the moment needed to grapple with the inrush of sad thoughts—the desolate realisation that she had soon to leave the one whom most in all the world she loved; and that the leaving might be final.
LETTICE'S DREAD.
THE Rev. Robert Kelly, Vicar of the parish in which the Andersons lived, had called under a strong sense of duty, not at all under the drawings of inclination, to visit a parishioner, who, somehow, always managed to give him a repelled sensation. He admired Cecilia, as almost everybody did: and he could have liked her. But he was too keenly aware that she neither admired nor liked him: that in fact she looked upon him as an unmitigated bore. Such a consciousness goes far to render a gentle and self-distrustful man that which he believes he is reckoned to be.
Before Cecilia's illness, Mr. Kelly had called occasionally, seldom finding her at home, and never meeting with a warm reception. A succession of rebuffs had imbued him with a positive dread of Mrs. Crofton's dignified lodger, and he could never be "at his best" in her presence. She was not at all anxious to be "done good to," however much he might wish to "do her good." And as for practical kindnesses, they were a matter rather for toleration than for gratitude, with one of her independent temper.
Once during her illness, he had seen her for a few minutes, and then she had resolutely kept clear of all subjects except that of Felix's future. Since then he had been repeatedly to the house, and he had been always conscious of a feeling of relief when sent away unsuccessful: a feeling for which he took himself to task. Now at length, he was again admitted; but the words which he overheard, standing outside the door, were not calculated to set him at his ease.
No; certainly he would not stay long, but he had to go in. The very obvious escape of Felix did not add to his confidence: and Cecilia was so lost in thought, that she omitted to notice his approach until he was on the rug. Mr. Kelly failed to observe Lettice, half hidden by the curtain, and Lettice did not stir, so he believed the elder sister to be alone.
She presented a less imposing appearance on the couch, under two shabby shawls, than when standing upright: yet even now there was about her a curious environment of dignity; and Mr. Kelly had his usual consciousness of being overshadowed in her presence. He was an easily abashed man, and she was not at all an easily abashed woman; and although he was her match mentally, she was his superior in vigour of will.
This day he received a more gracious greeting than usual, in consideration of his efforts on behalf of Felix. The result was not indeed what Cecilia had wished; and she was not in heart very grateful, but Mr. Kelly had to be thanked. So she roused herself from the fit of abstraction, held out her hand, and even smiled. If he had not overheard those few words, he would have felt quite cheered, but to get over them was not possible.
"I am glad to learn that you are a little better," he hazarded, by way of an opening speech.
"Thanks. Yes. I am better. As much better as—" She hesitated, looking sharply at the clergyman. Had Dr. Rotherbotham informed him as to her true state? Mr. Kelly's unconscious face seemed to supply a negative. "As much better as I can expect to be," she said.
"In so short a time, you mean. I fear it will be long before you are fit for hard work again."
"Yes." An odd impulse seized her to tell him all; odd, because she did not care for Mr. Kelly; but no doubt there was a natural desire for sympathy: she had nobody else to turn to; and she, like Mr. Kelly, believed that they were alone. The impulse seemed to her foolish, and she resisted it. What good would speaking do?
"Yes," she repeated, "I am going to make my home for a time with my uncle in the west of England. Lettice, too, of course. Felix is more or less provided for, thanks to you. I am not likely at present to be strong enough for work: and my uncle has offered to take us in."
"I am glad to hear it. Is his name Anderson?"
"No; Bryant. He is my mother's only brother. A medical man; but I suppose he has not practised for twenty years."
"And you have not seen him lately."
"I have never seen him." She offered no explanation of the fact.
"It will be a trial to you to leave Felix."
"A trial!" She could have laughed, the word was so inadequate. Life, apart from Felix, would be mere existence, not life. "One has to bear what is inevitable."
"And God's will is always best for us in these matters: even when it means sorrow."
"Perhaps. I do not know anything about its being best. I only know that it has to be . . . If I could stay with him till the end! So short a time!" The words broke from her, under pressure of strong feeling. "If I could; but that is out of the question." She tried to rein herself in, to resume her usual manner, though her hands shook visibly.
"I do not know why I should say all this," she went on, after a pause. "Nobody can do anything. It is not my way to appeal to other people. If I had not been upset—shaken—The thought that all must soon be over! To leave Felix, not knowing if I shall ever—But such partings have to be borne, of course. They are a part of life . . . And I have great comfort in knowing that the boy will do well. No doubt of that. He is so hard-working: so bent on success."
Mr. Kelly had been startled by the unexpected outbreak of distress, and thus far had said nothing. Perhaps his wordless sympathy drew her on further than speech could have done: but this he did not see. He was already reproaching himself for a lost opportunity, grieving over his own want of readiness: and any number of possible utterances, exactly to the point, rushed into his mind, too late. He found himself saying mechanically: "I will do my best to look after your brother for you."
"Thanks; but I am not at all afraid for Felix. He has good principles." Then, as if suspecting Mr. Kelly's line of thought, she talked steadily about Felix's new work.
The clergyman listened and responded; but he was not to be entirely baffled. At the first opportunity, he said gently, "Pardon me! May I ask a question? Did you mean just now that unhappily there is fear that your health may not be in time re-established?"
A moment's pause.
"Yes, I meant that; but I did not mean to speak about it. This is in strict confidence, if you please. Dr. Rotherbotham tells me plainly that I cannot live long. However, I do not wish to discuss the matter."
"And, in looking forward to that great change—" Mr. Kelly spoke slowly, and he was not allowed to finish.
"I have done my duty in life, and I hope that I shall know how to meet my end when it comes," she said coldly.
"If that were indeed the 'end!'"
Cecilia drew up her head, and a red spot burnt in either cheek.
"We may as well keep to other subjects," she said. "Some people love nothing so well as to talk about themselves; but—" scornfully—"I have always counted that a proof of shallowness. It is not my way. Nor is it Felix's way. You will find him by no means disposed to stand personal questions."
"Pardon me! You must not mistake my meaning. I have no wish to press for an answer—for myself. It is no matter of curiosity. I only suggest the question for your own consideration. As an 'ambassador for Christ,' I am bound to speak of Him; of all that you owe to Him, and of the comfort which may be yours in that hour, if you are willing."
"Thanks; I am much obliged, but a different topic is more to my mind. Besides, it has been an agitating day. I must not press for a long visit."
"Then I will not stay longer now; but perhaps you will let me come again. In any case—" for he felt sure he would not be admitted—"if at any time, in any way, I can help you, do not scruple to let me know."
"Thanks!" once more. "I shall be among friends, but I am very much obliged to you all the same. I am afraid I must ask you to open the door for yourself. If Lettice were here—"
She looked round with startled eyes. Lettice was there! Mr. Kelly, just about to make one last attempt, one parting appeal to her better nature, looked also, following the direction of her glance, and was checked.
All through this dialogue the girl had not stirred. At first she remained thus, only because she felt still stupefied with the blow she had had, because movement was still painful, and coming forward might draw Cecilia's attention to her look. Afterward she sat on, because she could not move. Literally, could not. Cecilia's words fell with paralysing power. Had clear thought been possible, Lettice would have remembered that she had no business to listen to a conversation which was not meant for her ears; but she could not think: she could only feel. Part that followed was lost; but she distinctly heard Mr. Kelly's later question, and the not-to-be-mistaken answer. Utterance could not be more plain. Beyond these she took in nothing; and she was incapable of speech.
Then a wonder crept through her mind; were those two talking still? She might have been any length of time seated there. At the same moment sounded these words: "If Lettice were here—"
Lettice neither spoke nor stirred.
She was leaning back in a low chair, with closed eyes.
"Lettice!"
"Asleep, I think," said Mr. Kelly.
"I had no idea she was here at all. Lettice!"
The absence of response was a matter of positive incapacity to speak. Lettice heard, of course; but voices sounded far-away; and the floor seemed to mount with her; and heart and head were beating in thick throbs. She wondered dimly—could she get up, if she tried? A nightmare sensation of helplessness weighed her down; and she craved to be let alone, not to be dragged back into what had become all at once a changed world to her. And yet, she would have to shake off this stupefaction. She would have to wake up and smile and talk. Only another moment's delay, and then—
"How odd of the child to drop asleep so suddenly! I never knew her do it before."
"She seems very sound. I don't think she can have heard us."
Mr. Kelly stepped behind the couch, and laid a hand on Lettice's arm. She had not expected the touch, and it startled her into a sitting posture instantaneously. The start seemed, as indeed it was, perfectly natural.
"Lettice, is anything the matter? Come here," said Cecilia.
Lettice obeyed quietly. With that start, power of movement had returned: though she was still dazed and bewildered in mind. She reached the sofa, and smiled as she stood there, while her lips were white, and the wide-open eyes were sombre, gazing fixedly into the air.
"How strange you look, child! Have you been dreaming? What makes you so pale? Did Mr. Kelly startle you?"
Lettice said "Yes," with a mechanical little laugh, to each question in turn.
"Were you asleep before Mr. Kelly came in?"
"I don't—think so."
"Only too sleepy to move? You queer child. And you dropped off afterwards. Was that it?" Lettice's laugh might have meant anything. "Felix walked you too far perhaps this morning. Run and get some cold water. That will wake you up. And you can open the front door for Mr. Kelly, if—"
"Yes, certainly I must go," said the clergyman, replying to the half-uttered doubt. Lettice disappeared from the room, and he shook hands with Cecilia, remarking: "Your little sister does not seem quite well."
"Do you call her 'little?' She will soon be sixteen. I have tried lately to make her feel herself more of a woman; but she does not behave like one yet. She is so childish. Lettice always was rather easily startled in her sleep. I was glad to see that puzzled look, because it showed how very sound she must have been. I would not for worlds have had her overhear what I said."
Mr. Kelly was not so sure that Lettice had not heard, but he refrained from suggesting his doubt. He made his way into the passage, shutting the parlour door, and found Lettice leaning against the wall. The singular paleness and fixity of her face impressed him again; and his conviction grew stronger that she had not really been asleep. He stood looking at her with kind concern.
"Something is the matter, is it not?" he said, anxious to find out more, without suggesting possibilities. "Has any one been troubling you?"
"No." Lettice gazed straight before her, and forced a short laugh. "Why should any one?"
"Not intentionally; but people sometimes cause pain, not knowing it. Or, perhaps, you are not well. Is that it?"
"O no."
"Tell me: will you not?" urged Mr. Kelly. "Something is wrong, I am sure. I should like to help you, but how can I, if you do not tell me your trouble? Perhaps I could do something. Try to think of me as a friend, and speak freely."
Lettice made an effort. "If—if—if you will promise—" she began, and then a tearless sob broke into the words, and she fled along the passage out of sight.
Mr. Kelly looked after her compassionately, but she did not return. The echo of that heartbroken sob haunted him for hours after.
* * * * * *
"Mind, Lettice, I mean what I say. You can't help going with Sissie, of course. It has to be: and I suppose, as things are, that there is nothing else to be done. She will not be fit for work again for months; and she never ought to slave as she has done. But you are not to count that house your home. Just a 'temporary residence,' as people say—not a real home.
"After the way Dr. Bryant treated my father—It's all very well his showing kindness to us now, when my father is dead! Why couldn't he be kind in my father's lifetime, I should like to know? Anyhow, I don't mean you to belong to Dr. Bryant; though, of course, one has to be grateful for what he is doing."
Felix spoke in masterful accents, striding along the Parade, and Lettice kept pace with him. She had lain awake all night, gazing with troubled eyes into the happy childhood of her past, and into the uncertain future; and in one night, she seemed to herself to have grown years older. To-day the weight of foreboding was on her heavily, and exertion was a struggle; but the last thing she thought of was to make complaint.
"You understand. It's only for a time. At most, only till I can make a home for you both. Perhaps in a few months Sis will be up to teaching again. And meantime something better might offer itself for me. If a fellow is bent on getting along, he is sure to do it. There's nothing like determination; and I'm not one to be easily beaten.
"Now, mind—you've got to be brave, and not to give in; and, of course, you'll be happy and all that, wherever you are, and everybody will be kind to you. Only you're not to get too fond of those people. Not so as to be in a spoony state by-and-by, when you have to leave them. You belong to Sis and me; and Dr. Bryant is no relation."
Lettice might have suggested that she could spare abundance of affection in both quarters, without defrauding either; but she was not of an argumentative nature.
"I don't know what sort of man Dr. Bryant is, and I don't much care. He may be nice, or he may not. Anyhow, he means to be kind to you and Sissie; and that's right enough, for the time. Only, mind—you belong to me first. Promise not to forget."
She looked up wonderingly. "Why, Felix—how could I? You don't think I'm like that!"
"I don't know. You girls are so odd—ready to take to anybody. You may be as happy as you like: only you've got to remember that your real home is with me—I mean, with Sis and me!"
With Sis, for how long? A stab shot through the girl, and she turned her face away.
"Here, sit down. I can't see you properly, when you poke the top of your hat towards me like that. You understand?—I don't mean to leave you there long. As soon as I can possibly manage to support you both, I'll have you back in Brighton. Not in lodgings, but in a cosy little house of our own. Sis will be none the worse for two or three years of idleness first. I suppose it might be two or three years, unless she gets strong enough to teach again . . . I say, are you listening? Let me look at your face. I do believe you are going to sleep."
The brown hat had dropped against his shoulder, and Lettice drew it away with a hasty movement.
"What's the matter? Are you tired?"
"I don't know."
"Nonsense. People always know. I believe you are. There!—Put your head on my shoulder again, and go to sleep. You'll be all right presently."
He pulled her with rough kindness into the position suggested, pushing her hat back as he did so. The breeze, lifting her hair, made him exclaim: "I say, what a bump you got yesterday! Is that the mischief? Does it hurt?"
"It aches."
"Why didn't you tell me? Now shut your eyes, and be quiet. There's nobody near to look on."
Lettice made an attempt to obey, but in ten seconds the brown eyes were open again, gazing at some far-off vision, beyond the ken of Felix. He watched her with unwonted closeness. Perhaps the realisation of parting near at hand awoke a new warmth of affection. She had always been a good little sister: counted rather ordinary among themselves, a not unpleasing contrast to his clever and good-looking self. Now he was studying her purely for her own sake: and the patient sadness of the small pale face and wistful eyes woke in him an instinct of brotherly pity and protection. Had that look been there before, he wondered?
"What are you looking at, Lettice?"
"I don't know."
"Nonsense."
"I mean nothing particular."
"Nothing in particular on the sea, I dare say, but something very particular in your mind. What are you dreaming about? . . . Now I mean to know . . . What was it? Dr. Bryant?"
"No."
"Or me?"
"Or Sissie?"
Lettice half faltered a "No," and stopped. "Not exactly," she said faintly. She had been thinking rather of life without Sissie, at that moment.
"You were dreaming about Sis: something or other. What was it? Now I mean to know, so it's no earthly use your trying to hide it. Has Sis been making you and herself miserable about this Bristol plan?—Worrying because she can't teach? If she has, you must just not let her. Things can't be helped, and it's no use to fret."
"Sissie doesn't say much—"
"But she thinks; and you know what she is thinking about. Is that it?"
Lettice's lips formed a "No."
"Then you are bothering your own brains about the journey. That's nothing. It will all go off as well as possible. Nothing to mind!"
"O no—indeed—"
"Then what is wrong? Out with it!"
"I'm only silly. If you wouldn't ask any more—please—" Lettice was debating with herself—should she tell him all? True, Cecilia had not meant her to know: and she had learnt the truth by accident. But now that she did know it, might she not speak freely to her brother? That was one side of the question. On the other side—why should he know so soon? Might he not keep his happy ignorance just a little longer?
"When you have told me what is the matter, I'll stop. So out with it!"
Lettice breathed quickly. Twice she opened her lips, and shut them again.
Felix bent to look into her face, and she murmured: "I thought—I thought—if Sissie—"
"Well! If Sissie—"
"Were to die—"
Two great tears splashed upon his wrist, and Felix, after one quick movement, said not a word. He had had for the moment a quietus. It was Lettice, not he, who spoke next: and she had suddenly regained her usual voice.
"I didn't mean to say it, only you made me."
"What can have put such an absurd notion into your head?" demanded Felix brusquely. "Has anybody been talking nonsense? Dr. Rotherbotham—?"
"Sissie always sends me out when he comes."
"Mrs. Crofton—?"
"O no."
"Or Mr. Kelly?"
"No."
"You are sure?"
Lettice flushed painfully. "He didn't, indeed. Nobody has. It is only—only something I overheard Sissie say. Something I was not meant to hear. Ought I to repeat it to you? She seemed to think she—she—could not—ever be well again—"
"She meant she could not be quite as she used to be. Besides, Sissie is nervous. Sick people always are. That is nothing."
"She said—Dr. Rotherbotham had told her—"
"Dr. Rotherbotham may be mistaken. It is all nonsense, Lettice. Just when she is getting on so well! Going to Bristol will make her stronger than she has been for a year past. Now mind, if you don't put this ridiculous idea out of your head, I'll give you such scolding that you'll never forget it. Sissie knows nothing whatever about the matter—or Dr. Rotherbotham either. It's absurd. Look up, and give me a smile."
Lettice obeyed. She smiled bravely-and Felix was satisfied; not noting how quickly her head was turned away again.
For himself, the instinct of his vigorous youth was to refuse to look in the face any such possibility. Why should not Cecilia recover? Why should death touch him or his? He would not believe in any such coming calamity.
A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
"I SHOULD like to help you, but how can I, if you do not tell me your trouble? Try to think of me as a friend," Mr. Kelly had said.
Lettice pondered over these words in the days following,—days full of preparation for the journey.
To other people it might seem that the whole bulk of the Andersons' possessions was not large enough to give trouble. Yet after six years' stay in one house, though only in lodgings, things could not have failed to accumulate. Where each item had to be considered, with reference to taking or leaving, much time might be consumed.
Cecilia was forbidden all needless exertion. She had to lie on her couch and direct others: and with the nervous excitement, not uncommon in ill health, she could know no rest. The near separation from Felix pressed upon her unceasingly; and relief from thought in bodily action was denied.
Lettice had enough to do, those days, carrying out her sister's wishes. She did it all uncomplainingly; toiled upstairs and downstairs; packed, unpacked, and repacked, to any extent. And had it not been for the weight of her new knowledge as to Cecilia's state, she would have done it all blithely, as well as uncomplainingly. That made all the difference. Courage did not fail now, but blitheness did. The strain of keeping up told upon her a good deal. She was cheerful enough, almost too cheerful, in Cecilia's presence; and Cecilia was jarred by this, even while noting a certain unnatural strain of manner.
"I should like to help you," Mr. Kelly had said; and Lettice wondered what kind of help he meant. Suppose she were to tell him all, as he had suggested; to open out the dread which had fallen upon her life.
Lettice was to some extent reserved, but it was by training, not by nature. The desire for sympathy and help from another grew upon her in those days. To break through Cecilia's barrier of silence she felt to be an utter impossibility; and Felix had refused to accept the truth—had almost refused to hear what she had to say.
But Mr. Kelly knew already; he knew from Cecilia's own lips how matters were; and he might even be able to assure Lettice that things were not so bad as she feared. She had not heard all, or nearly all, that had passed between him and Cecilia. Some word of hope might have fallen later, which she had missed, and which he could repeat.
Lettice dwelt upon this possibility, until it gained large proportions; and the formal call upon Mr. Kelly, which at first she had shrunk from, became a necessity. Questions of propriety had not yet begun to trouble Lettice; indeed, she counted herself still a child, and Mr. Kelly, albeit a bachelor, was on the highroad to forty. Her hesitation sprang from shyness, and shyness yielded to the stronger desire for comfort.
Mr. Kelly, returning one day from a round of visits among the poor, was told that somebody awaited him in his study; and, proceeding thither, he found himself face to face with Lettice.
"How do you do?" he said kindly. "Is this a good-bye call? I have just been to your lodgings, but your sister was not well enough to see me. They tell me that you leave in three days."
"On Thursday, if—"
"If she is up to the mark, I suppose. Do you think her getting on?"
"I don't know." Lettice looked at him with strange eyes.
Did he mean what he said? When he knew that Cecilia could never recover! Or did he still think, like Felix, in spite of all, that she might get well? She did not remember, perhaps did not know, that patients even when marked for death have still their ups and downs, and often seem for a time to be improving.
"Please, I have come to ask—? Would you mind telling me—?"
"Yes? Would I mind telling you—what?" queried the clergyman. "Anything that is in my power. Would you not like to sit down?"
Lettice shook her head, and stood firm, grasping the back of a chair. She was doubtful as to the extent of her own self-control, and flight would be easier thus.
"What is it that you want me to tell you? Something to do with—Come, what is it?" encouragingly.
"About—O you know," she said. "You know! About—"
"I am afraid I do not." Mr. Kelly had had a busy day, and a mind full of other matters, including worries innumerable. Even the fruitless call upon Miss Anderson had failed to bring up with any vividness his last conversation with her, or his after-suspicion that Lettice might have heard something of it. He had the train of circumstances in possession: but at this moment, they lay in the background of his memory, not quite ready to hand. He looked dubiously with gentle eyes upon the child, repeating, "I am afraid that I do not. Cannot you explain a little further? Just a word or two more?"
"You do, really. Please, please remember. That day when you said—said you would help me—if—"
"Yes. I would help you—if—Go on, Lettice." He had once or twice considered whether he ought to begin calling her "Miss Lettice Anderson," after Cecilia's intimation of her years: but the notion vanished now. She was such a mere pale child, with troubled brow and brave lips. "Poor little girl!" he said compassionately. "Now see if you can make me understand what is the matter. I said I would help you—if—yes, of course I will. If—what? I—I wonder whether—perhaps—there may be a little difficulty—I mean, a difficulty as to all the expenses of the move, and the journey. You must not mind my asking this. I should be so very glad—"
"O no, no! Not that! Nothing of that sort."
Lettice spoke hurriedly, conscious how displeased Cecilia would have been at the bare suggestion of pecuniary help. "O no, indeed! It is only—only about her! She told you—and I want so very very much to know—if—if it is true?"
Recollections were dawning now: and the sound of the sob, which had haunted him for hours, came back. He hoped no tears might be impending. Nothing made him more unhappy than to see a child cry.
"If you would please just tell me! I know something—but I think—I don't think—I am not sure—and perhaps—" Lettice strained one hand in a fierce pull against the other, as words struggled for utterance. "If you only would please understand—and tell me—"
"Has Miss Anderson been talking to you about herself?" cautiously asked Mr. Kelly. "About her health?"
"No."
"Or anybody else?" Another negative. "But you are anxious. Is not that it? Lettice, were you asleep that day, when she and I had a little talk, and she did not know you to be present? Last time I called. Were you really asleep?"
She shook her head.
"I am sorry. It was very wrong of you. Never listen to what you are not meant to hear. Surely you know that it is not quite—not at all honourable! Why did you not get up and come forward at once?"
"I couldn't!" She lifted her face sorrowfully. "I did not mean to do wrong, but I could not help it. I couldn't move. And then—Sissie—"
"But when your sister spoke, could you not have explained?"
"O no: she would have been so unhappy. It would have made her ill. And indeed I did not mean to listen. I only heard just a few words; and then—then I felt so strange—and then Sissie found me out. Please, I can't talk—only I do want just to know if—"
She hid her face in her hands.
"My child, I only know what your sister told me. Nothing more."
"But if—if—O please tell me—if—"
"If any hope exists still? I think that, in a certain sense, while there is life, there is always room for hope. Sometimes a doctor may be mistaken. Sometimes illness is lengthened out indefinitely."
"But you don't think—she can ever get—well?"
Mr. Kelly did not think so. Cecilia had spoken in no doubting accents; and he knew Dr. Rotherbotham to be a man of cautious speech. He stood in silence, uncertain what reply to make; and Lettice knew what the silence meant.
"I can only say that we must leave the future in wiser Hands," he at length uttered. "Impossible to look forward: and we are but children—not knowing what is best. Not able even to guess. Lettice, don't you think you want help for yourself—help for the carrying of this trouble? It comes heavily on you, poor child!"
He had no response.
"Your sister could not see me to-day; and she may not be equal to another interview before you go . . . But there is one thing that we can both do for her: we can pray . . . I wonder if you often pray! . . . She is in God's hands; and He is very near to us. Always near. We cannot speak without His hearing. He sees all your sorrow now, and He is grieved for you. Would it not be a comfort to ask His help? Shall we do so now?"
Then, as they stood, a few petitions were breathed forth reverently: the clergyman bending his head low, while Lettice never stirred. It was such prayer as seemed to take the absent one, and to lay her in Divine protecting Arms.
"Teach her the road to Thee; and so bring her safely to Thy Home of Peace; and comfort this poor child of Thine, for Christ's sake," were the closing words.
Lettice was conscious of a soothed sensation; even while the knowledge that he so fully accepted the hopeless condition of Cecilia's health brought sharper heart-ache. She was on the verge of a break-down, and might no longer trust her own voice; but this he could not guess, and her immobility perplexed him.
"I shall pray often for her and for you. That at least is in my power. And remember, if at any time you are in difficulties, and will write to me, I will do all that I can . . . Meanwhile, try not to look forward. Take each day as it comes, looking up for strength; and you will be carried through. Even now, if God wills, He is able to make your sister well again. And if—"
Lettice put out her hand. "Good-bye," she said. "Please let me go." The next word was more than she could endure.
The girl's hasty utterance drowned his "If not—," which was too far advanced to receive a check. He understood then, and paused compassionately.
"Please let me go. And—thank you so much!"
"Well, good-bye. But you are going to be brave, I am sure, for your sister's sake. Some day you will write, and tell me all about yourselves. Will you not? And I shall often see Felix."
Lettice gave him one glance of gratitude, and rushed away. Mr. Kelly turned back into his study, with eyes not perfectly dry.
With the day fixed for the journey came a heavy snowstorm, but Cecilia would not hear of delay. Everything was settled: boxes were packed; Dr. Bryant would expect their arrival. A restless desire to have the parting over, and to be off, possessed her. Moreover, barely enough money remained, to pay part of the landlady's claims, to meet the expenses of the journey, and to supply the present needs of Felix.
Dr. Rotherbotham had given a conditional leave for his invalid to start, dependent on her state and on the weather. That she should go off in a snowstorm was the last thing he would have desired or imagined possible; but all opposition went down before Cecilia's will. Felix, who alone might have resisted it successfully, did not recognise the peril. He suggested an appeal to the doctor, and this Cecilia forbade. She silenced Lettice, would not listen to Mrs. Crofton, and declared that go she must and would.
Felix saw them off. To the last, he talked gaily of the little future home. While Cecilia spoke few words, but held his arm in a voiceless clutch, till the boy glanced round, ashamed, to see if any one were looking. Cecilia had never in her life, since babyhood, been seen to weep, and no tears came now.
Lettice listened to her brother's talk, and to his frequent directions, with a bewildered brain. London—cab—porters—tickets—luggage: it all had to be seen to, and she was courageously bent on doing her best. But she felt that they were going out into a wide world, unprotected; and the end of the journey seemed incalculably far-away.
"You'll have to keep your wits about you, Lettice; not let them go wool-gathering. I have asked the guard to have an eye on you both; but you must not depend on Sis, and the guard will only go as far as Victoria. Sis isn't fit for worry; and I shall not be there: so you must see to everything. Mind you count the packages, and don't lose any. You always do blunder, if you can; but to-day you must not. And, remember, you belong to me; not to those people. Don't get too fond of Dr. Bryant."
"I'll try." She longed to say how impossible it was that she should ever love anybody like Sissie or Felix; but she could not trust herself.
A few minutes more, and the train moved. Cecilia leant back, with shut eyes and wan look. In this parting, she tasted the bitterness of death; and not even Lettice, seated patiently by her side, knew half that it was to her, because not even Lettice knew the extent of her idolising love for Felix.
Outside the two closed windows went on a whirl of snowflakes, and many were driven in through crevices; for third-class carriages are not commonly built for inclement weather. The cold was piercing. Hot-water cans cooled fast; and Lettice soon found herself shivering. She had nothing wherewith to occupy her mind; and they had the compartment to themselves. Cecilia never lifted her eyelids, nor uttered a word.
Haywards Heath, at last! Only Haywards Heath! The journey seemed interminable to Lettice so far: and a blank realisation came of all that lay ahead. They had to reach London: to cross to Paddington: to travel down to Bristol: and even then a country drive of unknown length remained.
Lettice glanced at her sister's face, and found no cheer there. It had not only a sombre, but a sunken look. If already thus exhausted, how would she bear the fatigues of the whole day?
"Sissie is thinking of Felix. She will make herself ill! If I could but comfort her!" murmured Lettice.
She drew nearer, and laid a hand on Cecilia's, lovingly. Demonstrations of affection between the two were not common: but to Lettice they were natural, only Cecilia's reserve kept her in check: and it was something unusual for Lettice thus to take the initiative. She had always been in complete and even childish subservience to her half-sister. Now she felt herself in charge of the invalid, responsible for her well-doing: and the little tender action came involuntarily.
It did not seem to be a success. Cecilia opened her eyes, drew her brows slightly together, and with an impatient gesture pulled away the hand which Lettice touched.
"Couldn't I do anything for you?" pleaded the younger girl.
"Only leave me in peace, if you please."
The sharpness of tone sprang from bitter pain, and Lettice knew it: but none the less, she found that sharpness hard to bear. Was not the same pain of parting hers? She too wanted comfort, and she might have found comfort in comforting Cecilia, had not that been denied her? The check was just the one drop too much, and tears came thickly, obscuring her vision as they fell. She was too much absorbed to hear the slight bustle of somebody stepping in at the further end, and she did not at first notice that the train was again in motion. It was needful to master herself, before Cecilia's attention should be drawn and this proved not easy.
Presently the fact dawned upon her that she and Cecilia were no longer alone. Somebody sat opposite to herself—somebody at first indistinct through the haze of tears, but taking shape in time as a girl several years older than herself, dressed in a navy-blue serge costume of severe outlines, a long black cloak, and a black bonnet with white strings. The newcomer had dark eyes and pretty rosy cheeks: and she was bending a little forward, to study Lettice.
"What is the matter, you poor little thing?" came in soft tones.
"Oh—it doesn't matter," said Lettice, endeavouring to sit upright and to assume a sprightly air.
"Everything matters that makes people unhappy."
"O no, I'm only—stupid. I'm always stupid."
"Are you? I should not have thought so. You don't look stupid."
Lettice tried to smile, but not successfully. The stranger came over to the seat by her side.
"Now tell me: I want to know what is wrong. Something must have distressed you just before I came in. You had not been crying long. What was it, I wonder? . . . Is that your mother or—your sister?—" in surprise. "I should not have guessed it. She has been ill, I see. Isn't this rather bad weather for her to travel?"
"She wouldn't put it off. Felix said she ought."
"Who is Felix?"
"My brother—in Brighton. Sissie can't teach any more, and so we can't stay in Brighton," explained Lettice, with childish frankness. "We are going to live near Bristol, with an uncle that I have never seen. And—Felix—"
Lettice stopped short, setting her teeth rigidly.
"And you have had to leave Felix behind? Is that the trouble?"
Lettice nodded, and said "Part," with difficulty.
"But not all. Perhaps your sister's health—"
That line of questioning had to be abandoned. She saw it at once, and stopped.
"Tell me a little about yourselves. Keeping up bravely is all right: but just once in a way one has to give in. Don't you think so? Wouldn't a good cry make you feel better?"
"O no—Sissie—"
"Would it distress her? But she doesn't seem to notice us. Perhaps she is resting. Now I am going to tell you who I am. My name is Nurse Valentine, and my business in life is to take care of sick people. So I have come to the right part of the train, haven't I? And my home is close to Reading. We can go through London together, if you like. Do you think you can trust me? I'm such a stranger."
"I don't feel as if you were a stranger . . . I did dread London!"
"You need not now. I'll manage for you both. What is your name?"
Lettice responded to questioning, and various particulars oozed out about herself, about Cecilia's illness, about the sorrow of leaving Felix, about the unknown Dr. Bryant. She did not definitely tell what she knew of Cecilia's real state: but the weight of foreboding which underlay all else was easily detected by Nurse Valentine's observant eyes, and its cause was soon conjectured.
The relief of free speech was great. Lettice's brow lost some of its strain, her eyes some of their forlornness: and Nurse Valentine's hand coming between hers was held tightly.
"I wish I had you for a friend," she murmured. "There's nobody to go to."
"There's always ONE, child," in hushed tones.
"Is there? But Sissie is too ill. I must not trouble her. And she never likes people to cry. And Felix—" Lettice had to set her teeth rigidly again. "And—and—I'm so—stupid."