I can't say I should myself under the circumstances. When Lettice has
accepted him and cries her eyes out at the idea of giving him up, you
can hardly expect the young fellow to be patient. Heigho, these
daughters! A nice time of it I have before me, with four of them on my
hands."
Punctually at eleven o'clock next morning Arthur Newcome arrived for his
interview with Mr Bertrand. They were shut up together for over half-
an-hour, then Mr Bertrand burst open the door of the room where Miss
Carr and his daughter were seated, and addressed the latter in tones of
irritation such as she had seldom heard from those kindly lips.
"Lettice, go to the drawing-room and see Mr Newcome. He will tell you
what we have arranged. In ten minutes from now, come back to me here."
Lettice dropped her work and glided out of the room, white and noiseless
as a ghost, and her father clapped his hands together in impatience.
"Bah, what a man! He drives me distracted! To think that fate should
have been so perverse as to saddle me with a fellow like that for a son-
in-law! Oh dear, yes, perfectly polite, and all that was proper and
well-conducted, but I have no chance against him--none! I lose my head
and get excited, and he is so abominably cool. He will wait a month as
a concession to my wishes before making the engagement public, and
during that time she is to be left alone. He is neither to come here,
nor to write to her, and we will say nothing about it at home, so that
there may be as little unpleasantness as possible if it ends as we hope
it may. I had really no decent objection to make when he questioned me
on the subject. He is in a good position; his people are all we could
wish; his character irreproachable. He wishes to be married in the
autumn, and if he persists I shall have to give in; I know I shall--you
might as well try to fight with a stone wall."
"Autumn!" echoed Miss Carr in dismay. "Autumn! Oh, my poor Lettice! my
poor, dear child! But we have a month, you say; a great deal may be
done in a month. Ah, well, Austin, we must just hope for the best, and
do everything in our power to prevent an engagement."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
LETTICE DECIDES.
For the next month, Lettice saw nothing of Arthur Newcome. He had
packed up his traps and gone to spend the weeks of probation in Norway,
where he would be out of the way of temptation, and have his mind
distracted by novel surroundings.
No such change, however, fell to Lettice's share. Mr Bertrand would
not allow the ordinary summer visit to Clearwater to be anticipated. He
had forbidden Lettice to mention the proposed engagement to her sisters
as he was sanguine that a month's reflection would be more than enough
to convince the girl of her mistake, when the less that was known about
the matter the better for all concerned. As Arthur Newcome was out of
town he could see no objection to Lettice remaining where she was, and
Miss Carr agreed the more readily in this decision as she had made a
number of engagements which it would have been difficult to forego.
Both were thinking only of the girl's welfare; but alas! the best-
meaning people make mistakes at times, and this arrangement was the most
unfortunate which could have been made, considering the object which
they had in view. Lettice had nothing to distract her mind from the
past, no novelty of any kind to keep her from dwelling on the gratifying
remembrance of Arthur Newcome's devotion. On the contrary, her life was
less bright than usual, for the Newcomes were naturally displeased at
Mr Bertrand's objections to the engagement, and would not hold any
communication with Miss Carr's household until the matter was decided.
Thus Lettice was deprived of the society of her best friend, and was
forbidden the house in which she had been accustomed to spend her
happiest hours.
Miss Carr did her best to provide interest and amusement, but there was
a constraint between the old lady and her ward, which was as new as it
was painful. Lettice was conscious that she was in disgrace. When her
father fumed and fidgeted about the room, she guessed, without being
told, that he was thinking of the proposed engagement; when Miss Carr
sighed, and screwed up her face until it looked nothing but a network of
wrinkles, she knew that the old lady was blaming herself for negligence
in the past, and pondering what could still be done to avert the
marriage, and a most unpleasant knowledge it was. Lettice had lived all
her life in the sunshine of approval. As a little child everyone had
petted and praised her because of her charming looks; as a schoolgirl
she had reigned supreme among her fellows; her short experience of
society had shown that she had no less power in the new sphere. Cold
looks and reproachful glances were a new experience, and instead of
moving her to repentance, they had the effect of making her think
constantly of her lover, and long more and more for his return. Miss
Carr thought she was vain and selfish--Arthur said she was the best and
sweetest of women; her father called her a "foolish little girl"--Arthur
called her his queen and goddess; Miss Carr sat silent the whole of the
afternoon, sighing as if her heart was broken--Arthur had walked across
London many times over for the chance of a passing word. Other people
were disappointed in her, but Arthur declared that she was perfect,
without possibility of improvement! Lettice would take refuge in the
solitude of her bedroom, cry to herself, and look out of the window
wondering in which direction Norway lay, what Arthur was doing, and if
he were half as miserable at being separated from her as she was at
being left alone in London. Then she would recall the afternoon on the
river, when he had asked her to be his wife. How terribly in earnest he
had seemed. She had tried to say no, because, though she enjoyed his
attentions, she had never really intended to marry him; but the sight of
his face had frightened her, and when he had said in that awful voice,
"Lettice, do you mean it? Is there no hope? Have you been making a
fool of me for all these years?"--she had been ready to promise anything
and everything in the world if he would only smile again. And he had
been very "kind." It was "nice" being engaged. She had been quite
happy until her father came, and was so cross.
If Miss Carr could have been her own cheery, loving self, and talked to
the girl in a natural, kindly manner, still better, if she could have
had half-an-hour's conversation with outspoken Norah, all might have
been well; but Miss Carr was under the mistaken impression that it was
her duty to show her disapproval by every act and look, and the result
was disastrous. Every morning Lettice awoke with the doleful question,
"How am I to get through the day?" Every night she went to bed hugging
the thought that another milestone had been passed, and that the
probation was nearer to its end. By the end of the month her friends'
efforts had so nearly succeeded in making her honestly in love with
Arthur Newcome, that they marked the girl's bright eyes and happy
smiles, and told each other sadly that it was no use standing out
further.
Arthur Newcome wrote to Mr Bertrand announcing his arrival in London,
and asking permission to call and receive his answer from Lettice's
lips, and there was nothing to do but to consent forthwith. An hour was
appointed for the next afternoon, and Lettice spent an unconscionable
time in her bedroom preparing for the great occasion, and trying to
decide in which of her dainty garments Arthur would like her best. Her
father had taken himself into the City after a conversation in which he
had come perilously near losing his temper, and when Lettice floated
into the drawing-room, all pale green muslin and valenciennes insertion,
looking more like an exquisite wood nymph than a creature of common
flesh and blood, there sat Miss Carr crying her eyes out on a corner of
the ottoman.
"Oh, Lettice, Lettice! is it too late? Won't you listen to reason even
at the eleventh hour? It is the greatest folly to enter into this
engagement. Never were two people more unsuited to each other! You
will regret it all your life. My poor, dear child, you are wrecking
your own happiness..."
It was too bad! For almost the first time in her life Lettice felt a
throb of actual anger. She had been docile and obedient, had consented
to be separated from Arthur for a whole month, and done all in her power
to satisfy these exacting people, and even now they would not believe
her--they would not allow her to be happy. She stood staring at Miss
Carr in silence, until the servant threw open the door and announced her
lover's arrival.
"Mr Newcome, ma'am. I have shown him into the morning-room as you
desired."
Lettice turned without a word and ran swiftly downstairs to the room
where Arthur Newcome was waiting for her in painful anxiety. For three
long years he had tried to win the girl's heart, and had failed to gain
a sign of affection. Her acceptance had been won after a struggle, and
he was racked with suspense as to the effect of this month's separation.
When the door opened, Lettice saw him standing opposite, his tall
figure drawn up to its full height, his handsome face pale with the
intensity of his emotion.
She gave a quick glance, then rushed forward and nestled into his arms
with a little cry of joy.
"Oh, Arthur, Arthur! you have come back! Take care of me! Take care of
me! I have been so miserable!"
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
THE SCATTERED NEST.
Two days later a happy party were disporting themselves on the lawn at
Cloudsdale. Rex and Edna Freer had driven over to spend the afternoon
with their friends, and just as Mary placed the tea-tray on the wicker
table, the postman came marching up the drive, and delivered the only
thing which was necessary to complete the happiness of the party--a
letter from Lettice!
"She has written so little lately, and her letters have been so unlike
herself, that I have been quite uneasy," said Hilary, turning the
envelope round and round, and feeling its proportions with undisguised
pleasure. "I'll give you each a cup of tea, and then I'll read it out,
while you listen in comfort."
The three years which had passed since we saw her last had dealt very
kindly with Hilary. The consequential air had given place to an
expression of quiet serenity which was by no means unbecoming. Her
complexion was pink and white as of yore, and as she presided over the
tea-table, her blue cambric dress fitting closely to the line of her
neat little figure, her tiny feet crossed before her, and her shining
brown hair arranged in its usual fastidious order, it would have been
difficult to find a more favourable specimen of a young English girl.
Norah, seated opposite on the long hammock chair, was still very girlish
in appearance, despite the dignity of eighteen years. She was thin and
lanky, and her cheeks had none of Hilary's delicate bloom, but the heavy
eyebrows and expressive lips lent a charm to a face which was never the
same in expression for two minutes together, and though there could be
no question as to which was the prettier of the two, it was safe to
predict that few people who looked at Norah would be tempted to return
to the study of Hilary's more commonplace features.
Edna was narrow-chested and delicate in appearance, but Rex had
developed into an imposing looking personage; broad-shouldered,
muscular, and with such a moustache as was unequalled by any young
fellow of his age in the country-side. He wore a white flannel suit,
and though there were several unoccupied seats at hand, chose to loll on
the grass, his long legs stretched out before him, his blue cap pushed
well back on his curly head. Nestled beside him sat Geraldine, a little
taller, a little older in appearance, but with the same grave, earnest
little face which had characterised her three years before. Perhaps the
member of the family who was the most changed, was the tall, young
fellow who sat beside Norah. Raymond had only lately returned from a
two years' sojourn in Germany, where he had acquired an extra four
inches, a pair of eye-glasses, and such "a man of the world" manner,
that it had been a shock to his sisters to find that his teasing
propensities were as vigorous as when he had been a schoolboy. Faithful
Bob hovered near, ready to obey his leader's commands, and take part in
any mischief which might be at hand, but for the moment all other
interests gave way to the hearing of the letter from London.
Hilary handed the last cup to its owner, and opening the envelope, ran
her eye rapidly down the sheet. The next moment a loud "Oh!" of
amazement startled the hearers into eager curiosity.
"What is the matter?"
"Oh--oh! It can't be true--it can't! Lettice is engaged to be
married!"
"_Engaged_!" A moment's breathless silence was succeeded by a very
babel of questioning.
"Engaged?" "Who to?" "When?" "Where." "What does she say?" "Oh,
read it aloud. Let us hear every word she says!"
But Hilary folded up the sheet with an air of determination. "Not yet.
I'll read it by-and-by; but first you must guess. I'll give you fifty
guesses who it is..."
"The painter fellow who did her portrait!"
"That what-do-you-call-him man--the Polish nobleman who sent her the
verses!"
"The curate!"
"Sir Neville Bruce!"
"One of the men she met at Brighton!"
"Wrong! wrong! wrong! Guess again. Nearer home this time. Someone you
know!"
"Not Mr Rayner?"
"Oh, dear me, no! I should think not. He and Lettice never get on well
together. Someone else."
"Someone we know! But we know so few of her friends. Only Mr Neville,
and the Bewleys, and--_oh_! No, it can't--it can't possibly be--"
"What? what? Who--who? Never mind if you are wrong. Say whom you are
thinking of."
"It--_can't_ be Arthur Newcome!"
"Arthur Newcome it is, my dear!" said Hilary tragically; whereupon
Raymond instantly dropped his teacup on the grass, and fell heavily on
Norah's shoulders.
"Smelling salts! Brandy! I am going to faint! Oh, my heart!"
But, for once, no one paid any attention. Even Norah sat motionless,
forgetting to push him away, forgetting everything but the appalling
nature of the news which she had just heard.
"Lettice--is--engaged--to--Arthur Newcome?"
"Lettice--is--engaged--to--Arthur Newcome!"
"But--but--we knew that he admired her in his solemn way, but she never
seemed to like him! She used to make fun of him, and imitate the way he
talked!"
Raymond sat up and passed in his cup for a fresh supply of tea. What
was the good of fainting if nobody took any notice! "I say," he cried
energetically, "fancy Arthur Newcome proposing! I'd give anything if I
could have overheard him. ... `Miss Bertrand!--Lettice!--may I call you
Lettice? Deign, oh deign--'"
"Oh, be quiet, Raymond, and let us hear the letter," pleaded Norah, who
was on the verge of tears with agitation and distress. "I can't believe
it until I hear her own words. Read it, Hilary, from the very
beginning."
Hilary opened out the dainty, scented sheet, and read aloud, with an
impressiveness worthy of the occasion:--
"My dearest old Hilary, and Norah, and every one of you,--I have a great
piece of news to tell. I am engaged to Arthur Newcome, and he wants to
be married some time this autumn. He proposed to me a month ago, on the
day of our water party, but father and Miss Carr wished us to wait a
month before it was settled, so that I should have time to make up my
mind. They think I am so young, but if we wait until September I shall
be twenty, and many girls are married at that age. I have a beautiful
ring--a big pearl in the centre, and diamonds all round, and Arthur has
given me a brooch as well, three dear little diamond swallows--it looks
so sweet at my neck! Madge is very pleased, of course, and Mr and Mrs
Newcome are very kind. Won't it be nice when I have a house of my own,
and you can come and stay with me? I shall have six bridesmaids--you
three, Madge, Edna, and either Mabel Bruce or Monica Bewley. You must
think of pretty dresses. I like a white wedding, but it doesn't show
the bride off so well--that's the great objection. We shall have a
great deal to talk about when I come home next month, and I am longing
for the time to come. It is so hot and close in town, and Cloudsdale
must be looking lovely just now. Father expects to leave on Tuesday.
He does not seem very pleased about my engagement. I suppose parents
never are! Good-bye, dear, darling girls. I wish I could be with you
now.
"Your own loving Lettice.
"PS--How surprised you will be. Tell me every word you said when you
read this letter!"
"Humph I slightly awkward if we took her at her word!" It was Rex who
spoke, and there was the same expression of ill-concealed scorn in his
voice which had been noticeable on his face since the announcement of
the news. "Charming epistle, I must say. So much about `dear Arthur'
and her own happiness. One must excuse a little gush under the
circumstances, and Lettice was always demonstrative!"
Hilary looked at him, puckering her forehead in anxious fashion. "You
mean that sarcastically! She says nothing about being happy. I noticed
that myself. There is something strange about the whole thing. I am
quite sure she did not care for him when I was there in spring. What
can have possessed her to accept him?"
"Because he asked her nicely, and puts lots of treacle on the bread,"
said Raymond, laughing. "You could always make Lettice do what you
wanted if you flattered her enough. She would accept any fellow who
went down on his knees and swore he worshipped her. Oh, I say I fancy
having Arthur Newcome as a brother-in-law! We used to call him `Child's
Guide to Knowledge' when he was at Windermere last summer, because he
would insist upon improving every occasion. We played some fine pranks
on him, didn't we, Norah? We'll give him a lively time of it again if
he comes to visit us, as I suppose he will, under the circumstances."
"We can't," said Norah dolefully. "He is engaged to Lettice, and she
would be vexed. I don't feel as if I could ever play pranks again. I
was so looking forward to having Lettice with us again when we went up
to London, but now it will never be the same again. Even if she has a
house of her own, Arthur Newcome will be there, and I could never, never
get to like him as a brother." She put her cup on the table and walked
off by herself into the shrubbery which encircled the lawn, and though
the others looked after her in sympathetic silence, they did not attempt
to follow. As Lettice's special friend and companion, the news was even
more of a shock to her than to the rest, and it was understood that she
might prefer to be alone.
Ten minutes later, however, when tea was finished, Rex rose lazily from
the ground, stretched his long arms, and strode off in the direction of
the shrubbery. Half-way down the path he met Norah marching along in
solitary state, white about the cheeks, suspiciously red and swollen
about the eyes.
Rex clasped his hands behind his back, and blocked the narrow way.
"Well, what are you doing here?"
"Crying!" Norah flashed a defiant glance at him, then turned aside to
dab her face with her handkerchief and gulp in uncontrollable misery,
whereupon Rex looked distressed, uncomfortable, and irritated all at the
same moment.
"Then please stop at once. What's the use of crying? You can't help it
now, better make the best of it, and be as jolly as you can. Norah--
look here, I'm sorry to bother you any more to-day, but I came over
specially to have a chat. I have not had a chance of speaking to you
quietly until now, and my father is driving round for us at six o'clock.
Before he comes I wanted to tell you--"
Norah put her handkerchief in her pocket, and faced him with steady
eyes. Her heart gave a leap of understanding, and a cold certainty of
misery settled upon her which seemed to dry up the fountain of tears,
and leave her still and rigid.
"Yes?"
"We had a big talk last night, Norah. The three years are up, you know,
and I have fulfilled my share of the bargain. I have known all the time
what my decision would be, and six months ago I wrote to all the men I
know abroad, asking them to look out for the sort of berth I wanted. On
Tuesday I had a letter from a man in India offering me a good opening.
You will be surprised to hear why he gives me the chance instead of all
the other fellows who are anxious to get it. It is because I am a good
musician! I don't mean in your sense of the word, of course, but I can
rattle away on the piano and play any air I happen to hear, and he says
the fellows up-country set no end of store by that sort of thing. If
other qualifications are equal, the post is given to the man who can
play, and make things cheerful in the evening. Rather a sarcasm, isn't
it, after all the money that has been spent on my education, that such a
trifle should decide my destiny? Well--I showed the letter to my
father, and he was terribly cut up about the whole thing. I had said
nothing about my plans for some time back, for it seemed no use to upset
him before it was necessary, but he has been hoping that I was `settling
down.' Norah, I can't do it! I hate leaving home, and shall be
wretched when the time comes; but I have roving blood in my veins, and
cannot settle down to a jog-trot, professional life in a small English
town. If I go out to this place I shall lie low until I have a
practical knowledge of the land and its possibilities, and then I'll buy
an estate, and work it in my own way. I have the money my uncle left
me, and can make my way without asking father for a penny. He is coming
over this afternoon, and I am sure he means to talk to you. We didn't
say anything to the mater and Edna, but he knows that you and I are
friends, and that I will listen to what you say. He means to ask you to
persuade me to stay at home. But--you understand how I feel, Norah?"
"Yes, Rex. Don't be afraid! If your father speaks to me I shall advise
him to let you go. You have kept your share of the bargain: it is for
him to keep his," said Norah steadily. "And it appears that you _want_
to go away and leave us."
"You will live in London now for the greater part of the year. If I
were at home I should only see you at long intervals. I should not
settle in this neighbourhood. Our life would be quite different..."
"Oh yes, quite different! Everything will be different now. You will
have gone, and--Lettice too! Rex! don't be angry if I ask you
something. I will try to persuade your father to give you your way,
but--tell me this before you go!-- Has the news about Lettice had
anything to do with your decision?"
Rex stopped short, and stared at her in amazement.
"This news about Lettice! Norah, what do you mean?"
"About her engagement! I always thought that you liked her yourself.
You remember what you used to call her--`Lovely Lettice'?"
"Well, and so she was lovely! Anybody might have seen that. Of course
I liked her, but if you mean that I am jealous of Arthur Newcome--no,
thank you! I should not care for a wife who would listen to the first
man who came along, as Lettice has done. She was a jolly little girl,
and I took a fancy to her at first sight, but--do you remember our
adventure in the old passage, Norah? Do you think Lettice would have
stuck to me, and been as brave, and plucky, and loyal as you were in the
midst of your fright? I never forgot that day. It was last night that
I spoke to my father, before I heard a word about Lettice, or her
matrimonial intentions."
"So it was; I forgot that!" Norah smiled with recovered cheerfulness,
for Rex's words had lifted a load from her mind, and the future seemed
several shades less gloomy than it had done a few minutes before.
"And if you went, how soon would you start?"
"As soon as possible. I have wasted too much time already. The sooner
I go, the sooner I can make my way and come home again to see you all.
Three or five years, I suppose. You will be quite an old woman, Norah."
"Yes; twenty-three! Lettice will be married; Hilary too, very likely.
The Mouse will be as big as I was when you first knew us, and Raymond a
doctor in practice. It will all be different!" Norah's voice was very
low as she spoke the last words, and her face twitched as if she were
about to break down once more.
Rex looked at her with the same odd mingling of tenderness and vexation
which he had shown a few minutes earlier.