FROM READING TO BRISTOL.
SAY what Felix might, he could not send Lettice off that day, before
his own departure by the night-train; and he could gain no promise
from the Valentines, further than that Lettice should travel westwards
"so soon as Mr. Jasper allowed it." Lettice was powerless against that
fiat; and Felix knew it. Inwardly, he fumed; outwardly, he urged the
advantages of change. Lettice was growing morbid, he declared.
"She has gone through enough to make her morbid," said Prue. Then,
without warning, came the question: "Did you give my message to Mr.
Kelly?"
"I have not seen him yet."
"If you would rather that one of us should write—"
"As you like," Felix replied coldly. To himself, he declared, "I shall
not say anything!"
And Prue read this in the hardening lines of his mouth.
"Then I will write," she said under impulse. "The Rev. Robert Kelly—is
it not?" And with the sound of the name, a swift warm flush leapt to
her face.
"Yes."
Prue stood with downcast eyes, thinking—not of Felix.
"It is best not to trouble you. And the message was entrusted to me
by—her. I must see that it reaches him."
"As you like," repeated Felix, in frigid accents.
Prue put the question aside until bedtime, till she sat in her room, by
candle light, after the departure of Felix, practically alone, since
Lettice was asleep. Then she weighed the question again.
Should she write or should she not? Should she ask Bertha to do it?
Yet—why not herself? There had been a time, many years sooner, when
during six happy weeks, Prue had seen much of Robert Kelly. She had
liked him, and he had liked her—so much that some had counted it to be
far more than mere liking. But nothing had come of it all. A cloud had
crept between somehow, and Mr. Kelly had drawn back—gently, so as not
to give needless offence, but unmistakably.
Prue suspected a misunderstanding, but she could do nothing. He might
have taken steps to clear the mystery, if mystery existed. She could
not stir. Then he went away, saying good-bye kindly and calmly, only
looking rather pale: and Prue suffered in secret, but made no sign. Her
life had been shadowed by the long pain of that girlish disappointment;
yet she never spoke of it—even to her mother. Nor did she blame Robert
Kelly. He might have been deceived about her: or she might have misread
him. She was only sure of one thing, that he had not deliberately
sought her, with any intent to deceive. She could far more easily
believe, in the teeth of her own memory, that he had not sought her at
all.
This was seven years ago, when Prue had been a girl of twenty-one:
and still at twenty-eight, something of the shadow rested on her. For
three or four years she had heard of Robert Kelly fitfully, casually;
and since then she had lost sight of his whereabouts, but never of
his vision in her mind. When Cecilia spoke of "Mr. Kelly," it had
been a possible revelation—a possible certainty that at least he was
alive still: and before many days she had satisfied herself, without
seeming to ask questions with an object, that Cecilia's Mr. Kelly and
her Robert Kelly were identical. Old longings, half-asleep, had been
awakened.
To write to him herself—might not that step be misconstrued? Yet why?
They were acquaintances: no more: and Prue had a message given her to
deliver. Was it not her duty to give it direct? She could not trust
Felix.
Prue drew her writing-case near, and indited a note slowly, spoiling
three sheets in the process. It contained the simplest and barest
statement of Cecilia's message. It began "Dear Mr. Kelly," and ended
"Yours truly, Prudence Valentine." It made a slight allusion to past
acquaintanceship and no more. The writing was firm and clear; only in
the doing of the signature she had a vivid recollection of his face,
and her hand shook. The tremulous curves of those two words held a
message for Mr. Kelly.
He was very thankful for the contents of the letter: thankful, not only
to have done no harm, but to have done positive good, which in his
self-distrust, he had not expected. But this was, for the moment, not
the leading thought. Robert Kelly was a man, and a lonely man. He had
given his heart once to the young girl, Prue Valentine: and he would
have asked hers in return, but for some foolish local gossip which
had checked him. It had not occurred to him to doubt the truth of the
gossip: to find out at least whether his informant were trustworthy. He
had simply drawn back, and had fled from the place.
And now—he found her still unmarried. The thought came—what if it were
not too late?
He spent an indefinite time looking at the signature: and the very
words of that old piece of gossip, which had so marred his happiness,
came up again. Not only that she was already engaged, or as good
as engaged to another; but also, that she had spoken slightingly,
laughingly, of him—Robert Kelly. That had cut deeply. And it might have
been true: why not?
Mr. Kelly had a humble opinion of himself; and he was not in the least
surprised that some people should laugh at him, or talk slightingly of
him. Only that Prue Valentine should have done so—there was the sting!
After all, it might not have been true: since the other half of the
tale was not. If the other half of the tale were not! Mr. Kelly doubted
again here. Prue might have been engaged, as report had said, and the
engagement might have been broken off. The little note told nothing. It
was friendly, but calm and distant. Only—that quiver in the signature
stirred him. Yet, why should it mean anything? Somebody might have
touched her elbow as she wrote.
He thought of Prue by day, and he dreamt of Prue by night; and he
worked harder, neglecting none of his clerical and parochial duties,
but rather throwing a fresh fervour into them. He wrote a brief line of
thanks to Prue, not too warmly expressed, hoping "some day to see them
all again." Prue's heart leaped in silent response to the hope: and
there the matter stood still. Mr. Kelly took no further steps—though
she was nearly thirty, and he nearly forty. He was not sure what he
wished.
As Felix had feared, Mr. Jasper stepped in, ordering delay for
Lettice—naturally enough, as she had not left her room since Cecilia's
death. Lettice could hardly have told whether she were most grieved or
relieved. She dreaded leaving these kind friends, to go among fresh
strangers: yet the one fixed desire of her mind was to carry out
Cecilia's will, and to do what Felix wished. Each day spent at the Farm
was in contravention of both these aims.
Another three weeks in the house, however, did good, bringing strength
to body and mind. Her sorrow and fragility made them all set her apart
as something to be cared for and tenderly guarded. Mrs. Valentine gave
her motherliness: Prue and Bertha looked to health and spirits: Nan
crouched at her feet in blundering devotion. But the one of them all
who understood her best, the one to whom she could turn freely for
comfort, was Wallace. Nobody understood why. He had been until now a
mere overgrown clumsy boy, with his mother's affectionate disposition,
but with an excess of his father's bluntness and angularity. During
this month, he grew fast towards becoming a thoughtful man.
So soon as Lettice was released from her bedroom, she found Wallace
waiting for her. No matter what had to be done, he was never busy if
Lettice wanted him. Every change in the little pale face was noted by
him, and not even the trained Bertha was so quick to read it. He would
sit by her side, and read aloud or keep silence, by the hour together,
sometimes giving only a dumb sympathy which comforted Lettice more than
aught else, sometimes drawing her out to say what she thought and felt.
"Lettice, you must not go yet. I can't spare you!" he said one evening.
Mr. Jasper had at length granted leave for "early next week," and
an escort had been found in the shape of a farmer's wife, going to
Bristol. A letter was to be written next day to Dr. Bryant, telling him
when to expect Lettice.
Wallace had gone about for hours, looking moody, and when he found
Lettice alone in the twilight, resting on the rug, with her head
against the arm of Mr. Valentine's arm-chair, he broke into a
remonstrance.
Lettice did not move. She only looked up slowly, and said, "I must."
"There's no 'must.' It is nonsense. Why can't you stay here, always? We
want you, and Dr. Bryant doesn't. How can he, when he doesn't so much
as know you? Don't you see what I mean? And we do want you here."
"Sissie told me I must;" in the patient undertone with which she would
allude to Cecilia.
"She didn't know or understand. How should she?"
"But I must keep to what she said. And Felix made me promise."
"He had no right. He doesn't know us all, and you do. Say—couldn't you
be happy to stay here? Do you want to go to Dr. Bryant's?"
"I don't think I want anything—much—only to do what Sissie told me."
"Not even to stay here?"
She lifted her eyes slowly again. "I'm tired," she said. "I should like
to put off—if—but I can't, because of what Sissie said. I mustn't let
myself want anything, except what Felix wants."
"You can't be a slave to him all your life."
"I'm only his. Nobody else's."
"Yes, you are. You are ours too. Say you are. Say you mind going, just
a little. We shall always be thinking of you. Don't you know you are
our little queen—Nan's and mine?"
Lettice smiled quietly, not blushing in her childish freedom from
self-consciousness. "O yes, you are all so good, and you all try to
spoil me, and, of course, I love you all—" hesitating,—"like you all, I
mean."
"Don't change the word. The first was best."
"But I have to go, all the same. Please don't say any more, because
nothing can change what Sissie told me. I want to ask something else.
May I?"
"Anything in the world."
"Who will pay all the bills?"
"What bills?"
One hand held the other fast. "All that for—for Sissie—the doctor, and
everything?"
"Mr. Jasper will take nothing, and Dr. Bryant undertakes all that is
necessary. Didn't your brother tell you?"
"No."
"He ought. Dr. Bryant wrote to him, and to us too. He says it is the
last he can do for—her, you know! And it is a pleasure to him."
"Thank you," murmured Lettice, and she said no more.
Wallace sat gazing upon her.
"You'll be sure to let us know if you are unhappy. If things don't go
straight."
"I have promised to write."
"To me?"
"No—to Prue. I have always slept in Prue's room, and Prue has been so
good. Bertha says Sissie cared most of all for Prue."
The day of parting drew near, and hour after hour Lettice had a
question in her mind, which she longed to ask. Day and night she was
haunted by recollections of her last brief interview with Cecilia, and
of Cecilia's eager words, more especially the message to Felix.
"Nothing—nothing—worth living for, but to serve God. Tell him from me!
I would give anything now to have lived a different life! . . . Too
late for that! . . . There is forgiveness, but oh, to have lived for
Him! . . . The pitifulness of coming to Him only at last! . . . The
difference now if I had lived for Him! Don't put off! Pray to be shown!"
These sentences Lettice would never forget. They were stamped upon her
brain. She knew that Cecilia had spoken to Prue of no longer fearing to
die. But then, why these burning regrets? What did Sissie wish to have
done differently? And what did she mean that Lettice was to do? Lettice
would lie and think herself into a maze of bewilderment; yet in her
shyness, in her dread of seeming to blame Sissie, she could not endure
to speak out. But the pressure became at length too severe, intensified
as it was by the knowledge that very soon she would have no one whom
she could ask. When Prue came to her room, on the last evening of all,
she found Lettice waiting for her, wide awake.
"Not asleep yet, my dear."
"No. I want to speak. I must say it before I go. Please come and sit
here. I want to know what she meant."
Prue obeyed, with an arm round Lettice.
"What who meant?"
"You know. She—the last time I saw her—you were there. When she said I
was to tell Felix."
"I understand."
"What did she mean? I don't know."
"It is eleven o'clock, and you have a journey to-morrow. I wish you had
not put off till now."
"I couldn't say anything sooner. And I can't go without knowing."
"Try to tell me exactly what it is that you want explained."
"I don't know what she meant. She said to you she wasn't afraid . . .
And she told me about—there was pardon . . . and yet she said—said—it
would have been so different—if only—if only—"
Lettice caught back a sob. "You know, don't you? Please tell me. I'm
always thinking, and I can't understand."
Prue drew the child's head down on her shoulder. "It is not so very
difficult," she said. "Would you be satisfied now, looking back, if you
felt that you had always neglected and ignored Sissie, forgotten her
wishes, disobeyed her, and only pleased yourself—even if at the last
she had forgiven it all! I think that the more entirely she forgave
you, the more you would long to have loved her, and to have shown your
love."
"I did love her," in a whisper.
"You did and do. No need to speak of the love as past. You love her,
and she loves you; only for a while you are parted. But how different
it would be now if you had not loved; if you had been cold, and hard,
and neglectful. Now do you see what I mean? Sissie only learnt in
those last few weeks how much she owed to our dear Lord, how cold and
neglectful she had been to Him. She learnt too how ready He is to
forgive; and she asked Him to forgive her. And I know that she was
heard. Her fear of death was taken away.
"But the more she understood His love, the more she grieved that she
had not served Him earlier. Not really served Him. She had worked hard,
and had tried to do her duty, but she had not done it unto Him! She had
not thought of Him, or loved Him."
"She said—said—the difference—" broke from Lettice again.
"Yes. It is a difference. It must be. Instead of going to a Home, and
a Divine Friend, known and loved for years, it was like going to a
strange land, and a Saviour almost unknown. I do believe that she is
there, in the fair Land of Paradise, with Him, learning to know Him
better. But the going must have been very different from what it would
have been, if she had given her life to Him here. And so she wanted you
and Felix to do otherwise,—not to please only yourselves, and to forget
God, until the end should be near. Very often there is no time, or no
strength, then to think of Him. And even if there were, it is so much
nobler to live for Him."
"Oh, I will, I will. I'll never forget. I will try;" and Lettice burst
into a flood of tears.
It was long before Prue could soothe her; and neither of the two had
much sleep that night. Yet in the morning Lettice seemed brighter,
relieved from a certain mental pressure, and glad to be going because
Sissie had wished it. After long expectation, the reality is sometimes
not so bad as the expectation has been.
A letter had been sent to announce her coming, and a post-card in
reply stated, "Shall be met," the handwriting not that of Dr. Bryant.
On reaching Bristol station, however, no one from Quarrington Cottage
could be found; and the farmer's wife put Lettice into a cab. It was
only about a two miles' drive.
"All this yours! What a pile of rubbish! Where do you expect it to go,
I wonder?" demanded Theodosia Bryant.
She had come out upon the doorstep, tall and good: looking, with
lifted eyebrows of dissatisfaction. A pretty boy peeped inquisitively
in her rear. Lettice descended from the cab, longing for a kind word
of welcome which did not come. Two fingers were tended, and hastily
withdrawn.
"Why on earth couldn't you leave some of it at Reading or Brighton?
Four big boxes, I declare—and a portmanteau—and a carpet-bag. One would
think she meant to take up her abode here for the rest of her life!" A
very audible aside, this, and Lettice's pale cheeks burnt responsively.
"Well, I suppose it can't be helped. Tell the man to take them all up
to Miss Anderson's room," in disdainful accents to the maid. Then to
Lettice, "You may as well come in."
Theodosia swept across the passage into the drawing room, and Lettice
followed—once more a mere awkward child, acutely conscious of her
unwelcome. No Dr. Bryant appeared. Theodosia descended into an
easy-chair, motioning Lettice to another which was not easy; and Keith
cast askance glances at the newcomer, standing by his mother's side.
"My husband is away for a few nights," Theodosia remarked carelessly.
"He may come back to-morrow. It is uncertain. I could not send the
pony-carriage, after all. Keith and I wanted it in another direction.
But, of course, you could easily manage."
"There were plenty of cabs," Lettice said, with some difficulty.
Theodosia's cold manner was in painful contrast with all the love and
petting which she had had at the Farm: and the journey, though not
long, had tried her considerably. She had eaten nothing since early
morning, and she felt unnerved and shaken. Theodosia surveyed her
critically.
"I thought they said you were well again. Why did they not keep you a
little longer? Now, Keith, you are rumpling my collar. Hands off, my
sweet. Let me see—how old are you?—" to Lettice.
"She grown-up, Mamsie," pronounced Keith.
"I'm sixteen, next month."
"I should have taken you for thirteen. Have you ever seen Dr. Bryant?"
"No, never."
Theodosia yawned in an obtrusive manner. "Well, I suppose you have
lunched."
"I had sandwiches with me." It was not necessary to state that she had
been unable to eat them.
"Nearly half-past three now. We have tea at about five. You will like
to go upstairs, and unpack some of your things. And there is the cabman
to be paid. Keith, love, you'll show Miss Anderson the way, won't you?"
"Up to the garrets, Mamsie?"
Theodosia frowned slightly. "Nonsense, darling. To the top spare
bedroom. You don't call that a garret, I hope. Go, like a little dear.
Mamsie is tired."
"And it's such an awful long way up," said Keith.
"Long! Rubbish, you dear little goosie. You should see the stairs in a
Town house."
Keith marched out of the room, and Lettice followed, stumbling over a
chair on her way, and eliciting thereby an impatient murmur from Mrs.
Bryant. Lettice paused in the hall to pay the cabman, emptying her
purse in the act, and then pulled herself wearily upstairs—mounting
two short flights to the first floor, then a steep and narrow flight
to the garret-floor. Not an "awful long way" as compared with London
staircases, certainly, but long at that moment to Lettice's sensations.
The room, which Theodosia in her husband's absence had decided upon as
"good enough for that child," was small and low, with slanting roof and
window of limited capacity. A square of worn drugget covered the centre
of the floor: the plain deal furniture was scanty; the window boasted
no curtains; the four big boxes were piled together, two upon two: and
lesser packages lay about.
[Illustration: Mamsie don't like me to call it a garret, but it is.]
"Mamsie don't like me to call it a garret, but it is," said Keith, with
an air of superior knowledge.
"I don't think there is any harm in a garret," Lettice answered calmly.
"Don't you? Mamsie said you would. She said you'd grumble, and if you
did, she'd teach you not . . . Are you ill?" pursued the child, gazing
hard. "You haven't got a pretty red in your cheeks, like Mamsie. I'm
glad that other ill lady didn't come, 'cause she wouldn't have let me
make a noise. And Mamsie is glad too. She cried, and didn't want her.
And she said this room would do for you!"
"Yes, of course." Lettice was keenly conscious of the imitative
contempt in the shrill little voice, and yet more keenly conscious of
the slight to Sissie.
"Mamsie doesn't like ill people: nor I don't. Are you ill?"
"No."
"Will you play with me? I'll like you, if you will. I want somebody
to run races. Susanna is too old, and Bella can't, and Mamsie gets a
stitch. Have you got a stitch? Will you have a nice big race?"
"By-and-by I will, Keith. Not just now."