A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
"I SHOULD like to help you, but how can I, if you do not tell me your
trouble? Try to think of me as a friend," Mr. Kelly had said.
Lettice pondered over these words in the days following,—days full of
preparation for the journey.
To other people it might seem that the whole bulk of the Andersons'
possessions was not large enough to give trouble. Yet after six
years' stay in one house, though only in lodgings, things could not
have failed to accumulate. Where each item had to be considered, with
reference to taking or leaving, much time might be consumed.
Cecilia was forbidden all needless exertion. She had to lie on her
couch and direct others: and with the nervous excitement, not uncommon
in ill health, she could know no rest. The near separation from Felix
pressed upon her unceasingly; and relief from thought in bodily action
was denied.
Lettice had enough to do, those days, carrying out her sister's wishes.
She did it all uncomplainingly; toiled upstairs and downstairs; packed,
unpacked, and repacked, to any extent. And had it not been for the
weight of her new knowledge as to Cecilia's state, she would have
done it all blithely, as well as uncomplainingly. That made all the
difference. Courage did not fail now, but blitheness did. The strain of
keeping up told upon her a good deal. She was cheerful enough, almost
too cheerful, in Cecilia's presence; and Cecilia was jarred by this,
even while noting a certain unnatural strain of manner.
"I should like to help you," Mr. Kelly had said; and Lettice wondered
what kind of help he meant. Suppose she were to tell him all, as he had
suggested; to open out the dread which had fallen upon her life.
Lettice was to some extent reserved, but it was by training, not by
nature. The desire for sympathy and help from another grew upon her
in those days. To break through Cecilia's barrier of silence she felt
to be an utter impossibility; and Felix had refused to accept the
truth—had almost refused to hear what she had to say.
But Mr. Kelly knew already; he knew from Cecilia's own lips how matters
were; and he might even be able to assure Lettice that things were not
so bad as she feared. She had not heard all, or nearly all, that had
passed between him and Cecilia. Some word of hope might have fallen
later, which she had missed, and which he could repeat.
Lettice dwelt upon this possibility, until it gained large proportions;
and the formal call upon Mr. Kelly, which at first she had shrunk from,
became a necessity. Questions of propriety had not yet begun to trouble
Lettice; indeed, she counted herself still a child, and Mr. Kelly,
albeit a bachelor, was on the highroad to forty. Her hesitation sprang
from shyness, and shyness yielded to the stronger desire for comfort.
Mr. Kelly, returning one day from a round of visits among the poor, was
told that somebody awaited him in his study; and, proceeding thither,
he found himself face to face with Lettice.
"How do you do?" he said kindly. "Is this a good-bye call? I have just
been to your lodgings, but your sister was not well enough to see me.
They tell me that you leave in three days."
"On Thursday, if—"
"If she is up to the mark, I suppose. Do you think her getting on?"
"I don't know." Lettice looked at him with strange eyes.
Did he mean what he said? When he knew that Cecilia could never
recover! Or did he still think, like Felix, in spite of all, that
she might get well? She did not remember, perhaps did not know, that
patients even when marked for death have still their ups and downs, and
often seem for a time to be improving.
"Please, I have come to ask—? Would you mind telling me—?"
"Yes? Would I mind telling you—what?" queried the clergyman. "Anything
that is in my power. Would you not like to sit down?"
Lettice shook her head, and stood firm, grasping the back of a chair.
She was doubtful as to the extent of her own self-control, and flight
would be easier thus.
"What is it that you want me to tell you? Something to do with—Come,
what is it?" encouragingly.
"About—O you know," she said. "You know! About—"
"I am afraid I do not." Mr. Kelly had had a busy day, and a mind full
of other matters, including worries innumerable. Even the fruitless
call upon Miss Anderson had failed to bring up with any vividness
his last conversation with her, or his after-suspicion that Lettice
might have heard something of it. He had the train of circumstances
in possession: but at this moment, they lay in the background of his
memory, not quite ready to hand. He looked dubiously with gentle eyes
upon the child, repeating, "I am afraid that I do not. Cannot you
explain a little further? Just a word or two more?"
"You do, really. Please, please remember. That day when you said—said
you would help me—if—"
"Yes. I would help you—if—Go on, Lettice." He had once or twice
considered whether he ought to begin calling her "Miss Lettice
Anderson," after Cecilia's intimation of her years: but the notion
vanished now. She was such a mere pale child, with troubled brow and
brave lips. "Poor little girl!" he said compassionately. "Now see if
you can make me understand what is the matter. I said I would help
you—if—yes, of course I will. If—what? I—I wonder whether—perhaps—there
may be a little difficulty—I mean, a difficulty as to all the expenses
of the move, and the journey. You must not mind my asking this. I
should be so very glad—"
"O no, no! Not that! Nothing of that sort."
Lettice spoke hurriedly, conscious how displeased Cecilia would have
been at the bare suggestion of pecuniary help. "O no, indeed! It is
only—only about her! She told you—and I want so very very much to
know—if—if it is true?"
Recollections were dawning now: and the sound of the sob, which had
haunted him for hours, came back. He hoped no tears might be impending.
Nothing made him more unhappy than to see a child cry.
"If you would please just tell me! I know something—but I think—I don't
think—I am not sure—and perhaps—" Lettice strained one hand in a fierce
pull against the other, as words struggled for utterance. "If you only
would please understand—and tell me—"
"Has Miss Anderson been talking to you about herself?" cautiously asked
Mr. Kelly. "About her health?"
"No."
"Or anybody else?" Another negative. "But you are anxious. Is not that
it? Lettice, were you asleep that day, when she and I had a little
talk, and she did not know you to be present? Last time I called. Were
you really asleep?"
She shook her head.
"I am sorry. It was very wrong of you. Never listen to what you are
not meant to hear. Surely you know that it is not quite—not at all
honourable! Why did you not get up and come forward at once?"
"I couldn't!" She lifted her face sorrowfully. "I did not mean to do
wrong, but I could not help it. I couldn't move. And then—Sissie—"
"But when your sister spoke, could you not have explained?"
"O no: she would have been so unhappy. It would have made her ill. And
indeed I did not mean to listen. I only heard just a few words; and
then—then I felt so strange—and then Sissie found me out. Please, I
can't talk—only I do want just to know if—"
She hid her face in her hands.
"My child, I only know what your sister told me. Nothing more."
"But if—if—O please tell me—if—"
"If any hope exists still? I think that, in a certain sense, while
there is life, there is always room for hope. Sometimes a doctor may be
mistaken. Sometimes illness is lengthened out indefinitely."
"But you don't think—she can ever get—well?"
Mr. Kelly did not think so. Cecilia had spoken in no doubting accents;
and he knew Dr. Rotherbotham to be a man of cautious speech. He stood
in silence, uncertain what reply to make; and Lettice knew what the
silence meant.
"I can only say that we must leave the future in wiser Hands," he
at length uttered. "Impossible to look forward: and we are but
children—not knowing what is best. Not able even to guess. Lettice,
don't you think you want help for yourself—help for the carrying of
this trouble? It comes heavily on you, poor child!"
He had no response.
"Your sister could not see me to-day; and she may not be equal to
another interview before you go . . . But there is one thing that
we can both do for her: we can pray . . . I wonder if you often
pray! . . . She is in God's hands; and He is very near to us. Always
near. We cannot speak without His hearing. He sees all your sorrow now,
and He is grieved for you. Would it not be a comfort to ask His help?
Shall we do so now?"
Then, as they stood, a few petitions were breathed forth reverently:
the clergyman bending his head low, while Lettice never stirred. It was
such prayer as seemed to take the absent one, and to lay her in Divine
protecting Arms.
"Teach her the road to Thee; and so bring her safely to Thy Home of
Peace; and comfort this poor child of Thine, for Christ's sake," were
the closing words.
Lettice was conscious of a soothed sensation; even while the knowledge
that he so fully accepted the hopeless condition of Cecilia's health
brought sharper heart-ache. She was on the verge of a break-down, and
might no longer trust her own voice; but this he could not guess, and
her immobility perplexed him.
"I shall pray often for her and for you. That at least is in my power.
And remember, if at any time you are in difficulties, and will write to
me, I will do all that I can . . . Meanwhile, try not to look forward.
Take each day as it comes, looking up for strength; and you will be
carried through. Even now, if God wills, He is able to make your sister
well again. And if—"
Lettice put out her hand. "Good-bye," she said. "Please let me go." The
next word was more than she could endure.
The girl's hasty utterance drowned his "If not—," which was too
far advanced to receive a check. He understood then, and paused
compassionately.
"Please let me go. And—thank you so much!"
"Well, good-bye. But you are going to be brave, I am sure, for
your sister's sake. Some day you will write, and tell me all about
yourselves. Will you not? And I shall often see Felix."
Lettice gave him one glance of gratitude, and rushed away. Mr. Kelly
turned back into his study, with eyes not perfectly dry.
With the day fixed for the journey came a heavy snowstorm, but Cecilia
would not hear of delay. Everything was settled: boxes were packed;
Dr. Bryant would expect their arrival. A restless desire to have the
parting over, and to be off, possessed her. Moreover, barely enough
money remained, to pay part of the landlady's claims, to meet the
expenses of the journey, and to supply the present needs of Felix.
Dr. Rotherbotham had given a conditional leave for his invalid to
start, dependent on her state and on the weather. That she should go
off in a snowstorm was the last thing he would have desired or imagined
possible; but all opposition went down before Cecilia's will. Felix,
who alone might have resisted it successfully, did not recognise the
peril. He suggested an appeal to the doctor, and this Cecilia forbade.
She silenced Lettice, would not listen to Mrs. Crofton, and declared
that go she must and would.
Felix saw them off. To the last, he talked gaily of the little future
home. While Cecilia spoke few words, but held his arm in a voiceless
clutch, till the boy glanced round, ashamed, to see if any one were
looking. Cecilia had never in her life, since babyhood, been seen to
weep, and no tears came now.
Lettice listened to her brother's talk, and to his frequent directions,
with a bewildered brain. London—cab—porters—tickets—luggage: it all had
to be seen to, and she was courageously bent on doing her best. But she
felt that they were going out into a wide world, unprotected; and the
end of the journey seemed incalculably far-away.
"You'll have to keep your wits about you, Lettice; not let them go
wool-gathering. I have asked the guard to have an eye on you both;
but you must not depend on Sis, and the guard will only go as far as
Victoria. Sis isn't fit for worry; and I shall not be there: so you
must see to everything. Mind you count the packages, and don't lose
any. You always do blunder, if you can; but to-day you must not. And,
remember, you belong to me; not to those people. Don't get too fond of
Dr. Bryant."
"I'll try." She longed to say how impossible it was that she should
ever love anybody like Sissie or Felix; but she could not trust herself.
A few minutes more, and the train moved. Cecilia leant back, with shut
eyes and wan look. In this parting, she tasted the bitterness of death;
and not even Lettice, seated patiently by her side, knew half that it
was to her, because not even Lettice knew the extent of her idolising
love for Felix.
Outside the two closed windows went on a whirl of snowflakes, and many
were driven in through crevices; for third-class carriages are not
commonly built for inclement weather. The cold was piercing. Hot-water
cans cooled fast; and Lettice soon found herself shivering. She had
nothing wherewith to occupy her mind; and they had the compartment to
themselves. Cecilia never lifted her eyelids, nor uttered a word.
Haywards Heath, at last! Only Haywards Heath! The journey seemed
interminable to Lettice so far: and a blank realisation came of all
that lay ahead. They had to reach London: to cross to Paddington: to
travel down to Bristol: and even then a country drive of unknown length
remained.
Lettice glanced at her sister's face, and found no cheer there. It had
not only a sombre, but a sunken look. If already thus exhausted, how
would she bear the fatigues of the whole day?
"Sissie is thinking of Felix. She will make herself ill! If I could but
comfort her!" murmured Lettice.
She drew nearer, and laid a hand on Cecilia's, lovingly. Demonstrations
of affection between the two were not common: but to Lettice they were
natural, only Cecilia's reserve kept her in check: and it was something
unusual for Lettice thus to take the initiative. She had always been
in complete and even childish subservience to her half-sister. Now she
felt herself in charge of the invalid, responsible for her well-doing:
and the little tender action came involuntarily.
It did not seem to be a success. Cecilia opened her eyes, drew her
brows slightly together, and with an impatient gesture pulled away the
hand which Lettice touched.
"Couldn't I do anything for you?" pleaded the younger girl.
"Only leave me in peace, if you please."
The sharpness of tone sprang from bitter pain, and Lettice knew it:
but none the less, she found that sharpness hard to bear. Was not the
same pain of parting hers? She too wanted comfort, and she might have
found comfort in comforting Cecilia, had not that been denied her? The
check was just the one drop too much, and tears came thickly, obscuring
her vision as they fell. She was too much absorbed to hear the slight
bustle of somebody stepping in at the further end, and she did not at
first notice that the train was again in motion. It was needful to
master herself, before Cecilia's attention should be drawn and this
proved not easy.
Presently the fact dawned upon her that she and Cecilia were no longer
alone. Somebody sat opposite to herself—somebody at first indistinct
through the haze of tears, but taking shape in time as a girl several
years older than herself, dressed in a navy-blue serge costume of
severe outlines, a long black cloak, and a black bonnet with white
strings. The newcomer had dark eyes and pretty rosy cheeks: and she was
bending a little forward, to study Lettice.
"What is the matter, you poor little thing?" came in soft tones.
"Oh—it doesn't matter," said Lettice, endeavouring to sit upright and
to assume a sprightly air.
"Everything matters that makes people unhappy."
"O no, I'm only—stupid. I'm always stupid."
"Are you? I should not have thought so. You don't look stupid."
Lettice tried to smile, but not successfully. The stranger came over to
the seat by her side.
"Now tell me: I want to know what is wrong. Something must have
distressed you just before I came in. You had not been crying long.
What was it, I wonder? . . . Is that your mother or—your sister?—" in
surprise. "I should not have guessed it. She has been ill, I see. Isn't
this rather bad weather for her to travel?"
"She wouldn't put it off. Felix said she ought."
"Who is Felix?"
"My brother—in Brighton. Sissie can't teach any more, and so we can't
stay in Brighton," explained Lettice, with childish frankness. "We
are going to live near Bristol, with an uncle that I have never seen.
And—Felix—"
Lettice stopped short, setting her teeth rigidly.
"And you have had to leave Felix behind? Is that the trouble?"
Lettice nodded, and said "Part," with difficulty.
"But not all. Perhaps your sister's health—"
That line of questioning had to be abandoned. She saw it at once, and
stopped.
"Tell me a little about yourselves. Keeping up bravely is all right:
but just once in a way one has to give in. Don't you think so? Wouldn't
a good cry make you feel better?"
"O no—Sissie—"
"Would it distress her? But she doesn't seem to notice us. Perhaps
she is resting. Now I am going to tell you who I am. My name is Nurse
Valentine, and my business in life is to take care of sick people. So
I have come to the right part of the train, haven't I? And my home is
close to Reading. We can go through London together, if you like. Do
you think you can trust me? I'm such a stranger."
"I don't feel as if you were a stranger . . . I did dread London!"
"You need not now. I'll manage for you both. What is your name?"
Lettice responded to questioning, and various particulars oozed out
about herself, about Cecilia's illness, about the sorrow of leaving
Felix, about the unknown Dr. Bryant. She did not definitely tell what
she knew of Cecilia's real state: but the weight of foreboding which
underlay all else was easily detected by Nurse Valentine's observant
eyes, and its cause was soon conjectured.
The relief of free speech was great. Lettice's brow lost some of its
strain, her eyes some of their forlornness: and Nurse Valentine's hand
coming between hers was held tightly.
"I wish I had you for a friend," she murmured. "There's nobody to go
to."
"There's always ONE, child," in hushed tones.
"Is there? But Sissie is too ill. I must not trouble her. And she never
likes people to cry. And Felix—" Lettice had to set her teeth rigidly
again. "And—and—I'm so—stupid."
"Never mind that; you are not too stupid to feel sorrow, or to need
comfort. Don't you know Whom I mean? ONE is always near. You can't
get beyond reach of God's loving pity, Lettice. If you have no other
friend, you have Him."
A wondering look answered her. The thought seemed new.
"Try, next time you feel lonely, try speaking to Him, and telling Him
your need . . . Now you are to curl yourself up in the farther corner;
and you are not to look at anything or anybody till we get to London.
I'll see after your sister."
Lettice was sure Cecilia would brook no interference from a stranger,
but she could not say so in words, and Nurse Valentine disregarded
protesting looks. She watched in fear from her corner Nurse Valentine's
first move to Cecilia's side, saw her stoop and murmur something, and
saw that the advance was not repelled. Then in the relief of shifted
responsibility, she fell asleep.
"Lettice—"
"Oh, is it time to get up?" For a moment she counted herself in bed.
"Don't be in a flurry. We are close to Victoria. Lettice, must you go
on to-day? You could not spend a night or two in London?"
"There's nowhere to go. And it would cost so much. Is Sissie—?"
"I don't think she is well enough for the full journey; but in that
case, it must be risked."
Lettice became aware that Cecilia was not in the same state as when
they had left home. Then she had stood about, and had even walked
a short distance. Now she had to be lifted from the train to the
carriage; and again at Paddington from the carriage to the train. She
made no complaints, and scarcely spoke, but her face wore unmistakable
signs of acute suffering. Nurse Valentine counted it very doubtful
whether she would be able to reach Bristol that afternoon: and her busy
brain revolved different schemes.
"I can't leave that child alone to sink or swim. It wouldn't be
Christian. I don't know when I have seen a face that appeals to one
more. Miss Anderson, I am afraid, is in a bad way. They seem given over
into my charge. I shall have to go on to Bristol, or else take them
home with me . . . Which is best, I wonder? . . . She isn't fit for the
journey. Well, I shall see presently."
They drew near in time to Reading. Nurse Valentine knew this, from
her acquaintance with the country; and Lettice seemed to guess it,
intuitively.
"Must you leave us now? What shall I do if Sissie gets worse?"
Nurse Valentine moved away to bend over Cecilia. A few low words passed
between them; and she returned to Lettice.
"No, my dear, I am not going to forsake you. Your sister cannot travel
so far as Bristol to-day. I shall take you both to my home."
"Home with you?" Lettice's whole face changed, pallor vanished, and her
eyes shone with delight! "Oh, how good, how good you are: I can never,
never thank you."
"Hush, don't let Miss Anderson hear; it is the only plan; but I have
not told her yet. I wish we did not live so far out of Reading—nearly
two miles—but it cannot be helped. I shall leave word with our doctor
in passing, and a telegram must be sent to your uncle."
"I can't think what makes you so kind to us."
"Cannot you?" The train was slackening speed; but Nurse Valentine
lingered a moment. "I have a dear Master, Lettice, and I think He is
giving me this to do. My work is only to obey. The trouble! Oh, that
is nothing. People cannot do anything worth doing without trouble; and
always to be trying to save oneself is so contemptible. Trouble was the
last thing our Lord ever thought about, when He was on earth; and it
ought to be our last thought also."
Lettice had the look of one gaining a glimpse into a fresh world.