see any reason why we should be left behind! What do you say, girls--
shall we go off for a tour on our own account? I think we deserve a
holiday after our hard work and a run on the Continent would do us all
good. Helen, what do you say? Will you come and take care of the
girls? Rayner, I can't tackle three ladies unassisted. You had better
join us, and take care of me!"
"I should certainly not leave the girls to your tender mercies, you
scatter-brained man," said Miss Carr, smiling, as though well pleased at
the suggestion. "You might forget all about them, as as you did on
another memorable occasion, and the consequences would be disastrous.
Yes!--if you take plenty of time, and don't rush about from place to
place, I should be glad of a change myself. This wedding--"
"It is too good of you to include me. Wouldn't I like it!" cried Mr
Rayner, with a smile which made him look quite young and boyish.
"September is lovely in Switzerland. The rush of tourists is over, and
the autumn tints are wonderful. But we ought to get off as soon as
possible. You will have to give up your week in bed, Miss Hilary!"
"I may as well give up bed altogether, I think, for I shall not sleep a
wink for thinking of it. Oh, father dear, you are good! I drink to
you!" And Hilary held up her teacup, bowing and smiling, and looking so
bright and pretty that it was a pleasure to see her.
Well, it was a happy hour, and the memory of it remained all the more
vividly because of the contrast which it afforded to the dark days which
followed. At twelve o'clock the same evening, Mr Bertrand took up his
candle and went the usual tour of inspection through the house. He
peered into the drawing-room, fragrant with plants and cut blossoms,
into the dining-room, where the village carpenters were already putting
up the horse-shoe table; into the pantry, where the more valuable
presents were locked away in the great iron safe. All was quiet and
secure. He returned to his study, and was just settling down for a
quiet read, when the sound of footsteps smote on his ear. He opened the
door, and started back at the sight of a white figure which came
floating towards him, with flowing locks and outstretched hands.
"What is it?--who is it? What is the matter?--_Lettice_!"
The next moment two arms were clasped round his neck; he felt the
heaving of breathless sobs, and an agonised voice called on him by
name--
"Oh, father, father! save me! save me! I can't go on! I can't marry
him! My heart will break--!"
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
BROKEN PLANS.
The light was still dim the next morning when Hilary woke with a start
to find her father standing by her bedside. Even in the first sleepy
glance she was struck by the pale distress of his face, and sat up
hurriedly, pushing back the hair from her face, and murmuring a confused
"What--what--what?"
"My dear, I am sorry to disturb you, but I need your help." Mr
Bertrand seated himself on the edge of the bed, and took the girl's
hands in his. "Hilary, a great trouble has come upon us. Lettice
wishes to break off her engagement. She cannot bear the idea of
marrying Arthur Newcome. There will be no wedding on Thursday as we
expected."
Hilary stared at him with dazed eyes. Her awakening from sleep had been
so sudden, and the news was so overwhelming, that it was some moments
before she could grasp its full meaning.
No wedding! But the preparations were made--everything was ready. It
could not be stopped at the very last moment. She drew in her breath
with a quick, frightened respiration:
"Oh, father! is it true? Is she _sure_? Does she really mean it?"
"I am afraid there is no doubt about that, Hilary. Now that she has
summoned up courage to speak, she acknowledges that she has been unhappy
all along. She is in great distress, as is only natural. Norah is with
her. I put off disturbing you as long as I could, for you have had too
much fatigue lately, but I need your help, dear. You must get up at
once. We have some painful duties before us."
"Oh, father--Arthur! What will he--how will you--?"
Mr Bertrand drew a sharp sigh. "I have wired to him to stop all
preparations, and come down himself by the early train. He will be here
this afternoon. Poor fellow! he has been cruelly used. I am bitterly
ashamed. I have told Mary to bring you up a breakfast tray at once, and
here she comes; so eat as much as you can before you get up, and then
come to me in my study. Be brave! Remember I rely on your help!"
"Yes, father," said Hilary tremblingly; and the next moment Mary entered
the room, her rosy face awed and frightened, her ready tongue silenced
by the seriousness of the situation.
That breakfast seemed like a hideous nightmare to Hilary. Every moment
brought a fresh pang of recollection. In every direction in which her
eyes glanced, they lighted upon some object which accentuated her
misery--the long dress box, in which the bridesmaids' finery lay ready
for use; the pile of letters on the table; the hundred and one etceteras
of preparation. Could it be possible that they were all for nothing--
that she must now set to work to undo the labour of weeks? And the
misery of it all! the humiliation--the dreadful, dreadful publicity!
Hilary leapt out of bed in despair, unable to remain idle any longer,
dressed with feverish rapidity, and ran downstairs to join her father.
As she reached the foot of the staircase, Mr Rayner came forward to
meet her. Their hands met in a close, sympathetic grasp, but neither
spoke during the moment that it lasted. Then came the sound of a heavy
footstep on the tiled floor, and the village joiner crossed the hall on
his way to complete the erection of the tables in the dining-room. He
touched his cap to Hilary as he passed, and the girl drew back, growing
pale to her lips.
"Oh, he must be stopped! I can't do it. It is too dreadful!"
"Leave it to me. It's so seldom I can do anything--do let me help you
now. Go to your father, and leave all this to me." He led her forward,
unresisting, to the study, where her father greeted her with an
exclamation of relief.
"Ah, here you are, dear! Sit down. We must get to work at once on this
wretched business. I have sent off notes already to the vicar and the
curate, who will stop preparations at the church; the domestic
arrangements I must leave to you; and there will be notes to write to
all invited guests. Rayner will help, and Raymond also. I will draw up
a form which you can copy, but the letters must go off by the afternoon
post, so the sooner they are written the better. Newcome will be with
us before many hours are over--"
He broke off with a sigh, which Hilary echoed from the depths of an
aching heart.
"I will go at once and speak to the servants. I will set them to work
to put the house in order, and hide all the preparations out of sight,
and then come back here, and get the writing done first of all."
"That's my good girl!" said her father warmly; and they kissed each
other with sympathetic affection.
Poor Hilary! She had need of all her courage to enable her to go
through that morning's work. The servants received her orders with
tears of distress and disappointment Norah came stealing out of the room
with the news that Lettice had cried all night long, could not be
induced to eat, and lay on her bed icy cold and trembling as if with an
ague. Miss Carr was too much upset to be able to leave her bed, and
Geraldine's straightforward questions were for once agonising to the
listeners.
"Has Lettice been naughty?" she inquired. "Has Mr Newcome been
naughty? Will she never wear her pretty dresses? Shall I never wear my
dress? What shall we do with all the presents? Shall we have to send
back the cake?"
"Oh, Mouse, be quiet, for pity's sake!" cried Hilary in desperation.
"If you ask any more questions you must go to bed. It's very naughty
and unkind;" at which unexpected reproof Geraldine's eyes filled with
tears.
"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, Hilary; I only thought if you
didn't want it, perhaps Miss Briggs's sister in Scarborough might like
some cake--"
"Come along with me, Mouse, and I'll give you a swing in the garden,"
said Mr Rayner, coming to the rescue for the twentieth time. His
presence was a comfort to every member of the household, and Hilary
could never think of that dreadful morning without recalling the quiet,
unobtrusive way in which he watched over her, and shielded her from
every possible aggravation. When afternoon came, he insisted upon
taking her to a quiet little coppice near the gates, so that she should
not be in the house at the time of Arthur Newcome's visit; but from
their seat among the trees they heard the sound of wheels as the fly
turned down the drive, and knew that the dreaded interview was at hand.
"Lettice begged and prayed not to see him, father says, but he insisted
that she should go down. He said it was only due to Arthur. Fancy what
it must be to the poor, poor fellow, to lose her at the last moment, and
to have to go back to London and explain everything to his friends--when
the house is ready, and all preparations made. I feel so angry and
humiliated that I can't be sorry for Lettice. She deserves all she
suffers!"
Mr Rayner did not answer; and they sat in silence for five or ten
minutes, at the expiration of which Hilary stole a glance at his face,
and ventured a timid question.
"Are _you_ sorry?"
"Sorry for your sister? Yes--intensely sorry!"
"You think I am hard--unsympathetic?"
"I think you are hardly in a fit state to understand your own feelings
to-day. It has been a great strain, and you have kept up bravely and
well."
Hilary's lip trembled, and she covered her face with her hands. "Oh, I
don't want to be hard, but it does seem so dreadful! She had a whole
month to think over it--and then to bring all this misery upon him at
the last moment. I feel _ashamed_! Surely, surely, it is easy to know
whether one cares or not. If I were engaged--"
"Yes?"
"Oh, I don't know--I should never, never promise to marry anyone unless
I loved him with my whole heart; but when I did, I'd stick to him if the
whole world were against us."
"I believe you would." Mr Rayner hesitated at the end of these words
as if he were about to say something further, but the hesitation ended
in silence, and presently Hilary leapt to her feet and began to pace up
and down.
"Oh, let us walk about. I can't sit still. I am too nervous. If we go
along this path we shall not meet anybody, and it will pass the time. I
can't bear to think of what is going on inside the house." So for the
next hour they walked up and down trying in vain to talk upon outside
topics, and coming back again and again to the same painful theme. At
last the sound of wheels came to their ears again. The fly could be
seen wending its way down the country lane, and Hilary lost no time in
running home to rejoin her father in his study.
He was standing with his arms resting upon the mantelpiece, his head
buried in his hands, and when he turned to meet her, it struck the girl
with a stab of pain that for the first time he looked old--an old man,
tired and worn with the battle of life.
"Well?" she gasped; and he answered with a long-drawn sigh.
"Well--it is over! The most painful scene I have ever gone through in
my life. He wouldn't believe me, poor fellow! Then Lettice came in.
He looked at her, and--the light died out of his face. It was very
pitiful. He was brave and manly; would not blame her, or hear her
blamed. I admired him more than I could have believed possible. He
said very little. Stricken to the heart, poor fellow, and I could do
nothing for him! He has gone back to town to stop preparations. I
would have given my right hand to help him."
"Father dear! You look so ill! It has been too much strain. What can
I do for you now? Let me do something!"
"Send in Rayner to have a smoke with me. How thankful I am that he is
here. He is a comfort and strength to us all!"
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.
THE SUNNY CLIMES.
The sun was shining over the lake of Thun, and the little steamer was
puffing cheerily through the water. Behind lay the picturesque town,
with its rushing river, and quaint, old-world buildings; in front lay--
ah! what a scene of beauty and grandeur! Surely, it were worth while to
travel from the ends of the earth to see this marvellous sight. The
blue waters, fringed with brilliant foliage; the trees in their autumn
glory, the rowan-berries making patches of scarlet here and there, the
solemn pines capping the mountain height, and at the head of the lake--
beautiful, dazzling, majestic--the snow-clad range of Eiger, Monck, and
Jungfrau.
In all the beautiful world there can be few spots so beautiful as the
lake of Thun, as seen upon a glorious September afternoon!
The passengers on board the steamer displayed a special interest in an
English party who walked up and down the deck. A father and three
daughters; an elderly lady whose relationship it was difficult to guess,
and a young man with a clever, sensitive face, who managed his crutches
with marvellous agility, and who was obviously neither husband nor
brother. The girls themselves received a full share of admiration from
the French and German visitors who are in the majority in Switzerland in
autumn. The eldest was so neat and dainty, with her pretty English
complexion and trim little figure; the tall, dark girl was _spirituelle_
and uncommon; while the third had an air _tres chic_, and would have
been quite _ravissante_ if she had been a trifle less pale and
_serieuse_, but even the surprising beauty of the scene seemed powerless
to bring a smile to her face.
It was chiefly owing to Mr Rayner's persuasion that Mr Bertrand had
left Westmoreland on the very day after that fixed for his daughter's
marriage. The painful duty of returning the wedding presents had been
accomplished, and it was so distressing to all concerned to remain in a
place where they felt themselves to be the subject of continual gossip,
that they were thankful to get away to fresh surroundings. They had
travelled straight through to Thun, engaging sleeping-carriages in
advance, and had been ensconced for over a week in the hotel on the
shores of the lake, taking daily excursions, and resting beneath the
broad verandah, while, by common consent, no reference was made to the
painful events of the past week.
"If we are going away, we must try to get as much good as we can from
the change. What is past, is past. There is no use fretting over it
any longer," Mr Bertrand had said; and Hilary found so little
difficulty in following his advice and being radiantly happy, that she
felt a pang of remorse when suddenly confronted by Lettice's pale face,
and reminded thereby of her sadness and Arthur Newcome's suffering.
Lettice had ceased to cry, but she was very silent, and her eyes wore a
strained, frightened look which it was sad to see in so young a face.
Everyone was studiedly kind to her, but Lettice was sensitive enough to
feel the effort which lay behind the kindness. Norah alone was just as
loving and whole-hearted as ever. Dear Norah! she had been shocked and
distressed beyond measure, but how loyally she had kept her promise to
help "every moment of the time"! During those two first awful days,
what a comfort it had been to have her near; to clutch that strong,
faithful hand when the others came into the room, and looked on from
afar with cold, sad eyes! Norah was the same, but all the rest had
changed. They had been grieved, shocked, humiliated by her behaviour,
and though she was nominally forgiven, the chill ring of disapproval
sounded in every word they spoke, and Lettice faded like a flower
deprived of light and sunshine. Instead of gaining strength by the
change she grew every day paler, thinner, and more ghost-like, until at
last her father became alarmed, and questioned her closely as to her
health.
"Does your head ache, Lettice?"
"No, father."
"Do you sleep well at night?"
"I think--sometimes I do, father. Pretty well."
"Have you any pain?"
Lettice raised her eyes and looked at him--a look such as a wounded stag
might cast at its executioner. She trembled like a leaf, and clasped
her hands round his arm in an agony of appeal.
"Oh, father, father! I am _all_ pain. I think of it day and night--it
never leaves me. I think I shall see it before me all my life."
"See what, Lettice? What do you mean?"
"_His face_!" quivered Lettice, and was silent. Mr Bertrand knew that
she was referring to the stricken look with which Arthur Newcome had
left the room where he had received the deathblow to his hopes, and the
remembrance brought a cloud across his own face.
"Ay! I don't wonder at that; but it will only add to our trouble,
Lettice, if you fell ill--and we have had enough anxiety."
He was conscious of not being very sympathetic, but his feeling was so
strong on the subject that he could not control his words, and when
Lettice spoke again it was with no reference to herself.
"Father, do you think he will ever--forget?--get over it?"
Mr Bertrand hesitated. "With most young men I should have said
unhesitatingly--yes! but I think Arthur Newcome will probably remember
longer than most, though I sincerely hope he will recover in time. But
at the best, Lettice, you have caused him bitter pain and humiliation,
and, what is worse, have shaken his faith in women for the rest of his
life."
Lettice gave a little cry of pain. "Oh, father! I want to talk to you.
I want to tell you how I feel, but I can't, while you speak in that
hard, dry voice! Don't you see--don't you see that you are all killing
me with your coldness? I have made you miserable, and have been weak,
and foolish, and vain; but, father, father! I have not base wicked, and
I have suffered most of all! Why do you break my heart by treating me
like a stranger, and freezing me by your cruel, cruel kindness? You are
my father--if I have done wrong, won't you help me to be better in the
future? It isn't as if I were careless of what I have done. You see--
you _see_ how I suffer!" And she held out her arms with a gesture so
wild and heart-broken that her father was startled, and caught her to
him with one of his old, fond gestures.
"My poor child! My little Lettice! Heaven knows I have not intended to
be cruel to you, dear, but I have been so worried and distressed that I
have hardly known what I was about. You must forgive me, dear, and I
will help you in every way I can. I do indeed see that you are
miserable, poor child; but that I cannot help. It is only right that
you should realise--"
"Father, I don't think you or anyone else can tell how intensely I feel
it all. You know I have been a coward all my life--afraid to grieve
anyone, always trying to avoid disagreeable things; and now to feel that
I have ruined Arthur's life and wrecked his happiness, goes through my
heart like a knife. And his poor, poor face! Father, I am too
miserable and ashamed to be sure of anything, but I do believe this will
be a lesson to me all my life. I can never, never be so cruel again! I
will never marry now, but I will try to be a comfort to you, father
dear, and do everything I can to make up for the misery I have caused--
only do, do love me a little bit. Don't everybody stop loving me!"
Mr Bertrand smiled to himself as he stroked the girl's soft hair.
Small fear that he or anyone else would cease caring for lovely, lovable
Lettice; but all the same, his smile was more sad than bright.
"I shall always love you, dear," he said; "but, Lettice, try to think
less of people's love for you, and more of your own love for them. That
is the secret of happiness! This constant craving to receive love is
not far removed from selfishness, when you go down to the root of
things. Try to think of other people first--"
"I will, father--I really will; but don't lecture me to-day, plea-se! I
feel so low and wretched that I can't stand anything more. I am not--
all--all--altogether bad, am I?"
Mr Bertrand laughed despite himself. "No, indeed. Very well, then--no
more lectures. We understand each other now, and there are to be no
more clouds between us. Off with you into the hotel! Put on your hat
and cloak, and we will go for a row on the lake before lunch."
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.
A GLAD SURPRISE.
The weather continued so warm and sunny that Mr Bertrand and his party
lingered in Thun, day after day, enjoying the Indian summer, and loath
to tear themselves away from the lovely surroundings. Lettice remained
silent and subdued, but there was no longer any coldness between her and
her companions, and her face had lost the strained, despairing
expression which had been so painful to behold. The news from London,
moreover, was as satisfactory as could be hoped for under the
circumstances. A friend of Arthur Newcome's, who was also engaged to be
married, had come forward and offered to take the house and furniture at
a valuation, while his father had recalled his business manager in
America and was sending Arthur to take his place for the next two or
three years. Everyone felt that the change would be the best cure which
the poor fellow could have, while it was an immense relief to know that
there would be no danger of painful encounters in London. Even with
this dread removed, Mr Bertrand was in ten minds about his plans for
the coming winter. There seemed many reasons why it would be better to
remain quietly in Westmoreland for another year. He puzzled over the
question in private, and finally confided his difficulty to Mr Rayner,
with startling and unexpected results.
"You see, the boys could go on as they are for some time to come; Norah
is not over anxious for the change, and I cannot say I am willing to let
Lettice go much into society just now. She is so very lovely that she
is bound to attract attention, and after this painful business it would
be in better taste to keep out of the way until it is forgotten. All
things considered, I think I should be wise to give up the idea of
coming to town until next winter."
Mr Rayner's face had clouded over while his friend was speaking, and
his answer came in dry, irritated tones.
"When you say, `all things considered,' you forget, of course, that you
have entirely overlooked Miss Hilary's feelings in the matter. As your
eldest daughter, I should have thought that her wishes might have been
consulted; but it appears that all the others are put before her!"
"Hallo, what's this? And pray when did you constitute yourself Hilary's
champion?" cried Mr Bertrand, turning round in his seat with a laugh,
and an amused expression on his face, which gave place to one of
blankest astonishment as he met the flash in his companion's eyes, and
heard the firm tone of the answer--
"How long ago? I don't know! But I _am_ her champion, now and for
ever, if she will have me!"
"Rayner! What is this? You cannot possibly be in earnest?"
Herbert Rayner laughed shortly. No one could look at him for a moment
and doubt that he was deeply in earnest, but there was a bitter ring in
his laughter which showed that he misunderstood the reason of his
friend's surprise.
"I don't wonder that you are astonished! A fine lover I am--am I not,
to dare to aspire to a bright young girl?"
"My dear fellow, you misunderstood me. I know to what you refer, but
that never even entered my mind. What I can't realise is that you can
possibly entertain any feeling of the kind for Hilary. You! If I ever
thought of your possible marriage it was always with some clever,
charming woman of the world who would help you with your work, and enter
into your plans. Hilary is a mere girl. She has no special ability of
any kind--"
"No?"
"Not the slightest literary gift!"
"No."
"Absolutely ignorant of your world."
"Yes."
"You are ten years older than she is."
"Yes."
"Well--well--well--"
"Well, Bertrand, we can't argue about these things. There it is, and I
can't account for it. I want Hilary, and I don't want the `clever,
charming woman.' She satisfies me, and--"
"Have you spoken to her?"
"Certainly not! I don't know that I should have ever summoned up
courage to speak to you, if you had not taken me by surprise. It would
be different if I were now as I was ten years ago, but I feared you
might think my health an insuperable objection."
"No--no! I can't say that--if you have really set your heart on it.
How long has this been going on?"
Mr Rayner smiled--a quick, whimsical smile, which was like a flash of
sunshine.