LETTICE'S DREAD.
THE Rev. Robert Kelly, Vicar of the parish in which the Andersons
lived, had called under a strong sense of duty, not at all under the
drawings of inclination, to visit a parishioner, who, somehow, always
managed to give him a repelled sensation. He admired Cecilia, as almost
everybody did: and he could have liked her. But he was too keenly aware
that she neither admired nor liked him: that in fact she looked upon
him as an unmitigated bore. Such a consciousness goes far to render a
gentle and self-distrustful man that which he believes he is reckoned
to be.
Before Cecilia's illness, Mr. Kelly had called occasionally, seldom
finding her at home, and never meeting with a warm reception. A
succession of rebuffs had imbued him with a positive dread of Mrs.
Crofton's dignified lodger, and he could never be "at his best" in her
presence. She was not at all anxious to be "done good to," however much
he might wish to "do her good." And as for practical kindnesses, they
were a matter rather for toleration than for gratitude, with one of her
independent temper.
Once during her illness, he had seen her for a few minutes, and then
she had resolutely kept clear of all subjects except that of Felix's
future. Since then he had been repeatedly to the house, and he had been
always conscious of a feeling of relief when sent away unsuccessful: a
feeling for which he took himself to task. Now at length, he was again
admitted; but the words which he overheard, standing outside the door,
were not calculated to set him at his ease.
No; certainly he would not stay long, but he had to go in. The very
obvious escape of Felix did not add to his confidence: and Cecilia was
so lost in thought, that she omitted to notice his approach until he
was on the rug. Mr. Kelly failed to observe Lettice, half hidden by the
curtain, and Lettice did not stir, so he believed the elder sister to
be alone.
She presented a less imposing appearance on the couch, under two
shabby shawls, than when standing upright: yet even now there was
about her a curious environment of dignity; and Mr. Kelly had his
usual consciousness of being overshadowed in her presence. He was an
easily abashed man, and she was not at all an easily abashed woman; and
although he was her match mentally, she was his superior in vigour of
will.
This day he received a more gracious greeting than usual, in
consideration of his efforts on behalf of Felix. The result was not
indeed what Cecilia had wished; and she was not in heart very grateful,
but Mr. Kelly had to be thanked. So she roused herself from the fit
of abstraction, held out her hand, and even smiled. If he had not
overheard those few words, he would have felt quite cheered, but to get
over them was not possible.
"I am glad to learn that you are a little better," he hazarded, by way
of an opening speech.
"Thanks. Yes. I am better. As much better as—" She hesitated, looking
sharply at the clergyman. Had Dr. Rotherbotham informed him as to her
true state? Mr. Kelly's unconscious face seemed to supply a negative.
"As much better as I can expect to be," she said.
"In so short a time, you mean. I fear it will be long before you are
fit for hard work again."
"Yes." An odd impulse seized her to tell him all; odd, because she did
not care for Mr. Kelly; but no doubt there was a natural desire for
sympathy: she had nobody else to turn to; and she, like Mr. Kelly,
believed that they were alone. The impulse seemed to her foolish, and
she resisted it. What good would speaking do?
"Yes," she repeated, "I am going to make my home for a time with my
uncle in the west of England. Lettice, too, of course. Felix is more
or less provided for, thanks to you. I am not likely at present to be
strong enough for work: and my uncle has offered to take us in."
"I am glad to hear it. Is his name Anderson?"
"No; Bryant. He is my mother's only brother. A medical man; but I
suppose he has not practised for twenty years."
"And you have not seen him lately."
"I have never seen him." She offered no explanation of the fact.
"It will be a trial to you to leave Felix."
"A trial!" She could have laughed, the word was so inadequate. Life,
apart from Felix, would be mere existence, not life. "One has to bear
what is inevitable."
"And God's will is always best for us in these matters: even when it
means sorrow."
"Perhaps. I do not know anything about its being best. I only know that
it has to be . . . If I could stay with him till the end! So short a
time!" The words broke from her, under pressure of strong feeling. "If
I could; but that is out of the question." She tried to rein herself
in, to resume her usual manner, though her hands shook visibly.
"I do not know why I should say all this," she went on, after a pause.
"Nobody can do anything. It is not my way to appeal to other people.
If I had not been upset—shaken—The thought that all must soon be over!
To leave Felix, not knowing if I shall ever—But such partings have to
be borne, of course. They are a part of life . . . And I have great
comfort in knowing that the boy will do well. No doubt of that. He is
so hard-working: so bent on success."
Mr. Kelly had been startled by the unexpected outbreak of distress, and
thus far had said nothing. Perhaps his wordless sympathy drew her on
further than speech could have done: but this he did not see. He was
already reproaching himself for a lost opportunity, grieving over his
own want of readiness: and any number of possible utterances, exactly
to the point, rushed into his mind, too late. He found himself saying
mechanically: "I will do my best to look after your brother for you."
"Thanks; but I am not at all afraid for Felix. He has good principles."
Then, as if suspecting Mr. Kelly's line of thought, she talked steadily
about Felix's new work.
The clergyman listened and responded; but he was not to be entirely
baffled. At the first opportunity, he said gently, "Pardon me! May I
ask a question? Did you mean just now that unhappily there is fear that
your health may not be in time re-established?"
A moment's pause.
"Yes, I meant that; but I did not mean to speak about it. This is in
strict confidence, if you please. Dr. Rotherbotham tells me plainly
that I cannot live long. However, I do not wish to discuss the matter."
"And, in looking forward to that great change—" Mr. Kelly spoke slowly,
and he was not allowed to finish.
"I have done my duty in life, and I hope that I shall know how to meet
my end when it comes," she said coldly.
"If that were indeed the 'end!'"
Cecilia drew up her head, and a red spot burnt in either cheek.
"We may as well keep to other subjects," she said. "Some people love
nothing so well as to talk about themselves; but—" scornfully—"I have
always counted that a proof of shallowness. It is not my way. Nor is it
Felix's way. You will find him by no means disposed to stand personal
questions."
"Pardon me! You must not mistake my meaning. I have no wish to press
for an answer—for myself. It is no matter of curiosity. I only suggest
the question for your own consideration. As an 'ambassador for Christ,'
I am bound to speak of Him; of all that you owe to Him, and of the
comfort which may be yours in that hour, if you are willing."
"Thanks; I am much obliged, but a different topic is more to my mind.
Besides, it has been an agitating day. I must not press for a long
visit."
"Then I will not stay longer now; but perhaps you will let me come
again. In any case—" for he felt sure he would not be admitted—"if at
any time, in any way, I can help you, do not scruple to let me know."
"Thanks!" once more. "I shall be among friends, but I am very much
obliged to you all the same. I am afraid I must ask you to open the
door for yourself. If Lettice were here—"
She looked round with startled eyes. Lettice was there! Mr. Kelly,
just about to make one last attempt, one parting appeal to her better
nature, looked also, following the direction of her glance, and was
checked.
All through this dialogue the girl had not stirred. At first she
remained thus, only because she felt still stupefied with the blow she
had had, because movement was still painful, and coming forward might
draw Cecilia's attention to her look. Afterward she sat on, because
she could not move. Literally, could not. Cecilia's words fell with
paralysing power. Had clear thought been possible, Lettice would have
remembered that she had no business to listen to a conversation which
was not meant for her ears; but she could not think: she could only
feel. Part that followed was lost; but she distinctly heard Mr. Kelly's
later question, and the not-to-be-mistaken answer. Utterance could not
be more plain. Beyond these she took in nothing; and she was incapable
of speech.
Then a wonder crept through her mind; were those two talking still? She
might have been any length of time seated there. At the same moment
sounded these words: "If Lettice were here—"
Lettice neither spoke nor stirred.
She was leaning back in a low chair, with closed eyes.
"Lettice!"
"Asleep, I think," said Mr. Kelly.
"I had no idea she was here at all. Lettice!"
The absence of response was a matter of positive incapacity to speak.
Lettice heard, of course; but voices sounded far-away; and the floor
seemed to mount with her; and heart and head were beating in thick
throbs. She wondered dimly—could she get up, if she tried? A nightmare
sensation of helplessness weighed her down; and she craved to be
let alone, not to be dragged back into what had become all at once
a changed world to her. And yet, she would have to shake off this
stupefaction. She would have to wake up and smile and talk. Only
another moment's delay, and then—
"How odd of the child to drop asleep so suddenly! I never knew her do
it before."
"She seems very sound. I don't think she can have heard us."
Mr. Kelly stepped behind the couch, and laid a hand on Lettice's arm.
She had not expected the touch, and it startled her into a sitting
posture instantaneously. The start seemed, as indeed it was, perfectly
natural.
"Lettice, is anything the matter? Come here," said Cecilia.
Lettice obeyed quietly. With that start, power of movement had
returned: though she was still dazed and bewildered in mind. She
reached the sofa, and smiled as she stood there, while her lips were
white, and the wide-open eyes were sombre, gazing fixedly into the air.
"How strange you look, child! Have you been dreaming? What makes you so
pale? Did Mr. Kelly startle you?"
Lettice said "Yes," with a mechanical little laugh, to each question in
turn.
"Were you asleep before Mr. Kelly came in?"
"I don't—think so."
"Only too sleepy to move? You queer child. And you dropped off
afterwards. Was that it?" Lettice's laugh might have meant anything.
"Felix walked you too far perhaps this morning. Run and get some cold
water. That will wake you up. And you can open the front door for Mr.
Kelly, if—"
"Yes, certainly I must go," said the clergyman, replying to the
half-uttered doubt. Lettice disappeared from the room, and he shook
hands with Cecilia, remarking: "Your little sister does not seem quite
well."
"Do you call her 'little?' She will soon be sixteen. I have tried
lately to make her feel herself more of a woman; but she does not
behave like one yet. She is so childish. Lettice always was rather
easily startled in her sleep. I was glad to see that puzzled look,
because it showed how very sound she must have been. I would not for
worlds have had her overhear what I said."
Mr. Kelly was not so sure that Lettice had not heard, but he refrained
from suggesting his doubt. He made his way into the passage, shutting
the parlour door, and found Lettice leaning against the wall. The
singular paleness and fixity of her face impressed him again; and his
conviction grew stronger that she had not really been asleep. He stood
looking at her with kind concern.
"Something is the matter, is it not?" he said, anxious to find out
more, without suggesting possibilities. "Has any one been troubling
you?"
"No." Lettice gazed straight before her, and forced a short laugh. "Why
should any one?"
"Not intentionally; but people sometimes cause pain, not knowing it.
Or, perhaps, you are not well. Is that it?"
"O no."
"Tell me: will you not?" urged Mr. Kelly. "Something is wrong, I am
sure. I should like to help you, but how can I, if you do not tell me
your trouble? Perhaps I could do something. Try to think of me as a
friend, and speak freely."
Lettice made an effort. "If—if—if you will promise—" she began, and
then a tearless sob broke into the words, and she fled along the
passage out of sight.
Mr. Kelly looked after her compassionately, but she did not return. The
echo of that heartbroken sob haunted him for hours after.
* * * * * * *
"Mind, Lettice, I mean what I say. You can't help going with Sissie,
of course. It has to be: and I suppose, as things are, that there is
nothing else to be done. She will not be fit for work again for months;
and she never ought to slave as she has done. But you are not to count
that house your home. Just a 'temporary residence,' as people say—not a
real home.
"After the way Dr. Bryant treated my father—It's all very well his
showing kindness to us now, when my father is dead! Why couldn't he be
kind in my father's lifetime, I should like to know? Anyhow, I don't
mean you to belong to Dr. Bryant; though, of course, one has to be
grateful for what he is doing."
Felix spoke in masterful accents, striding along the Parade, and
Lettice kept pace with him. She had lain awake all night, gazing with
troubled eyes into the happy childhood of her past, and into the
uncertain future; and in one night, she seemed to herself to have grown
years older. To-day the weight of foreboding was on her heavily, and
exertion was a struggle; but the last thing she thought of was to make
complaint.
"You understand. It's only for a time. At most, only till I can make a
home for you both. Perhaps in a few months Sis will be up to teaching
again. And meantime something better might offer itself for me. If a
fellow is bent on getting along, he is sure to do it. There's nothing
like determination; and I'm not one to be easily beaten.
"Now, mind—you've got to be brave, and not to give in; and, of course,
you'll be happy and all that, wherever you are, and everybody will be
kind to you. Only you're not to get too fond of those people. Not so
as to be in a spoony state by-and-by, when you have to leave them. You
belong to Sis and me; and Dr. Bryant is no relation."
Lettice might have suggested that she could spare abundance of
affection in both quarters, without defrauding either; but she was not
of an argumentative nature.
"I don't know what sort of man Dr. Bryant is, and I don't much care.
He may be nice, or he may not. Anyhow, he means to be kind to you and
Sissie; and that's right enough, for the time. Only, mind—you belong to
me first. Promise not to forget."
She looked up wonderingly. "Why, Felix—how could I? You don't think I'm
like that!"
"I don't know. You girls are so odd—ready to take to anybody. You may
be as happy as you like: only you've got to remember that your real
home is with me—I mean, with Sis and me!"
With Sis, for how long? A stab shot through the girl, and she turned
her face away.
"Here, sit down. I can't see you properly, when you poke the top of
your hat towards me like that. You understand?—I don't mean to leave
you there long. As soon as I can possibly manage to support you both,
I'll have you back in Brighton. Not in lodgings, but in a cosy little
house of our own. Sis will be none the worse for two or three years of
idleness first. I suppose it might be two or three years, unless she
gets strong enough to teach again . . . I say, are you listening? Let
me look at your face. I do believe you are going to sleep."
The brown hat had dropped against his shoulder, and Lettice drew it
away with a hasty movement.
"What's the matter? Are you tired?"
"I don't know."
"Nonsense. People always know. I believe you are. There!—Put your head
on my shoulder again, and go to sleep. You'll be all right presently."
He pulled her with rough kindness into the position suggested, pushing
her hat back as he did so. The breeze, lifting her hair, made him
exclaim: "I say, what a bump you got yesterday! Is that the mischief?
Does it hurt?"
"It aches."
"Why didn't you tell me? Now shut your eyes, and be quiet. There's
nobody near to look on."
Lettice made an attempt to obey, but in ten seconds the brown eyes were
open again, gazing at some far-off vision, beyond the ken of Felix. He
watched her with unwonted closeness. Perhaps the realisation of parting
near at hand awoke a new warmth of affection. She had always been a
good little sister: counted rather ordinary among themselves, a not
unpleasing contrast to his clever and good-looking self. Now he was
studying her purely for her own sake: and the patient sadness of the
small pale face and wistful eyes woke in him an instinct of brotherly
pity and protection. Had that look been there before, he wondered?
"What are you looking at, Lettice?"
"I don't know."
"Nonsense."
"I mean nothing particular."
"Nothing in particular on the sea, I dare say, but something very
particular in your mind. What are you dreaming about? . . . Now I mean
to know . . . What was it? Dr. Bryant?"
"No."
"Or me?"
"Or Sissie?"
Lettice half faltered a "No," and stopped. "Not exactly," she said
faintly. She had been thinking rather of life without Sissie, at that
moment.
"You were dreaming about Sis: something or other. What was it? Now I
mean to know, so it's no earthly use your trying to hide it. Has Sis
been making you and herself miserable about this Bristol plan?—Worrying
because she can't teach? If she has, you must just not let her. Things
can't be helped, and it's no use to fret."
"Sissie doesn't say much—"
"But she thinks; and you know what she is thinking about. Is that it?"
Lettice's lips formed a "No."
"Then you are bothering your own brains about the journey. That's
nothing. It will all go off as well as possible. Nothing to mind!"
"O no—indeed—"
"Then what is wrong? Out with it!"
"I'm only silly. If you wouldn't ask any more—please—" Lettice was
debating with herself—should she tell him all? True, Cecilia had not
meant her to know: and she had learnt the truth by accident. But now
that she did know it, might she not speak freely to her brother? That
was one side of the question. On the other side—why should he know so
soon? Might he not keep his happy ignorance just a little longer?
"When you have told me what is the matter, I'll stop. So out with it!"
Lettice breathed quickly. Twice she opened her lips, and shut them
again.
Felix bent to look into her face, and she murmured: "I thought—I
thought—if Sissie—"
"Well! If Sissie—"
"Were to die—"
Two great tears splashed upon his wrist, and Felix, after one quick
movement, said not a word. He had had for the moment a quietus. It was
Lettice, not he, who spoke next: and she had suddenly regained her
usual voice.
"I didn't mean to say it, only you made me."
"What can have put such an absurd notion into your head?" demanded
Felix brusquely. "Has anybody been talking nonsense? Dr. Rotherbotham—?"
"Sissie always sends me out when he comes."
"Mrs. Crofton—?"
"O no."
"Or Mr. Kelly?"
"No."
"You are sure?"
Lettice flushed painfully. "He didn't, indeed. Nobody has. It is
only—only something I overheard Sissie say. Something I was not meant
to hear. Ought I to repeat it to you? She seemed to think she—she—could
not—ever be well again—"
"She meant she could not be quite as she used to be. Besides, Sissie is
nervous. Sick people always are. That is nothing."
"She said—Dr. Rotherbotham had told her—"
"Dr. Rotherbotham may be mistaken. It is all nonsense, Lettice.
Just when she is getting on so well! Going to Bristol will make her
stronger than she has been for a year past. Now mind, if you don't put
this ridiculous idea out of your head, I'll give you such scolding
that you'll never forget it. Sissie knows nothing whatever about the
matter—or Dr. Rotherbotham either. It's absurd. Look up, and give me a
smile."
Lettice obeyed. She smiled bravely-and Felix was satisfied; not noting
how quickly her head was turned away again.
For himself, the instinct of his vigorous youth was to refuse to look
in the face any such possibility. Why should not Cecilia recover? Why
should death touch him or his? He would not believe in any such coming
calamity.