arrived. Rex and Edna drove over to see the last of their friend and
cheer the stay-at-homes by their presence; but it did not seem as though
they could be very successful in their errand of mercy, since Edna cried
steadily behind her handkerchief, and Rex poked holes in the garden
walks with gloomy persistence.
When Mr Rayner said his good-byes, he left Hilary to the last, and held
her hand in his a moment or two longer than was strictly necessary.
"Good-bye, and thank you for all you have done for me. I'll remember
your advice. ... We shall meet soon, I hope. You will be coming up to
town, and Mr Bertrand has been good enough to ask me to come again next
spring."
Next spring! A whole year! As well say the end of the world at once.
Hilary felt such a swelling sense of misery that the only way in which
she could refrain from tears was by answering in sharp, matter-of-fact
tones, and the consciousness that Mr Rayner was surprised and hurt by
her manner was part of the general misery against which it was useless
to fight.
As for Lettice, she was fairly dissolved in tears--clinging to every one
in turn--and sobbing out despairing farewells. "Oh, Norie, Norie! my
heart will break! I shall die; I know I shall. I can never bear it.
Oh, Mouse, don't forget me! Don't let her forget me! Oh, do write--
everyone write! I shall _live_ on the letters from home!"
The last glimpse was of a tear-stained face, and a handkerchief held
aloft in such a drenched condition that it refused to open to the
breeze, and when the carriage turned the corner Miss Briggs shuffled off
to the schoolroom, Hilary ran off to her room upstairs, leaving the
three young people in the porch staring at each other with a miserable
realisation of loss.
"What shall I do?--what shall I do? She said _her_ heart would be
broken, but it is ten times worse for me! The house will seem so
dreadfully bare and lonely!"
"Just when we were all so happy! Oh, that hateful Miss Carr! why did
she ever come? I thought we were going to have such a h-appy summer,"
sobbed Edna dolefully. "It's always the way! As soon as I make
friends, I am bound to lose them."
Rex put his hands into his pockets and began to whistle. "It will do no
good to turn yourselves into a couple of fountains! I'll go for a walk,
and come back when you've done crying. It's a nuisance, but it might
have been worse," he said shortly, and Norah looked at him with a gleam
of curiosity lighting up her poor, tear-stained eyes.
"How worse? What do you mean?" she inquired; but Rex did not deign to
answer, or to have anything more to say until tea was served a couple of
hours later. The tears to which he so much objected were dried by this
time, but the conversation was still sorrowfully centred on the dear
traveller. "What is she doing now? Poor, poor Lettice! she will cry
herself ill. Every mile further from home will make her more wretched!"
cried Norah, and the listeners groaned in sympathy.
If they had seen Miss Lettice at that moment, however, their fears would
have been allayed. Miss Carr had changed into a corridor train at
Preston, and her companion was charmed with the novel position. She had
never before travelled in a corridor, and the large, open carriage, the
view, the promenade up and down, were all fascinating to her
inexperience. Then to have lunch, and afternoon tea just when the
journey was beginning to drag--it was indeed a luxurious way of
travelling! Lettice had ceased to cry before the train had reached
Kendal; at Lancaster she began to smile; at Crewe she laughed so merrily
at one of Miss Carr's sallies, that the people on the next seat turned
to look at her with smiles of admiring interest. Everyone was "so nice
and kind." It was a pleasure to see them. Clearwater was a dear, sweet
place, but, after all, it was only a poky little village. Delightful to
get away and see something of the world!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
AFTER THREE YEARS.
Three years had passed away since Lettice Bertrand had bidden farewell
to her Northern home and accompanied Miss Carr to London, but there was
little sign of change in the big drawing-room at Kensington, or in the
mistress herself, as she sat reading a magazine by the window one sunny
June afternoon. When the purse is well lined it is easy to prevent
signs of age so far as furniture and decorations are concerned, while
the lapse of three years makes little difference in the appearance of a
lady who has long passed middle age. Miss Carr looked very contented
and comfortable as she lay back against the cushions of her easy chair,
so comfortable that she groaned with annoyance as the servant came
forward to announce a visitor, and the frown did not diminish when she
heard the name.
"Oh, ask Mr Newcome to come up, Baker! I will see him here." The man
disappeared, and she threw down the magazine with an exclamation of
disgust. "That stolid young man! Now I shall have to listen to
improving anecdotes for the next half-hour. Why in the world need he
inflict himself upon me?"
The next moment the door opened and the "`stolid' young man" stood
before her. So far as appearance went, however, the description was
misleading, for Arthur Newcome was tall and handsome, with yellow hair,
a good moustache, and strong, well set up figure. He came forward and
shook hands with Miss Carr in a quick, nervous fashion, which was so
unlike his usual stolid demeanour, that the good lady stared at him in
amazement.
"He is actually animated! I always said that it would take a convulsion
of nature to rouse him from his deadly propriety, but upon my word he
looks excited. What can have happened?"
The laws of propriety do not always permit us to ask the questions
nearest our hearts, however, and Miss Carr was obliged to content
herself with commonplaces.
"It is a beautiful day. I suppose Madge got home safely last night?
She isn't too tired after the picnic, I hope!"
"A little fatigued, I believe, but no doubt she will have recovered
before evening. She is apt to get excited on these occasions and to
exert herself unduly."
"Nobody can say the same of you, more's the pity," was Miss Carr's
mental comment. "Madge rows very well, and the exercise will do her no
harm," she said shortly, and relapsed into determined silence. "I
suppose he has something to say, some message for Lettice most likely;
better let him say it and take himself off as soon as possible," was her
hospitable reflection; but Mr Newcome sat twirling his hat and studying
the pattern of the carpet in embarrassed silence.
Three times over did he clear his throat and open his lips to speak,
before he got the length of words.
"Miss Carr, I--er, I feel that I am--er--I am deeply sensible of my own
unworthiness, and can only rely on your generosity, and assure you of my
deep and sincere--"
"What in the name of all that is mysterious is the man driving at?"
asked Miss Carr of herself; but she sat bolt upright in her seat, with a
flush on her cheeks and a pang of vague, indefinite fear at her heart.
"My dear Mr Newcome, speak plainly, if you please! I cannot follow
your meaning. In what respect are you a claimant for my generosity?"
"In respect of what is the most important question of my life," replied
Mr Newcome, recovering his self-possession at last, and looking her
full in the face, in what she was obliged to confess was a very manly
fashion--"In respect to my love for your ward, Miss Bertrand, and my
desire to have your consent to our engagement, to ratify her own
promise."
"Her own promise! Your engagement! Lettice? Do you mean to tell me
that you have proposed to Lettice and that she has accepted you?"
"I am happy to say that is my meaning. I had intended to consult you in
the first instance, but yesterday, on the river, we were together, and
I--I--"
He stopped short with a smile of tender recollection, and Miss Carr sat
gazing at him in consternation.
Arthur Newcome had proposed to Lettice, and Lettice had accepted him.
The thing was incomprehensible! The girl had showed not the slightest
signs of preference, had seemed as gay and heart-whole as a child. Only
a fortnight before she had convulsed Miss Carr with laughter by putting
on Mr Rayner's top-coat, and paying an afternoon call, _a la_ Arthur
Newcome, when all that young gentleman's ponderous proprieties had been
mimicked with merciless fidelity. And she had actually promised to
marry him!
"I--excuse me--but are you quite sure that you understood Lettice
aright? Are you sure you are not mistaken?"
Mr Newcome smiled with happy certainty.
"Quite sure, Miss Carr. I can understand your surprise, for I find it
difficult to believe in my own good fortune. Lettice is the sweetest,
most beautiful, and most charming girl in the world. I am not worthy of
her notice, but there is nothing that I would not do to ensure her
happiness. She is all the world to me. I have loved her from the day
we first meet."
He was in earnest--horribly in earnest! His voice quivered with
emotion, his eyes were shining, and his face, which was usually
immovable, was radiant with happiness. Miss Carr looked at him, and her
heart fell. If the mere thought of Lettice could alter the man in this
manner, she could imagine the transformation which must have passed over
him as he spoke to the girl herself, among the trees and flowers on the
river-bank; and, alas for Lettice! she could imagine also how easily
gratified vanity might have been mistaken for reciprocal love. It had
been late when they returned from the water party the night before, and
Lettice had hurried off to bed. She had been a trifle more lingering
than usual in her good-night embrace, but Lettice was always
demonstrative in her ways, so that the fact had attracted no attention,
and the morning had been so full of engagements that there had been no
time for private conferences.
Miss Carr was speechless with grief, disappointment, and dismay. Her
anxious training for the last three years, her motherly oversight, her
hopes and prayers for the welfare of her beloved child, had they all
ended in this, that Lettice had been too selfish to discourage
admiration which she could not return?--too weak to say no to the first
man who approached with flattering words? Poor, foolish child! What
misery she had prepared for herself and everyone belonging to her!--for
of course it was all a mistake, her heart was not really touched; the
engagement could not be allowed. With a sigh of relief Miss Carr
reflected that the onus of responsibility was lifted off her shoulders
by the fact of Mr Bertrand's arrival in town that very afternoon, and
also that Lettice's engagements for the day would prevent a meeting
until she had been able to consult with her father. She drew a long
sigh, and her voice sounded both sad and tired as she replied--
"Ah, well! I am only Lettice's guardian in name, Mr Newcome; I have no
authority to refuse or to sanction her engagement. I have had a
telegram to say that Mr Bertrand is coming to town on business to-day,
so you will be able to see him to-morrow and hear what he has to say.
Lettice is very young--too young, in my opinion, to be able to know her
own mind. I wish there had been no such questions to disturb her for
the next two or three years. I don't know what Mr Bertrand will
think."
"I am in a good position. I can provide a name that will not be
unworthy of her. You know me and my family. We have been friends for
years. She would have the warmest welcome--"
"Yes, yes, I am sure of that. I will tell Mr Bertrand all you say, Mr
Newcome, and if you call to-morrow morning you will find him at home.
In the afternoon he will probably be engaged. I can say nothing, and--
Excuse me! I am not so young as I was, and I feel a good deal upset..."
Arthur Newcome rose at once, and held out his hand in farewell.
"Pray pardon me. I can understand your sentiments. It must be a shock
to think of losing Lettice in any case, and I am aware that I am not
what is called a good match. Such a beautiful girl--her father's
daughter, your ward--might marry into any circle. I sympathise with
your disappointment; but, believe me, Lettice should never have any
reason to regret her choice. I would devote my life to securing her
happiness. I will call to-morrow morning, then, with your permission.
Eleven o'clock? Thank you! Pray pardon any distress I may have caused
you, and think of me as indulgently as you can."
He left the room, and Miss Carr raised both hands to her head with a
gesture of despair.
"He is all that he should be--humble, devoted, deferential--but oh,
Lettice! my poor, dear child, what a mistake you have made! You would
eat your heart out in a year's time, married to a man whom you do not
love; and you don't love Arthur Newcome, I know you don't--it is all
vanity, and weakness, and imagination. Poor Austin, what a welcome for
him! A nice pill for me to have such a piece of news to tell--I, who
was going to do such wonders for the child! Well, well! this comes of
mixing oneself up in other people's affairs. She could have come to no
worse fate than this if I had left her to vegetate in Clearwater."
There was no more rest for Miss Carr that afternoon. The magazine lay
neglected on the table, the cushions fell to the ground and lay
unnoticed as she fidgeted about, now rising and pacing angrily to and
fro, now throwing herself on a seat in weary despair. She alternately
longed for and dreaded Mr Bertrand's arrival, and it needed all her
self-control to keep up a semblance of cheerfulness while he drank his
tea and refreshed himself after the long journey. It was not easy,
however, to deceive such an intimate friend. Mr Bertrand studied her
face with critical eyes, and said kindly--
"You are not up to the mark, Helen; you look tired and worried! That
youngster of mine has not been misbehaving herself, I hope? What's the
trouble?"
"Oh, Austin, the deluge! The most awful complication. I feel inclined
to whip her! Would you believe it, that wooden Arthur Newcome called
upon me this very afternoon, not two hours ago, to ask my consent to his
engagement to Lettice!"
"Arthur Newcome? Oh, I know--the solemn person in the frock coat! What
preposterous nonsense! Lettice is a baby! We must not let the young
people at home hear of this, or they will tease the poor girl to death.
Young Newcome is a favourite butt, and they often mimic him for my
benefit. Well, I hope you let the poor fellow down gently, and saved me
a disagreeable task."
"But--but, my dear Austin, you don't understand. He cannot be dismissed
in that easy fashion, for he says--it is inconceivable--I don't know
what to make of it--but he tells me that he has spoken to Lettice
herself, and that she has accepted him!"
"What?" Mr Bertrand put down his cup and turned to confront Miss Carr
with a face from which every trace of laughter had disappeared.
"Accepted him? Lettice? This is serious indeed. Had you ever
suspected--or noticed any sign of an attachment growing up between
them?"
Miss Carr wrung her hands in distress.
"My dear Austin, how can you ask such a question? As if I would not
have consulted with you at once if that had been the case. You know
what Arthur Newcome is--the acme of all that is sober and stolid. I
have never seen a sign of emotion of any kind on his face until this
afternoon. He has seen a good deal of Lettice, for she and Madge are
great friends, but I never thought of anything more--never for one
moment! And as for Lettice herself, I am confident that the child never
thought of him in that light, and that she is as heart-whole as I am
myself."
"Then why--why--?"
"Oh, don't ask me! I am too miserable and disappointed to speak. I
thought I had guarded against this sort of thing; but you know what
Lettice is. He is very much in love, and no doubt she was pleased and
flattered."
Mr Bertrand thrust his hands into his pockets and paced up and down the
room. His face looked drawn and anxious, but after five minutes had
passed he drew a long breath and made a determined effort at
cheerfulness.
"Well, it's a bad business, but it has to be faced. I am humiliated and
disappointed that Lettice could have behaved so foolishly; but you must
not blame yourself, my dear old friend. No one could have done more for
the child for the last three years, and I am glad I am here to help you
through this difficulty. The young fellow will have to be told that
there has been a mistake. I am sorry for him, but it is better now than
later on. When did you say you expected Lettice?"
"She may be here at any moment. She was to leave her friends at six
o'clock. I thought I heard the door open just now. Perhaps she has
arrived."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
LETTICE IS OBSTINATE.
Miss Carr's surmise proved correct, for even as she spoke the door
opened and Lettice appeared on the threshold. No longer the Lettice of
short skirts and flowing locks, but an elegant young lady who swept
forward with a rustle of silken skirts, and held up the sweetest pink
and white face in the world to receive her father's kiss of greeting.
"Lovely Lettice," indeed, lovelier than ever in the first bloom of
womanhood. As her father held her from him at arm's length, the slim
figure was almost as tall as his own, and the golden head dropped before
the grave, scrutinising glance. Lettice knew that her lover had called
during her absence, and Miss Carr's silence, her father's unusual
solemnity, added to her natural nervousness. The grey eyes roved from
one face to another with a scared, helpless look which they were quick
to understand.
"Yes," said Mr Bertrand, "we know all about it by this time, Lettice.
Mr Newcome has interviewed Miss Carr. She was intensely surprised; I
also; but she has had more opportunity of seeing you together, and she
tells me that you have shown no special signs of interest in this young
fellow. Tell me, my dear--speak frankly, we are only thinking of your
happiness--have you allowed yourself to be persuaded against your own
judgment? It is a pity if that is the case, but it can be remedied.
There is no engagement as yet, and I can easily explain to Mr Newcome
that you have made a mistake."
Lettice had seated herself opposite her father and busied herself
pulling off her long suede gloves. She avoided her father's glance, but
the answer came in a little, breathless gasp--"Oh, no, no! I don't
want--"
"No--you say _no_? Lettice, this is a serious matter. Do you mean to
tell me that you love Arthur Newcome, and wish to marry him? Think
well, my dear. You know what it means--that you are content to spend
your life with this man, to give up everything for him, to say good-bye
to friends and relations--"
"Father, Miss Carr is here; you are all coming up for the winter; he
lives here. I should not have to leave you!"
"You can't count on that, Lettice. Mr Newcome's business arrangements
might make it necessary for him to leave London at any time, and it
would be your duty to follow. Do you care for him enough to make such a
sacrifice? If you love him you will not hesitate; but _do_ you love
him? That is what I want to hear! Come, Lettice, speak; I am waiting
for your answer."
"I--I--father, I do like him! I promised I would. I think he is very
kind!"
The two elders exchanged glances of baffled helplessness. There was
silence for a few minutes, then Mr Bertrand seated himself by Lettice's
side and took her hand in his.
"My dear little girl, let us understand each other. Of course he is
`kind'; of course you `like him,' but that is not enough; you must do
something more than `like' the man who is to be your husband. Do you
care for him more than for me and Miss Carr, and your sisters and
brothers all together? If he were on one side of the scale and we on
the other, which would you choose? That is the way to face the
question. You must not be satisfied with less. My dear, you are very
young yet; I think you had better let me tell Mr Newcome that he is not
to mention this matter again for the next two years, until you are
twenty-one. By that time you will know your own mind, and, if you still
wished it, I should have no more to say. You would be willing to leave
it in that way, wouldn't you, dear?"
But Lettice did not look at all willing. She drew her hand away from
her father's grasp, and turned her shoulder on him with a pettish
gesture which was strangely unlike her usual sweet demeanour.
"Why should I wait? There is nothing to wait for! I thought you would
be pleased. It's very unkind to spoil it all! Other girls are happy
when they are engaged, and people are kind to them. You might let me be
happy too--"
Mr Bertrand sat bolt upright in his seat, staring at his daughter with
incredulous eyes. Could it be possible that the girl was in earnest
after all, that she was really attached to this most heavy and
unattractive young man? He looked appealingly at his old friend, who,
so far, had taken no part in the conversation, and she took pity on his
embarrassment and came to the rescue. Two years' constant companionship
with Lettice had shown her that there was a large amount of obstinacy
hidden beneath the sweetness of manner, and for the girl's sake, as well
as her father's, she thought the present interview had better come to an
end.
"Suppose you go to the library and have a smoke, Austin, while Lettice
and I have a quiet talk together," she said soothingly, and Mr Bertrand
shrugged his shoulders with a gesture of nervous irritation, and strode
from the room.
No sooner had the door closed behind him than Lettice produced a little
lace-edged handkerchief from her pocket, and began to sob and cry.
"Father is cruel; why won't he believe me? Why may I not get engaged
like other girls? I am nineteen. I was so happy--and now I'm
miserable!"
"Come here, Lettice, and for pity's sake, child, stop crying, and behave
like a reasonable creature. There are one or two questions I want to
ask you. How long have you known that Arthur Newcome was in love with
you?"
"I don't know. At least, he was always nice. That summer at
Windermere, he always walked with me, and brought me flowers, and--"
"That was three years ago--the summer you came to me. So long as that!
But, Lettice, whatever your feelings may be now, you have certainly not
cared for him up to a very recent period. I don't need to remind you of
the manner in which you have spoken about him. When you saw that lit;
was growing attached to you, did you try to show that you did not
appreciate his attentions?"
Lettice bent her head and grew crimson over cheek and neck.
"I was obliged to be polite! He was always with Madge, and I did
like--"
Miss Carr shut her lips in tight displeasure.
"Yes, my dear, you `liked' his attentions, and you were too vain and
selfish to put an end to them, though you did not care for the man
himself. Oh, Lettice, this is what I have feared! this is what I have
tried to prevent! My poor, foolish child, what trouble you have brought
upon us all! Arthur Newcome will have every reason to consider himself
badly treated; his people will take his part; you will have alienated
your best friends."
"I am not going to treat him badly. You are very unkind. _He_ would
not be unkind to me. I wish he were here, I do! He would not let you
be so cruel." And Lettice went off into a paroxysm of sobbing, while
Miss Carr realised sorrowfully that she had made a false move.
"My dear child, you know very well I don't mean to be cruel. I am too
anxious for your happiness. Lettice, Mr Newcome is very much in love
just now, and is excited and moved out of himself; but though he may not
be less devoted to you, in the course of time he will naturally fall
back into his old quiet ways. When you think of a life with him, you
must not imagine him as he was yesterday, but as you have seen him at
home any time during the last three years. You have mimicked him to me
many times over, my dear. Can you now feel content to spend your life
in his company?"
It was of no use. Lettice would do nothing but sob and cry, reiterate
that everyone was unkind, that she was miserable, that it was a shame
that she could not be happy like other girls, until at last Miss Carr,
in despair, sent her upstairs to her bedroom, and went to rejoin Mr
Bertrand.
"Well?" he said, stopping short in his pacings up and down, and
regarding her with an anxious gaze, "what luck?"
Miss Carr gave a gesture of impatience.
"Oh, none--none at all! She will do nothing but cry and make a martyr
of herself. She will not acknowledge that she has made a mistake, and
yet I know, I feel, it is not the right thing! You must speak to Arthur
Newcome yourself to-morrow, and try to make him consent to a few months'
delay."