drizzle; the clouds were low and grey. It seemed as if nature itself
shared in the depression which settled on the little party gathered
together in the drawing-room at Cloudsdale. What merry times they had
spent together in this room! What cosy chats there had been round the
fireside in winter! what refreshing hours of rest in summer, when the
sun blinds were lowered, and the windows stood open to the green lawn!
And now they were all over. A melancholy feeling of "last time" settled
on each of the beholders as they looked at Lettice with the betrothal
ring sparkling on her finger, at Rex, so tall and man-like in his
travelling suit of rough grey tweed. To make matters worse, the curate
had taken this opportunity to pay a call, so that they were not even
alone, and the rain prevented an adjournment to the garden. Norah sat
at the extreme end of the room from Rex, trifling with her teacup and
spoon, with a feeling of such helpless misery as she had never known
before in the course of her short life. The Mouse cried openly, Miss
Briggs whisked her handkerchief out of her pocket at intervals of every
few minutes and Hilary's forced cheerfulness was hardly less depressing.
As for Rex himself, he was perfectly quiet and composed, but his voice
had a hard, metallic ring, and his face looked drawn and old. Lettice
could not bear to look at him, for it seemed to her that there was more
evidence of suffering in his set composure than in all the demonstrative
grief of his companions.
Conversation languished over tea, and at last Hilary suggested music as
a last resort. If there were music there would be a chance of moving
about, and putting an end to these death-like pauses, and Rex would also
have an opportunity of speaking to Norah, which no doubt he was longing
to do; but so soon as music was suggested, the curate begged eagerly to
hear Miss Norah play, and she rose to get her violin with the usual
ready acquiescence. Norah had made immense strides during the three
last years, and was now a performer of no mean attainments. It was
always a treat to hear her play, and this afternoon the wailing notes
seemed to have an added tenderness and longing. Lettice bit her lips to
keep back the tears, while she watched Rex's face with fascinated
attention. He had pushed his chair into the corner when Norah began to
play, and shaded his eyes with his hand, and beneath this shelter he
gazed at her with the unblinking, concentrated gaze of one who is
storing up a memory which must last through long years of separation.
How often in the bungalow home in India the scene in this English
drawing-room would rise before him, and he would see again the girlish
figure in the blue serge dress, the pale face leant lovingly against the
violin, the face which was generally so gay and full of life, but which
was now all sad and downcast! Lettice followed Rex's example and turned
to look at her sister. Dear Norie! there was no one in the world like
her! How sweet and gentle she looked! No wonder Rex hated to say good-
bye--he would never find another girl like Norah Bertrand.
The curate was loud in his expression of delight when Norah laid down
her bow, but Rex neither spoke nor moved, and Hilary in despair called
for a song. The curate had a pleasant little tenor pipe of his own, and
could play accompaniments from memory, so that he was ready enough to
accede to the request. His selection, however, was not very large, and
chiefly of the ballad order, and this afternoon the sound of the opening
bars brought a flush of nervousness to Hilary's cheeks--"The Emigrant's
Farewell!" What in the world had induced the man to make such a choice?
An utter want of tact, or a mistaken idea of singing something
appropriate to the occasion? It was too late to stop him now, however,
and she sat playing with the fringe of the tea-cloth, hardly daring to
lift her eyes, as the words rang through the room--
"I'm bidding you a long farewell,
My Mary kind and true,
But I'll not forget you, darling,
In the land I'm going to.
They say there's bread and work for all,
And the son shines always there,
But I'll ne'er forget old Ireland,
Be it fifty times as fair!"
Could anything be more painful--more disconcerting? As the last notes
rang out she darted a quick glance at Rex, and to her horror saw the
glimmer of tears in those "masterful" eyes, which had hitherto been so
scornfully free from signs of weakness.
The next moment, before the choruses of "thank you's" had died away, Rex
was on his feet, holding out his hand with an air of defiant
indifference.
"I must go; it is getting late. Good-bye, Hilary. Good luck!"
"Oh, good-bye, Rex! I am so very, very sorry--"
"Good-bye, Lettice. You will be an old married woman when I see you
again."
"Good-bye, dear, dear Rex. Take care of yourself. Co-come back soon!"
"Miss Briggs! Mr Barton! Thank you very much. Oh, yes, I shall get
on all right! Good-bye, little Mouse--give me a kiss!"
"Good-bye, darling, darling Rex--and I've worked a book-marker for you
with `Forget-me-not' in red worsted. It's gone in the post to-day, and
you will get it in the morning."
"Thank you, Mouse. I'll use it every day of my life. ... Good-bye,
Norah--!"
"Good-bye, Rex!"
That was all. A short grasp of the hand, and he was gone. The door
banged, footsteps went crunching down the gravel, and Norah stood like a
statue of despair in the dim, flagged hall. For one moment only, then
Lettice seized her by the arm, and dragged her hurriedly along the
passage. Such a flushed, determined Lettice, with sparkling eyes, and
quick, decisive tones!
"Norah! You can't let him go away like that. You _can't_! It's
inhuman! The poor boy was crying when Mr Barton was singing. I saw
the tears in his eyes. He went away because he could not bear to stay
any longer. And you never said a word! Oh run, run!--go out of the
side door, and cut across the shrubbery to meet him at the gate. Oh,
Norah, quick! It is your last chance! Think! You may never see him
again!"
The last words put an end to any hesitation which Norah may have felt.
Lettice held the door open, and she rushed out into the drizzling rain,
hatless, cloakless, as she was, forgetting everything but that awful
suggestion that she might never see Rex again. Down the narrow path,
where a few weeks before she and Rex had first discussed the journey to
India; across the plot of grass where Geraldine had her garden, and
there, at the opening into the carriage drive, stood Rex himself,
staring before him with a strained, expectant glance, which gave way to
a flash of joy as Norah's tall figure came in sight.
"I thought you would come! I thought you would not let me go away
without a word!" he said, and Norah gave a little sob of emotion.
"What can I say? You know all I feel. I shall think of you all the
time, and wish you good luck; and every night when I say my prayers--"
"I know! Thank you, Norah." Rex turned his head aside quickly, but
Norah saw that he was trembling with emotion, and waited in awed
suspense for his next words.
"Norah--it is a long time--three years--five years--I can't tell which
it may be. I shall think of you all the time. There never will be
anyone else for me; but it will be different with you. You will meet
new friends up in London. There will be other fellows--better than I
am--who will care for you too. Perhaps when I come back you may be
married too!"
"No, Rex, don't be afraid. I am not like that. I never forget."
He gripped her hand, but made no answer, and they stood together in a
silence which was sweet to both, despite the rain, the gloom, the coming
separation. Norah was the first to find her voice.
"You will write home often; and we will send you all the news. The time
will soon pass, and you will enjoy the life and the strange new
country." She looked into his face with a flickering smile. ... "They
say there's bread and work for all, and the sun shines always there..."
"But I'll not forget you, _darling_, be it fifty times as fair!" came
the answer, in a strained, hoarse whisper. Poor, shy Rex! Even at the
moment of parting it was agony to him to speak that word of endearment,
and having said it, he was consumed with embarrassment. Norah was still
tingling with delight, when her hand was seized in a painful grip, a
gruff "Good-bye, Norah!" sounded in her ears, and she was left alone in
the garden path.
She put up her hands to her face and sobbed in helpless misery.
"Oh, Rex, Rex! Five long, long years! Oh, God, be good to my boy--take
care of him! Bring him back safe and well!"
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.
A CONFESSION.
"And so you are engaged too, Norah!"
Half an hour had passed since Rex had left Cloudsdale, and Lettice and
Norah wore seated in the bedroom which they shared together, Norah still
trembling and tearful, Lettice full of wide-eyed interest.
"And so you are engaged too!"
"No, not engaged. There is nothing definite, but I know that he cares
for me, and I have promised to wait--"
"It's the same thing, but--five years! It is a terribly long time! So
much may happen before then. You may change your mind!"
"No! I can't explain, but I simply could not think of anyone else while
Rex was alive. It would be all the same if it were fifteen years. You
need not pity me, Lettice. I shall keep house for father after you and
Hilary are married, and I shall be quite happy. I don't think anything
could make me unhappy again, now that I know Rex cares for me, and that
when he comes back--" Norah stopped short, and Lettice drew in her
breath with a painful respiration.
"Oh, Norie, I envy you! I wish I felt like that. I could never, never
marry Arthur if I had to go out to India, and leave you all behind.
Even now-- Norah! if I speak out to you, will you keep it to yourself?
Will you promise faithfully not to repeat a word to father or Hilary, or
anyone else? Will you? Answer, Norah, yes or no!"
"I--I--yes, I promise, Lettice, if you wish it, but wouldn't it be
better--"
"No! no! I can speak to no one else, and not even to you unless you
promise not to repeat a single word. Sometimes I am so miserable! I
never intended to marry Arthur--never for a moment; but he was very nice
to me--and I know you will be shocked, Norah, but I wanted him to go on
being attentive, and sometimes I did pretend I liked him a little bit,
when he seemed discouraged, or as if he were beginning to care less than
he used. Then that day on the river he asked me to marry him, and I
said No! I was horrified at the idea, and I tried to refuse him, I
really did, but he looked so miserable--I couldn't bear to see him. I
was quite happy for a little time after that, and when he was away I
longed for him to come back; but since then father and Miss Carr have
been so cross; there have been such worries with the house, and workmen,
and dressmakers, that I have felt sometimes as if I would give the world
to run away and hide, and never see any of them again!"
Norah sat motionless, gazing at her sister in horrified silence. Her
heart beat in quick, painful throbs--even Rex himself was forgotten in
the shock of hearing her worst fears confirmed in Lettice's own words.
Unhappy! within three weeks of her marriage, with presents arriving by
every post, the wedding breakfast ordered, the guests bidden to the
church! It was some time before she could command her voice
sufficiently to speak.
"But--Lettice! If you were happy at first, perhaps you are only
miserable now because you are tired and overdone. I think even if I
were going to marry Rex, I should feel sad the last few weeks when I
thought of leaving father and the old home, and all the rest of you. It
seems only natural. It would be rather heartless if one felt
differently."
"Do you think so, Norah--do you?" queried Lettice eagerly. "Oh, I am so
glad to hear you say that! I have said so to myself over and over
again, but I thought I ought to be happy. I have been so wretched.
That night when you thought I had toothache--"
"I know. But I was afraid it was that. But, Lettice, if you are not
satisfied it is not too late even now. You could tell Mr Newcome."
But Lettice gave a shriek of dismay. "Oh, never, never! I daren't even
think of it, Norah. The house is ready--all the furniture--my dresses--
the wedding presents! I could never, never break it off. Poor Arthur
would be broken-hearted, too, and his mother would be so angry; she
would never let Madge speak to me again. Oh, no! I feel better already
for talking to you. I get nervous, and imagine things that are not
true. I shall be very happy--of course I shall be happy. Arthur is so
kind--and the house is so pretty. Don't look so miserable, Norah dear;
indeed, indeed, I shall be all right."
"I hope so; but, Lettice, do think well over it while there is time. It
would be terrible to have to break off your engagement now; but, at the
worst, all the gossip and upset would be over in two or three months,
and if you married it would be for your whole life. Father would be
angry, but I would help you. I would stay with you, Lettice, and help
you every minute of the time."
"I know you would, I know you would." Lettice spoke in a quick,
breathless whisper; her eyes were fixed as if she were a prisoner
looking through the barred window and trying to summon up courage to
escape--then a shudder shook the slight shoulders, and she jumped up,
holding out her hands with a gesture of dismay.
"Oh no, no! Don't talk of anything so dreadful. Arthur is coming on
Saturday, and I shall be quite happy. I am dull because I have not seen
him for so long, but you will see how bright I am when he is here! I
was very weak and foolish to speak as I did, but I can trust you, Norah.
You have promised not to tell."
"Yes, I have promised." Poor Norah was only too willing to be
convinced, and surely what Lettice said was reasonable enough. She
would wait, at any rate, until Saturday before making any further
attempt to persuade her sister to a step which must bring so much
suffering and humiliation in its train.
Two days later the bridegroom arrived. Lettice went to the station to
meet him. A very handsome couple they looked as they drove up to the
door, Mr Newcome immaculate as ever despite the long, dusty journey,
and so large and impressive, that Norah was quite embarrassed by the
suggestion that she should address him as "Arthur." Lettice was all
smiles and radiance, much delighted with a necklace of turquoise and
diamonds which her lover had brought as his wedding present, and which
she exhibited proudly to every member of the household.
Father, brothers and sisters were alike so relieved to see her happiness
that they were prepared to welcome Arthur Newcome with open arms, and to
acknowledge that their prejudices were unfounded. They listened with
smiling faces to his tedious description of his journey north, of
previous journeys, or journeys still to come; they tried to show an
interest in the items of stale information which he offered in words of
studied length and elegance, and with the air of imparting a startling
novelty; but alas! it was all in vain. After three days' experience,
the unanimous verdict proclaimed that such a well-behaved and withal
tiresome and prosy young gentleman had never before worn frock coats, or
walked about country lanes in a tall hat and immaculate kid gloves.
"He must be different with Lettice. She could never endure it if he
bored her as much as he does us," reiterated Hilary firmly, upon which
Raymond's eyes twinkled with mischievous intentions.
"Well--do you know, I should like to feel certain about that!" he said,
and forthwith strolled out into the garden through the open doorway.
Lettice and Arthur Newcome were pacing their favourite walk, the narrow
shrubbery path which encircled the lawn, and at intervals of every three
or four minutes the two figures came into sight as the path opened to
drive and tennis ground. Master Raymond strolled across to the first of
these openings, leant nonchalantly against a tree, and waited the
approach of footsteps. They came--a strong, steady crunching of the
gravel, a pattering of quick, uneven little steps, and the sound of a
deep bass voice struck on the ear.
"...And further on, in the transept aisle, I came upon a particularly
heavy and unattractive cenotaph to the memory of--"
Raymond gasped, and rolled his eyes; then, as the footsteps died away,
he sped lightly across the lawn, and ensconced himself at the next point
of vantage. The boom of Mr Newcome's big voice came again to his ear.
Poor little Lettice was evidently a good listener!
"...The epitaph is in the inflated style of the period--bombastic in
character, and supposed to be written by--"
"Bombastic!" echoed Raymond in despair. "I know someone else to whom
that epithet would apply uncommonly well. This is worse than I
expected! I'll give him one more chance, and then--" But at the third
hearing Mr Newcome was discoursing on "allegorical figures and pseudo-
classic statues," whereupon Raymond dashed off into the house and
horrified his sisters by an account of his experiences.
"What a shame to listen like that! Lettice would be furious if she
knew."
"It was for her own good. Poor little soul! I'm sorry for her. What
on earth made him choose tombstones as a topic of conversation."
"I know. He has been staying in Canterbury. Lettice told me that he
had written to her about the Cathedral," said Norah dolefully. "I
wonder if I ought to go and join them! She asked me, and pinched my arm
to make me say yes, but I thought Arthur looked as if he didn't want me.
Can't we make an excuse and call her in? She looks _so_ tired."
"Well, they are the funniest pair of lovers I have ever seen!" said
Raymond, nodding his head with a knowing look, as if he had had an
extensive knowledge of engaged couples, whereas he had never been in the
house with one before. And just at that moment in marched Lettice, her
fair face disfigured by a weary, irritable expression.
"I think you are all very unkind! I asked you to come into the garden.
It's very mean to leave me all alone, when I have only a f-f-fortnight
more at home!" The last word in a burst of tears, and she ran hurriedly
upstairs to her own room.
What was to be the end of it all? Her sisters stared at each other with
wide, frightened eyes, too miserable and uneasy to speak.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.
BEFORE THE WEDDING.
A week before the wedding Miss Carr came down from London, and with her
came also Mr Herbert Rayner, who had paid frequent visits to
Westmoreland during the last few years, and was now regarded as a family
friend who could not be spared on such an historical occasion. His
lameness was not any better for the lapse of time, but Hilary's
exhortations had taken effect, for he was much less sensitive about his
inability to do as the other men did, while as for the rest, he had
every reason to be cheerful nowadays, for his writings were so highly
praised that Mr Bertrand affected jealousy, and declared that his own
sun was eclipsed. There was a very warm friendship between the two men;
both declared that they gained inspiration from the other, and Raymond
dubbed them "The Mutual Admiration Society," because Mr Bertrand was
wont to declare that Rayner was an infinitely finer writer than himself,
while Mr Rayner in his turn despaired of accomplishing anything fit to
compare with the work of his friend.
With Miss Carr arrived a cart-load of boxes containing bride and
bridesmaids' dresses, feathers and furbelows of all descriptions, and a
number of presents from acquaintances in London.
The other girls were full of excitement over the opening of these
treasures, but Lettice herself was silent and indifferent, and hardly
troubled herself to look at the beautiful gifts which were showered upon
her. She excused herself on the plea of a chronic head-ache, and lay
half the day on a sofa in the schoolroom, while Miss Briggs fed her with
beef-tea, and fussed over her in kindly, motherly fashion. Everyone
petted her and treated her with consideration, but no one said a word to
suggest that she was unhappy in the thought of the coming marriage. It
was too late for that; she had determined to keep to her engagement, and
it was only natural to account for her indisposition on the ground of
excitement and fatigue. Circumstances combined, moreover, to keep
Lettice a good deal apart from the others during these last busy days.
Miss Carr's maid was employed making the alterations which were
requisite in the dresses from London, so that Lettice was continually
being summoned to the sewing-room, and when she was not being "tried on"
she had many letters to write acknowledging the gifts which arrived in
such numbers.
Hilary was too busy to have any time for confidential talks, and when
Norah had a moment's leisure, her thoughts were far away from
Westmoreland, journeying over foreign lands with a certain tall young
Englishman with grey eyes and a crop of close-cut, curly hair. Even
Lettice herself was apt to be forgotten in this all-absorbing
occupation!
The Newcome contingent, and those London friends who were to accompany
them, were to come down on the day before the wedding, and to put up at
an hotel in Windermere, and every day brought with it a host of
preparations which kept the little mistress of the house busy from
morning until night.
Hilary showed to advantage under these circumstances. Always brisk,
alert and smiling, never worried or unduly anxious, she shared a good
deal of Rex's boasted "gift of management," and contrived to keep the
house comfortable for the visitors, despite the general disarrangement,
and the everlasting arrival of packing-chests and boxes. Hampers of
flowers, hampers of fruit, crates of china and glass, rolls of red
baize, boxes containing wedding-cake, confectionery, dresses, presents--
in they came, one after another, in an unending stream, until to get
across from the front door into the dining-room was like running the
blockade, and wisps of straw were scattered all over the house. Norah
and Hilary swathed themselves in big white aprons and unpacked from
morning till night: a more interesting task than it sounds, for the
boxes were full of pleasant surprises, and Mr Rayner, Raymond, and
their father played the part of "dress circle," and kept everyone
laughing with their merry sallies. It was a cheery, bustling time, for
everyone was in good spirits and prepared to enjoy the happy-go-lucky,
picnic life. Lunch and dinner were movable feasts, held either in
dining- or morning-room, or in the garden itself, as proved most
convenient, and when afternoon tea was served three days before the
wedding, the cups were scattered about on the top of packing-chests in
the hall, the cake basket hung on the hat rail, and the teapot was
thrust out of reach of harm beneath the oak bench. Lettice was lying
down upstairs, but all the rest of the household were gathered together,
the visitors provided with chairs in honour of their position, Norah
seated on the stairs, Raymond straddle-leg over the banister, Mr
Bertrand and Geraldine lowly on buffets, while Hilary was perched on the
top of a huge packing chest, enveloped in a pink "pinafore," and looking
all the prettier because her brown hair was ruffled a little out of its
usual immaculate order.
"I wish we could have tea like this every day!" cried the Mouse, drawing
a long breath of enjoyment. "May we have it like this every day,
father, instead of properly in the drawing-room?"
"Ah, Mouse, I see you are a Bohemian at heart, for all your quiet ways!
I agree with you, my dear, that it would be quite delightful, but the
difficulty is that we could not persuade people to shower presents and
hampers upon us in the ordinary course of events. It takes a wedding,
or some celebration of the kind, to start such a flood of generosity."
"Well, may we have tea like this when Hilary is married?" insisted
Geraldine, with a gravity which caused a hearty laugh.
"Ask Hilary, my dear!" said Mr Bertrand mischievously; and Hilary
tossed her head and said that one wedding was enough at the time--she
had no strength to think of two.
"Indeed, my dear, I wonder you are not laid up as it is," said Miss Carr
kindly. "You are on your feet from morning till night, and everyone
comes to you for directions; I am afraid you will break down when the
excitement is over. There is generally a collapse on these occasions.
Have you any idea what you are all going to do after the young couple
have departed?"
"Get the house in order, and go to bed for a week," said Hilary
brightly, flushing with pleasure at Miss Carr's words of praise, and at
the murmur of assent which they had evoked from her companions; but it
appeared that other people were more energetically inclined than
herself, for both Miss Briggs and Raymond seized the opportunity to air
secret plans of their own.
"I wanted to speak to you about that, Mr Bertrand! My sister in
Scarborough is most anxious that I should pay her a visit, and take
Geraldine with me, and I think the sea air would do us both good."
"And I should like to have some shooting with Ferrars in Scotland. He
has asked me so often, and I could just fit it in this year."
Mr Bertrand looked at his two daughters--at Hilary, bright and natty,
but with shadows under her eyes which spoke of the fatigue she would not
acknowledge; then, with an anxious tenderness at Norah, whose unusual
quietness for the last few days he understood better than she suspected.