One lovely September afternoon, when the _Schiller_ touched at the pier
at Mitzau, among the passengers who boarded her, were Cara, her mother,
and Fritz. The boat was crowded with trippers and tourists, and when
Letty had with difficulty arrived on the first-class upper deck, there
was not a seat to be found. As she glanced about her vaguely, a tall,
bronzed Englishman in grey tweed, got up and offered her his place.
When she looked round to thank him and discovered no stranger’s face,
but that of Lancelot Lumley, her amazement was such, that for a moment
she felt dizzy; for his part, it was fully half a minute before Major
Lumley realised, that this remarkably pretty girl in a summer gown and
shady hat, was his lost love, Letty Blagdon!--Letty, who had befooled
him, made him the prey of her indecision, and the laughing-stock of his
acquaintance.
How often in camp and cantonment, had he sworn to himself to put her
out of his head and his heart; he had even embarked on other love
affairs; many ladies had smiled on Major Lumley, who was handsome,
popular, and likely to have a distinguished career. But somehow his
flirtations had never advanced; at the back of his mind, his heart,
his vision, rose the figure of Letty. Now here she stood before him in
real life, and as she looked up with her earnest Irish eyes, he knew
that her hold upon him was stronger than ever. How young she seemed!
like the sister of the tall girl, who had joined her.
“_Letty!_” he said at last; he had grown pale under his tan.
“And--and”--holding out his hand--“I suppose--this must be Cara?”
Cara, agreeably conscious of her own appearance, was delighted to be
accosted by this distinguished-looking Englishman. Her mother appeared
to have no friends, except hateful Mrs. Hesketh--here, however, was
another of a very different stamp!
At first it seemed to be he and Cara, who were so well acquainted, and
carrying on a brisk conversation. Presently, she was summoned by Fritz
to interview a monkey, and her mother and Lumley were alone.
“And so all these years you have hidden yourself in Switzerland,” he
said, as together they moved to the side. “Frances would never divulge
your address. What an amazing, miraculous, chance, this meeting. I
just missed the earlier boat by one minute. I am not superstitious,
but there is something uncannily significant in our coming across one
another in this way.”
The couple, leaning over the bulwarks, indifferent to their
surroundings, had much to say to one another as the _Schiller_ forged
along through water of a deep peacock blue, shaded in the distance to a
silvered surface. By degrees, as Letty’s tongue became loosened, she
gave her companion a rapid account of her life during the past seven
years, and it was evident to her listener (though not to herself) that
her existence had been one of entire self-sacrifice for the child. He
on his part, talked of the death of his father, of Frances, of his
brother officers, his work, and his prospects.
“I’ve just got a shove up,” he said, “and been posted to a good job.
I’m on my way back from leave, and taking the Italian lakes _en route_,
as I have a week to spare. I saw Mrs. Hesketh at home; she had lately
come back from Switzerland. She never told me that she had seen _you_.”
“No, and when she was out here, she never told me that you were at home
on leave.”
“I suppose she thinks silence is best--and that all is over.” Seeing
Letty’s bare hand lying on the rail, he took it up, and said:
“I say, you don’t mean that you are still wearing that fellow’s ring!”
In another second, it was removed from her finger, the next, it
glittered through the sunshine, and fell into the blue water, with a
faint splash.
“Oh!” she stammered, “how dared you? how could you?”
“How could _you_, Letty?”
“Well, I shall have to replace it at once.--I wonder if Cara will miss
it?”
“What harm if she does! Look here, Letty, I believe good fortune
deliberately arranged this meeting, and now I intend to make hay
whilst the sun shines. Will you marry me, and come with me to India?”
“Lancelot!” she exclaimed, raising a scared face to his. “You take my
breath away. Are you crazy?”
“Never more absolutely sane, or sensible, in my life. We have lived
down scandal, I hope and believe, and what is there now to stand
between us? Blagdon is by all accounts consoled--I say no more--and
you are free. Do you return to the farm by the next boat, make all
arrangements, pack, and order what you require in the way of outfit in
Lucerne. For my part, I shall look up the Consul, and the chaplain,
wire for another passage, and as Mrs. Lumley, you will sail from Genoa
this day week.”
“No, no!” she insisted, “don’t go on.”
“But I haven’t half done yet! You will like India; you were born out
there, and have often heard the East a-calling. You know you have
always wished to see it, and India will like you. After making a bad
start at seventeen, you begin life over again at twenty-nine, and I
declare to you, Letty, you don’t look a day older than twenty-four--you
and Cara might be sisters. Now what do you say?” and his eyes held hers
with an intentness remarkable in human gaze.
After a pause she faltered:
“And what about Cara?”
“Cara!” he echoed. “Why, you will leave her at home, to be sure.
You have done your share for her nobly, and it’s time she went to
school--she is a big girl for her age.”
“Oh, but I could not part with her. If I were to desert her, and send
her to England, her father would claim her at once. Couldn’t we take
her out with us?”
“I’m afraid,” and he hesitated, “that Burmah--where I shall be for the
next year--would be terribly trying for a girl of her age--in fact, to
make no bones about it, if we took Cara out, she would be running a
serious risk.”
“Then that settles it,” said her mother, with decision. “Lancelot, I am
very, very sorry, unspeakably sorry--but you must return alone.”
It was in vain, that Major Lumley, like Mrs. Hesketh, argued and urged;
his eloquence was wasted.
“I would go with you with joy and thankfulness to the end of the
earth--but my first duty is to Cara.”
Lumley glanced at the tall, well-grown girl, with her rosy cheeks,
and quick, bold eyes; and it seemed to him, that she was already well
advanced in the wiles of a coquette as she laughed at, and teased the
handsome youth, her companion.
“After all, Letty, your girl is perfectly safe in England,” he
urged. “Frances will find her a good school, and I shall pay for her
education. I feel positively certain, that Blagdon will never trouble
his head about her. He and his sister are mixed up with racing sets,
and have no thoughts for anything else--and then, reflect--we are not
old, you and I. We have known one another for years. Time is passing;
here is the chance of our lives, and you want to throw it away. If we
part now, we may never meet again.”
Letty made no audible reply. She shook her head sadly and hopelessly,
and tears ran down her face and dripped on the side of the steamer.
Just at this unpropitious moment Cara rushed up, and unceremoniously
thrusting herself between her mother, and her companion, said:
“Mummy, I want a franc to buy some fruit! Why, Mummy,” she exclaimed,
“you are crying! How funny!”
“Do you think crying funny?” demanded Lumley, and his voice was sharp.
“Yes--for Mummy,” she answered, unabashed; “she never cries except at
nights--when she thinks no one knows. I cry often.”
“You speak as if you enjoyed it,” he continued, giving Letty time to
recover her composure. “What makes you cry?”
“If I want things and Mummy says no; but when I cry, she always gives
in.” A pause, and staring steadily at him, she continued, “What a long
talk you and the Mum have had--all the way from Gersau, to Tell’s
Chapel--and we are close to Fluellen.”
Yes, so they were, and at Fluellen he joined the mail-train, which bore
him south. It was the end of his journey; it was also the close of his
brief dream of hope.
“Here,” he said to Cara, handing her a little bit of gold, “run and buy
fruit, and don’t bother your mother.”
“Ah-ha!” she answered, with a knowing nod, her eyes bright with
incipient coquetry, “want to get rid of me, don’t you? but thank you a
million times all the same,” and kissing her hand, she ran off to join
Fritz and exhibit her prize.
“You must give me your address,” said Major Lumley, turning to Letty,
“and we will write to one another.” As he spoke, he produced a
notebook. “I hope you will never repent of your answer; but I believe
in my heart, that some day you will be sorry for yourself--yes, and
for me. One word more: Cara will be a beauty--in a year or two--and
rule you, and be in that respect, her father’s daughter. You are always
a slave to someone; first it was your aunt, then Blagdon, now the
girl--and _I_ would give you freedom.”
For the moment Letty was unable to speak or control her trembling lips.
The boat was alongside; already the passengers were crowding ashore and
streaming towards the station. As the luggage was being carried away,
she found her voice at last, and faltered:
“No doubt, once you are gone I’ll wish I had said yes, and if I said
yes, I would be wishing I’d said no. You must think me obstinate,
heartless, and weak; but I have never cared for anyone as much as for
you--and never will. I’ve thought of you every day, during these long,
lonely years--but I must put duty first.”
“That is to say, Cara,” he broke in angrily, “apparently you have
no personality, no identity of your own. Well, Letty, let us hope
that Cara will reward you. Here we are! I see the fellow has got me
an empty carriage,” and he halted. “If ever you are in trouble--bad
trouble--cable for me, and I’ll come back, and see you through. Now
good-bye.” He wrung her hand, and without another glance climbed into
the compartment. As the heavy St. Gothard express dragged itself out of
the station, he never looked out of the window or waved a signal to the
stricken figure on the platform. Lancelot had gone, he had departed in
disappointment, and displeasure.
Meanwhile Cara (who had been occupied at a fruit stall, and
subsequently sought a restaurant, there to indulge Fritz and herself
with coffee and cakes) appeared to have totally forgotten her parent.
On the return journey, Letty descended into the empty fore cabin--the
emotion of the recent scene was still thrilling all her pulses--and
there she wept unobserved, and unrestrained, the whole way back to
their own particular landing-stage,--mercilessly tortured by the
clamouring questions, had she done right? had she done wrong?
The problem was unsolved, when the steamer touched at Mitzau; it
remained unanswered, for years.