THEIR NON-ARRIVAL.
SATURDAY afternoon! Felix had been for a sharp walk, to get rid of
certain lonely sensations, which were likely enough to assail a young
fellow during his first few days away from home. Not that he had left
his home, but that his home had left him: and this made matters worse.
For he had not the interest of new surroundings. He was in the same
place and under the same roof as before; only all that had made the
house his home was withdrawn from it.
Like a good many others of his age and standing, Felix had sometimes
chafed against certain restrictions, counted needful by the half-sister
who had been to him as a parent. Freedom had a charm for him, as for
not a few. Yet, now that the restrictions were gone, now that liberty
was obtained, now that he might come and go and do as he chose, he
found himself more conscious of loss than of gain.
Though not free from work till after dark, he had then started off
immediately for a brisk walk along the Parade, doing two miles out and
two back in something under an hour. The rapid motion was a relief
after long-standing, and it overcame a slight tendency to low spirits,
from which he had suffered all day.
Such snow as had fallen on Thursday was gone from Brighton: and he
scarcely noticed the ice-cold wind, for his mind was intent on other
matters.
He had a definite and absorbing aim before him. Felix meant—not only
meant, but was resolutely determined—to get on in life. He had no idea
of resting content with his present position. Getting on would mean
hard work: and he was willing to work hard. He intended to succeed:
to climb from step to step, to win confidence and approval, to leave
the stationer's shop in his rear, to make money, to secure a home for
his sisters. So far as all this went, it was right. The aim was a
commendable aim in itself: only it lacked something. He did not look up
for Divine Blessing on his purpose. He did not whisper, "If God will."
Except for this lack, the boy meant well. A certain amount of egoism
might mingle with his dreams: yet a silver thread of unselfishness ran
through them also. Cecilia's devotion to him in the past, he accepted,
as boys do accept such devotion, merely as a matter of course and
no more than his due. Nevertheless, he realised that his turn had
come, and he longed to work for her: and when the thought came up of
Lettice's pale face and sad eyes, his own eyes grew dim. Felix was glad
of the darkness, that nobody might see.
"Lettice shall always be mine, never Dr. Bryant's," he declared to
himself. Then he wondered, as he had wondered twenty times that day,
how soon a letter would arrive. Surely Lettice might have written the
day after their arrival.
Felix had hardly yet begun to dream of another kind of love, a closer
tie than that of sister and brother. Many boys begin long before they
reach his age: but he was young for his years, a thorough home-lad, and
he had mixed little in society of any kind.
Cecilia's proud reticence had come in the way here of what might have
been for his advantage. He had formed two or three friendships in his
school-days, permitted though not encouraged by her: but the friends
so made had recently left Brighton, for India and the Colonies. Felix
was left stranded, without a single real friend in all Brighton, at the
moment when he most needed friends, and with few acquaintances.
He was almost as slow as Cecilia herself in "taking to" strangers.
There were two or three other young fellows at the stationer's, beside
one rather older man named Andrews, and Mr. Thompson himself, Felix'
employer. Felix was respectful to Mr. Thompson, submissive to Andrews,
and on the alert to do his work well: but personally, he cared for none
of them, perhaps because he would not care, would not take the trouble
to know any of them sufficiently well for indifference to pass into
liking. After Cecilia's style, he held aloof, and thereby made himself
disliked. A man who would have friends must "show himself friendly."
"I shall not live this sort of life always. I am made for something
better," he would say to himself, when he found that his own repellent
bearing was inducing the same from others. He forgot that whether or
no some other mode of life might be "better," according to his views,
yet so long as he did live "this sort of life," he owed courtesy
and kindness to those about him. Or perhaps it was not so much that
he forgot, as that he did not know. Cecilia's training, moral and
religious, of this dearly loved young brother had been defective.
"I am made for something better," Felix declared again, late that
Saturday afternoon, as he left the Parade and strode through the dark
streets towards his now lonely home. "Something will turn up, sooner or
later. I will get on! I'll let them know that I'm up to work, and then,
when an opening comes—"
"How do you do?" a voice said, and Felix found himself, under the
lamplight, face to face with Mr. Kelly.
The clergyman looked younger, more frail, and more at his ease, than
when visiting Cecilia Anderson. Felix paused less reluctantly than he
would have paused a week earlier. In his present loneliness, a friendly
word was not to be counted worthless.
"How do you do, Anderson? Quite well? So you have not yet heard of your
sisters' safe arrival?"
"No." Felix wondered how he knew.
"I called at your door just now, in passing, to ask. And Mrs. Crofton
says that a letter is awaiting you. She hopes it may contain news of
them."
"From Lettice?"
"A strange handwriting, Mrs. Crofton said—though that was hardly her
business or mine." Mr. Kelly turned, and walked beside Felix. "You will
be impatient to have your letter."
"I ought to have news of them by this time. They went on Thursday."
"True, that snowy day."
"Dr. Rotherbotham told me I had no business to let them start. But—I
don't know how I was to help it. Cecilia always has her own way. I
suppose it's all right. Ill news would be sure to travel fast. Only I
did think Lettice would drop me a line."
"I should like to hear about them before long. Will you come in to
supper with me to-morrow evening, after Church?"
"I don't go to Church in the evening," Felix answered bluntly.
Mr. Kelly smiled, and the smile lent to his face a peculiar
attractiveness. Somehow he had never felt disposed to smile in
Cecilia's presence. "Only in the morning?" he asked. "But come to
supper just the same. At half-past eight."
Felix agreed, with the private addition, "I needn't stay long, if he
begins to preach."
Then Mr. Kelly crossed the road, to speak to somebody who seemed to be
waiting for a word: while Felix dashed on to his own door, less than
half-a-street distant.
On the step, Mrs. Crofton met him. "A letter at last, sir. But it isn't
from Miss Anderson nor Miss Lettice. I know their handwritings."
Felix recognised Dr. Bryant's, and opened it in haste.
"Why! What—"
"Eh, sir? Nothing wrong?"
"They've not got there! Never arrived! What can it mean?"
Mrs. Crofton's lower jaw dropped, and she burst into a series
of exclamations. Felix read his note again, deaf to her audible
astonishment!
"QUARRINGTON COTTAGE
"Friday afternoon.
"DEAR ANDERSON,—My niece and Lettice did not arrive yesterday; and
no letter has come to-day. The weather has been sufficient to account
for delay; but I think a telegram might have been sent, to prevent my
useless drive into Bristol. Pray let me know when I am to expect them.—
"Yours faithfully,
"MAURICE BRYANT."
"Extraordinary!" muttered Felix.
"Nothing bad, sir, I hope? Not really bad?"
"Quite bad enough. Nobody knows where they are, or what has become of
them."
It relieved Felix to give out this information fiercely, almost as
if the landlady herself were to blame; and the colouring on her high
cheek-bones perceptibly lessened.
A railway accident! A collision, and everybody killed! The train
snowed up, and passengers frozen to death! These were only a few of
the suggestions, poured out in a stream for the further distraction of
Felix. Or Miss Anderson has been taken suddenly worse, and they had had
to stop half-way. This came nearer the mark, and had also a greater air
of probability; and the conjecture filled Felix with foreboding. No
light cause would, he knew, have delayed Cecilia. She must have been
ill indeed, before she would have resolved to sacrifice her ticket and
that of Lettice, and to go to the heavy expense of lodgings or hotel.
How such expense could be met, Felix had no idea. He was only convinced
that Cecilia would not incur it, short of absolute necessity. Then came
the question, why had not Lettice written? Surely her first impulse
would have been to tell Felix all!
Mrs. Crofton enlarged upon possibilities, wiping her eyes. "I always
did say things was sure to go wrong! Sending them two poor innocents
off, all that way, and not a soul to take care of 'em. And Miss
Anderson no more fit to travel—! And that there awful snowstorm! And as
for Miss Lettice—poor little angel! O dear, dear! But, there, you'll
go after them, wherever they be, Mr. Felix! Of course you'll go, this
minute."
Felix was divided between a strong sense of dismay at the mystery,
and a strong inclination to laugh at Cecilia being termed a "poor
innocent." Dismay won the day. "How can I? There's no money; and I
don't know where to go," he said.
Then, snatching up his cap, he hurried out of the house, with an
idea of overtaking Mr. Kelly. He was too late, for the clergyman had
disappeared. Felix hesitated some seconds, and sped to the nearest
post-office, whence he despatched a brief telegram to Dr. Bryant,
intimating how matters stood. After which, he found his way to the
Vicarage, arriving barely in time. Mr. Kelly was on the doorstep,
gloves in hand.
"Sorry I can't wait: I have an engagement," were words upon Mr. Kelly's
very lips, but he did not utter them. "Yes," he said. "You are in
trouble. Come in. I can spare five minutes. What is it?"
He turned back into the house, and Felix followed, out of breath with
his run. Mrs. Crofton's various suggestions had haunted him by turns as
he came; the least probable causing perhaps the most uneasiness. Worst
of all was his own sense of helplessness. Yet, he said little, but
placed before Mr. Kelly the short letter he received.
"From Dr. Bryant. That is your uncle—your sister's uncle, I mean?"
"Yea."
Mr. Kelly read, and lifted perplexed eyes.
"This is strange. Miss Anderson must have stopped somewhere short of
Bristol. It looks a little—I am afraid—as if she had been too unwell
to continue the journey. I do not understand why neither you nor Dr.
Bryant have heard."
"That is the puzzle. Cecilia would not stop without very strong
reason. She isn't one to give in easily. And surely Lettice might have
telegraphed."
"It seems so at first sight. Telegraphed or written. I hope that their
not sending word is a good sign. No doubt they have delayed, with the
wish to save you needless anxiety."
For a moment this thought brought relief. "To be sure, it might be
that. It would be like them. They might guess, though, that not hearing
anything would be as bad. And why did not Lettice telegraph to Dr.
Bryant? It ought to have been done."
"People do not always exercise commonsense. Miss Anderson may have
been—not well enough—and Lettice is so young for her age."
"The question now is—what am I to do?"
"You have telegraphed to Dr. Bryant already. He may possibly have
received news since sending off his note; and if so, you will hear
again. Very likely you will have a letter from Lettice in the course of
the day. I think, however, that you would be wise to go to the station
this evening, and to make a few inquiries. Perhaps the guard of the
train may remember if they reached Victoria."
"To be sure! The very thing! I asked him to see to them."
"Then he would tell you at least so much. If he saw them there, they
must now be either in London, or somewhere on the way to Bristol. You
are almost certain to hear something, at latest, by the morning's post."
"And if I don't—"
"Then we must consider what step to take next. I cannot wait longer
now, as I am overdue elsewhere. Only one word—pray look upon me as
a friend in this matter, Anderson. If it becomes needful for you to
run up to Town, do not be anxious as to ways and means. You must let
me advance any sum that you may need." He held out his hand, and it
was grasped in kind, with unusual warmth, half shame-faced by Felix.
"Now good-bye, and I sincerely trust that all will come right in a few
hours."
Those few hours were hard to live through. Do what Felix might,
he could not lose sight of his suspense. To sit still was an
impossibility; and to remain long within reach of Mrs. Crofton's
doleful prognostications was an equal impossibility; but he kept
incessant watch for tidings, and at length a telegram arrived from Dr.
Bryant: "Not come; no news; most perplexing."
Felix slept little that night, and he was astir unwontedly early next
morning. The postman's knock brought him downstairs with a rush, to
receive a letter: handwriting unfamiliar; postmark Reading. He tore it
open.
"From 'Prudence Valentine.' Who on earth is she? Something Farm—What's
the name?" He skimmed the contents rapidly.
"DEAR MR. ANDERSON,—I am very sorry no one wrote to you yesterday
or to-day, but between us all, it has been somehow overlooked. I
am writing now late at night, that the letter may go off early
to-morrow—Saturday—morning.
"My sister travelled on Thursday from Haywards Heath with your
sisters; and as Miss Anderson was taken worse on the way, becoming
really too ill to go on, she brought them both home with her. We had
our doctor in at once, and all has been done that could be done.
My sister Bertha is a trained nurse.
"It would be wrong to hide from you that Miss Anderson has been in
great danger, and that her state is still critical; but we hope that
she has begun to improve.
"My sister telegraphed to Dr. Bryant on Thursday from Reading station,
and a letter ought to have been sent to you. But we were very much
occupied. Lettice was so worn-out at first that she could do nothing
but sleep; and she has been prostrate since with headache, really able
to think of nothing. Otherwise she would have begged me to communicate
with you. I am distressed that it did not occur to any of us to do so
sooner.
"You may depend upon us to take every care of them both. Lettice is
not ill, only knocked down with over-strain, and I think with the parting
also from yourself. We are ordered to keep her very quiet for a few
days. If you would wish to come and see your sisters, pray do not
hesitate—but Miss Anderson assures us that this is out of the question
for the present.
"Believe me, yours truly—
"PRUDENCE VALENTINE."
"So she did send a telegram, after all!" exclaimed Felix. "Why didn't
it arrive, I wonder?"
He was more conscious at the moment of relief than of anxiety. Nothing
could be worse than the blank uncertainty he had been enduring; and he
failed to realise how bad the account of Cecilia was. An impulse seized
him to tell Mr. Kelly without delay; and early though the hour was, he
seized his cap and hastened to the Vicarage.
"Come in; pray come in; I am delighted to see you," Mr. Kelly said,
rising from his solitary breakfast. "Another cup—" to the maid who had
ushered the young fellow in. "Well, good news, I hope. You look like
it. Sit down and have breakfast with me."
"It's all right. Cecilia was taken worse on the way, and they are
in a farmhouse near Reading. At least—I don't mean 'all right'—"
rather confusedly—"but she is better now, and we know where they are.
Yes—perfect strangers—nobody I ever heard of before. I can't think what
made them do it. Would you like to see the letter?"
Mr. Kelly received the sheet, smiling. Then, as his eyes fell on the
handwriting, a curious expression replaced the smile. He glanced on to
find the signature, and a faint flush crept slowly over his spare pale
face.
"It's from a Miss Valentine."
"True." The flush deepened, and Mr. Kelly put up one hand, as if to
shield his slight embarrassment. "True," he repeated, and he read the
letter twice, with an abstracted air.
"Odd! Isn't it?" said Felix.
Mr. Kelly looked up, with the start of one awakened from a dream. Then
he read the letter a third time, and gave it back.
"I know the name," he said. "Many years ago I met a Miss Valentine—the
same, undoubtedly, since her name was Prudence, and she, too, had
a sister named Bertha. Besides, the home was the same. I met them
elsewhere—not there—but I can recall the address. Your sisters are in
good hands. This, at least, I can assure you."
"Cecilia is better now, you see."
"I hope so—to some extent. Yes, evidently better than when she first
got there. And Lettice will be well looked after. The child needs it."
"Can't think what on earth they would have done, if they hadn't come
across Miss Valentine."
"If not in that way, they would have been cared for in some other way."
"But I say!" broke out Felix. "We've no right! I hate to be indebted to
strangers."
"We are all children of one Father; bound by close family ties. Is it
so hard, viewed in that light?"
"Cecilia would never submit, if she could help it."
"But if she cannot? Perhaps she has that lesson to learn. Some day it
may be in your power to repay the kindness. At present you can only
accept it, and be grateful."
Felix had to accept it; but he was far from feeling grateful.
"Is Lettice never to come to me again?" Cecilia asked querulously
of Prudence, at the very hour when Felix sat with Mr. Kelly at the
Vicarage breakfast table. "It is so long since I have seen the child!
Does she not care? Felix would not treat me so."
"She will come soon. She was better yesterday, but quiet is needed.
Poor little Lettice cares far too much. If we allowed it, she would
come this moment."
"The days are so long—and I am alone. None of my own people are with
me. Only strangers."
"Am I quite a stranger still?"
"No. I did not mean to hurt your feelings. But I seem to be cut off
from everybody."
"Except One—who is always near. Never cut off from Him."
Cecilia stirred uneasily.
"Somebody else said so. I forget who. So many voices have come to me,
one time and another. I cannot always distinguish them. My mother's
voice for one; and it brought back things I had forgotten. But I do not
talk. It is not my way. I told Mr. Kelly so."
"Mr. Kelly!"
"He has a Church in Brighton. I do not care for him; though he means
well."
A red spot rose to either of Prue's cheeks, and there remained. She
half said, "What Mr. Kelly?" but checked herself.
"He would not let me alone. People will not, I do not choose to be
interfered with; and he interfered. Still, of course he was kind. He
found employment for Felix; and he came to see me. He would have come
oftener, if I had allowed it. But I cannot talk of myself to anybody
and everybody."
"The less we talk of ourselves the better, perhaps," suggested Prue.
"He is a clergyman, then?"
"Yes. We went to his Church. He thought himself bound to put questions
to me about myself. Perhaps he was, but I was not bound to answer them.
As if—" and a pause. "But sometimes—now—" another pause.
"Sometimes now, you would wish to see him again, perhaps. Is that it?"
The red spots deepened as Prue spoke.
"No, not exactly. I did not mean that, exactly. One cannot always
explain . . . I want Lettice, and they will not let her come. It is
cruel—so ill as I am."
"Lettice loves you dearly." Prue could have clung to the other subject,
but she would not.
"Well, yes—perhaps. She has always been with me,—always—in those old
days. Past now! They can never come back!"
"The past does not come back. It is always going on to something fresh;
until we reach Home."
"I have no home. It is behind—with Felix."
"And mine is before—with Jesus." Prue spoke low and reverently. She
seldom revealed so much of her true self; but Cecilia's need appealed
strongly.
A flickering smile crossed the other's face. "You! A mere girl!" she
said, not realising that Prue was scarcely seven years her junior.
"What can you know of life?"
"More perhaps than you would suppose . . . I have a dear home here, but
the real Home is there."
"People talk so, I know; and you seem to mean it. But to me it is only—"
"Yes—it is only—"
"The unknown. A black depth of nothingness. I do not know why I should
say all this. It is not my way. I suppose life goes on there—of course.
No unprejudiced or reasonable mind can believe that death means
annihilation. There is too much in us for that . . . But the future is
so vague. I never expected to be afraid when my time should come . . .
Only sometimes—now I am so weak—looking over and seeing no foothold—"
Her eyes wandered round the room strangely, even fearfully.
"But if, looking over, you saw the outstretched Arms of Christ, our
Lord, waiting to receive you? If in the valley, you had His rod and His
staff for your comfort—?"
A softened look stole into the haggard face.
"He is willing. He is waiting. It is we who hold back. It is not He,"
Prue went on softly. "He is always 'far more ready to hear than we are
to ask.' When He has come from heaven to die for us, isn't it the least
we can do to believe in His love and pity?"
Cecilia shut her eyes resolutely, and Prue said no more.