A NEW HOME.
KEITH stood with big blue eyes fixed upon Lettice's face, as she leant
against the foot of the bed.
"Why not now?" he wanted to know. "'Cause you're tired? And you've got
to unpack all that lot of boxes?"
"Some, not all."
"And then you'll have a jolly race with me, and ever so many games?"
"Perhaps—" was the utmost that Lettice could force herself to say. She
had never felt more out of tune for boisterous fun. Keith pranced off,
banging the door, and she remained where he left her, drooping in a
dead blank of depression and loneliness, the like of which she had not
before known. Always she had had her home, her sister and brother, her
right to love and be loved by them: and now she was alone.
Nothing to live for: nobody to care for: no one to live and care for
her: only Felix far-away out of reach, and the kind Valentines scarcely
more accessible. A sense of dreariness weighed her down. It was not so
much active pain as dull pressure—the harder to be resisted. Her head
throbbed with dull responsiveness: and a wave of temptation to despair
swept over her.
What hope, what interest in life remained? A cup of tea might
have brought relief to body and mind, but the cup of tea was not
forthcoming: and she of course did not realise, as at such times one
does not, how far the depression was purely physical.
Dropping her hat, Lettice crept to the side of the bed and lay down
upon it—lay flat and still, with closed eyes; for more than an hour,
never stirring a finger.
Nobody came, and in later years, this hour always stood out as one of
the worst and bitterest phases through which she had had to pass. Worse
even than when she had first learned Cecilia's true state; worse than
the morning of Cecilia's death. For then she had had the help of kind
faces and voices around, though they could not touch her sorrow: and
now she was utterly alone. Minutes had never dragged past with such
slowness. If one afternoon were so interminable, what would the whole
of life be? thought the poor girl in her distress.
Past, present, and future were blended into one murky cloud of
darkness. Burning tears crept at intervals through her closed eyelids,
and an occasional sob fought for utterance: but Lettice dared not let
the struggling passion have way. Once to yield would have been to lose
all mastery over herself.
Then through the parched Sahara of her woe came a murmur, breathed
softly like the voice of an organ in the far distance, with familiar
words, which yet she had not particularly remarked—
"When the Lord saw her, HE . . . said unto her, Weep not."
In response, a rain of tears fell; but this time they brought a measure
of relief. As they lessened, she seemed to hear again—
"HE said unto her, Weep not."
"O how can I help it? I am so alone—so alone?"
Yet once more the quiet murmur sounded—
"HE said . . . Weep not."
Lettice sat up, and gazed around with dim eyes.
"But how can I help it? What can I do? If there were any one to care—"
The whisper came in other words, equally familiar, equally unthought of—
"HE CARETH FOR YOU."
Lettice sank back on the pillow; a strange new peace at her heart.
Prue had talked, and Bertha had talked, and their words had dropped on
her dulled spirit, like stones against a wall. But now it seemed as if
the Divine Comforter Himself had come; and with one little shower of
heavenly rain, the arid desert was changed.
An indescribable sense of rest, of being loved and watched over, crept
through her. Consciously and clearly she was no longer alone. With
tears still undried upon her cheeks, she fell asleep, and though the
sleep could hardly have lasted half-an-hour, it seemed to bridge over a
chasm in her existence, to land her in a new world, inwardly as well as
outwardly.
She had never slumbered more profoundly, and when she awoke, the same
calm peace enfolded her. Everything looked different. "Jesus cares for
me! Jesus loves me!" she murmured, clasping her hands. "I'm so glad—oh,
so glad."
Then there was a bang at the door, and Keith bounced in.
"Because it's getting cold,—" reached her ears.
"I don't understand."
"What are you lying down for? That's awfully lazy. Mamsie says, if you
want any tea, you'd better make haste, because it's getting cold. It's
been up ever so long."
"I didn't know the time. I've been asleep."
Lettice rose slowly, feeling still battered and weak, but happy. Pain
of body and pain of mind alike were stilled by that strangely deep
slumber. She was able to smile on the child, as he stared at her with
wondering eyes.
"What makes you—so?" he demanded.
"Makes me how? I don't understand?"
"Mamsie said you was ugly. But I think you're pretty."
Lettice stooped to kiss the boy. "Keith, will you love me?" she asked
softly.
"Will you play with me after tea? Father said I was to be kind to you.
Will you be my horse and let me beat you?"
"Yes, if you won't beat very hard."
"Oh, 'course not—you're a girl, you know. But I'll love you, if you'll
be my horse."
He slid down the balusters, looking up with eyes of approval: and
Lettice came after. A cup of tea was welcome, albeit not too warm.
And as she sat under Theodosia's critical gaze, the thought came
again—"I'm not wanted here. But—'He cares for me.'"
"What are you dreaming about?" asked Theodosia abruptly, noting a
transient smile.
Lettice could not answer the question, and she made no attempt to evade
it.
"Have you been unpacking all this time?"
"She hasn't unpacked one single thing," cried Keith.
"She's been laying down, sound asleep."
"Lying down, you mean; not laying."
"And she's going to play games with me, Mamsie. Lots of games, and run
races. And I'm going to love her, ever so much, 'cause I think she's
pretty."
Theodosia's face darkened. The last thing she desired was that Keith
should care for Lettice. Her own love for the child was of a jealous
and exacting nature.
"Your friends at the Farm seem to have been in great hurry to get rid
of you," she remarked coldly.
"O no, indeed!" Lettice could not let this pass in justice to the
Valentines. "They would have kept me any length of time. Only Felix
thought—and thought—it would not be right."
"I'm sure I wish—" Theodosia's sentence could not have been clearer, if
fully uttered. "Why not 'right,' pray?"
"They are—no relations," faltered Lettice.
"Are we?—" in an undertone.
"I thought—Dr. Bryant—"
"He was related to your sister. Not to you yourself, of course."
"Sissie—my sister—had told me—" Lettice could not finish the sentence:
and Theodosia moved impatiently.
"Do stop crying, pray." Then, in a tone of surprise—"Maurice! To-day!
You said you would not come before to-morrow."
"Have you any objection, my dear?"
Theodosia made no answer. Dr. Bryant kissed her, patted Keith on the
head, then passed on to the chair from which Lettice had risen. She
said nothing, only lifted two brown eyes, wide-open and filled to the
brim with tears. The upward look was singularly sweet and pathetic; and
the inscrutable calm of the doctor's face changed slightly under it. He
took her two little chill hands into his, and bent to kiss her brow,—a
welcome so unexpected, that one or two big tears splashed on his wrist,
despite all her efforts. She was glad that he stood between her and
Theodosia, from whom a slight sound, half laugh, half sneer, could be
heard.
"Miss Anderson is a young lady of sixteen, I believe, Maurice."
"Lettice Anderson is my little girl, and I am her old uncle, or father,
if she will have me, Theodosia." To Lettice, he added softly—"For poor
Cecilia's sake! Her mother was very dear to me."
Lettice clung fast to the kind brown hand. How could she hold back? The
doctor put her into an easy-chair, and sat down by her, watching the
working of the pale face.
"Not grown-up yet, surely?"
"O no, I'm only a little girl still."
"You and I are going to be friends, I see."
Theodosia's brows drew together. She did not wish Dr. Bryant to like
Lettice.
"Have another cup of tea?" asked the unconscious doctor.
Lettice said "Yes:" and then was sorry, as she caught the covert flash
of Theodosia's eyes.
"I have no more in the teapot."
"Easily have some made!" And Dr. Bryant rang the bell.
"For that child! Absurd!"
"I thought 'that child' was a grown-up young lady just now. Be
consistent, my dear . . . Grown-up or no, she is a very tired little
being of some sort. I shall order you off to bed soon, Lettice."
Keith shouted a protest. "O no, father—no—she's going to play with me."
"Hush! Don't make that uproar."
"But, father, she said she would!"
"Not to-day."
"I said I would," Lettice tried to interpose.
"I forbid it for to-day. Keith, if you make any noise, you leave the
room."
Keith was on the verge of a roar: but thinking better of his intention,
he only whimpered. Theodosia withdrew from the tea-table with a
thundery brow, to pity and caress the boy, while Dr. Bryant poured out
the tea for Lettice.
"You have not told me yet, what has brought you home in such a hurry,"
said Theodosia.
"Was there need? I heard from you this morning that Lettice would
arrive to-day."
"Well?" indifferently.
"That was sufficient."
Theodosia's lips formed an "Absurd!" again.
"If I had heard sooner, I could have sent notice of my intentions."
Theodosia was uncomfortably silent. She had kept Lettice's letter
to her husband two days before sending it on: the said letter being
undated. But from Dr. Bryant's manner, she saw that he was not without
suspicion of the fact. This was true: and a passing gleam of surprise
on Lettice's face confirmed his suspicion. He asked no further
questions, however. It was by no means the first time that he had had
reason to fear a lack of straightforwardness in his wife.
For instance, he knew now that a telegram had been sent to tell of
Cecilia's illness and detention at Reading: and he knew, with an almost
certain knowledge, that the said telegram had been delivered into
Theodosia's hands. Only, in face of her assertions, and notwithstanding
the proved truthfulness of the messenger, he generously would not count
it quite certain, and therefore, he said nothing. But his trust in her
could no longer be absolute; and his eyes had become quick to note
discrepancies. To put her to shame before Lettice would, however, have
been the last thing he could desire.
"Lettice is to sleep, I suppose, in the spare room?" he said suddenly.
Theodosia had expected no such question.
"In a spare room—yes, of course," slurring over the tiny word "a."
But Dr. Bryant's ears were sharp. "Over the dining room?"
"That room, for a child! You say yourself she is a child. Of course
not. If it had been for two of them—"
"Where have you put her, Theodosia?"
"Upstairs. The other spare room. Where else should she be?"
Dr. Bryant's recollections of "the other spare room" were hazy. He
walked off without a word, unheeding an eager protest from Lettice.
There was an unpleasant gleam in Theodosia's eyes.
"It is too supremely ridiculous. As if we never were to have a decent
room to offer a visitor. I certainly shall not give in."
Lettice hardly knew what to answer, and Dr. Bryant speedily returned.
"That will not do, my dear," he said.
"I don't see why not. It is the only room I can spare."
"Another has to be spared. I will not have Keith on the first floor,
and Lettice on the second. If you like to send Keith upstairs—"
"My little delicate Keith!" Theodosia nearly choked with wrath.
Dr. Bryant glanced from Keith's rosy cheeks to Lettice's white ones.
"It will not do," he repeated. "I don't insist on the best spare
room. We may need that occasionally, I suppose." This was a reluctant
concession, for he hated visitors. "But one room on that floor it has
to be. Either Keith's, or your little sitting room, or the room next to
it."
"My boudoir! Thanks! I am very much obliged. Keith is not going
upstairs! And I can't spare that other room. I want it in a hundred
ways."
"One of the three it must be. Lettice will sleep in the spare room
until you have made up your mind. Will you give orders to that
effect—or shall I?"
"I have nothing to do with the matter."
Lettice again remonstrated, but in vain. Dr. Bryant rang the bell,
ordered the best spare room to be at once prepared, asked which boxes
would be required for immediate use, and withdrew. He seemed to be
unconscious of Theodosia's white-heat of fury. She held it in till
he was gone: then, regardless of the boy's presence, she turned upon
Lettice with a fierce—"You little—toad!"
Lettice was startled to an upright position. She had a feeling of being
stunned, as with a blow. "But what can I do? How can I help it?" she
asked. "I did not mean to make trouble. I would not have complained."
"Complained! I should think not! What right have you to anything here,
pray? Not even a relation! What are you to any of us? To want the best
spare room! Oh, I understand you, for all your innocent looks. It's
easy to come over my husband: but you won't come over me! I advise you
to be careful, or you will have cause to repent."
"I don't know what you mean! Indeed, I only wish to do what you like,"
pleaded Lettice.
"I dare say! I know how much that is worth! But it won't pay! Sooner or
later my husband will find you out. And mind—if you say one word to him
of this I—Come along, my sweet! Come along with me."
Theodosia swept to the door, and there halted, looking back with
darkened eyes, for the boy had not at once followed, as she expected.
He stood in front of Lettice, scanning her earnestly.
"Mamsie said you was a toad," the small voice uttered, as if in
surprise.
Lettice thought Mrs. Bryant was gone. "Mamsie didn't really mean it,
Keith," she said gently. "It was only—Mamsie was a little vexed."
"Mamsie doesn't like you, but I do, Lettice."
Theodosia's wrath was filled to the brim. She strode back, said
scornfully—"You are mistaken! I do mean it—" snatched the boy's hand,
and pulled him, struggling, from the room.
Lettice sat confounded. She literally did not know what to do or what
to think of this display: since she had never before had to do with an
unrestrainedly bad temper. She dreaded greatly the moment of their next
encounter; but when it came, Theodosia had reverted to her former cold
and careless manner. Lettice found this to be a usual course of events.
Theodosia's outbreaks of ill-humour were frequent, and she seemed to
consider that a return to her ordinary manner was sufficient apology;
if, indeed, she ever counted an apology called for. All the world might
be in the wrong sooner than Theodosia herself: and if she knew what it
was to regret her own words, she would not acknowledge the fact.
Lettice suffered keenly from constant association with a temper of
utter uncertainty. There could be no repose in her intercourse with
Theodosia. However agreeable the mood of the latter might be at any
given moment, nobody could predict that she might not flame into anger
before five minutes were over; and the incessant dread of possible
cyclones weighed upon Lettice like a millstone. She could never be at
ease in Mrs. Bryant's presence.
The manner of her life at Quarrington Cottage was not long in declaring
itself. On second thoughts, Theodosia gave in to her husband's wishes
about the bedroom for Lettice, yielding for that purpose the extra
"useful room," which under Dr. Bryant's superintendence was nicely
prepared and furnished. But she could not forgive Lettice for having
been the innocent cause of this defeat; and she showed a ceaseless
jealousy of Dr. Bryant's kind interest in the girl. Not for her
husband's sake, but for Keith's sake. Theodosia never lost sight of the
fact that some of his money might be diverted from herself and the boy
by this "interloper," as she privately called Lettice.
Lettice saw and felt the jealousy without fathoming the motive which
lay below. Had it not been for that motive, Lettice might perhaps in
time have overcome Theodosia's dislike. Only "perhaps:" for another
hindrance soon arose, in the shape of Keith's growing affection for
Lettice. That Lettice should play with Keith, amuse him, wait upon
him, slave for him, was merely what Theodosia expected, as a matter of
course. But that Keith should give Lettice his little heart in return,
Theodosia did not expect. The one devotion of her heart was for this
boy, and anybody who could win any portion of his love, or who would
stand in the way of his interests, became abhorrent to her. She was a
complete slave to impulse: and Lettice's gentleness failed to conquer.
Dr. Bryant of course knew his wife to be of an "uncertain temper." Had
he discovered the fact before marriage, he would not have married her:
but he did not find it out till afterwards. The friction naturally
deadened his enjoyment of her companionship, and drove him back
into the old recluse habits from which for a time he had emerged;
but because of those habits, and because he could always be content
in solitude, it did not seriously affect his happiness. Sooner or
later she would "come round;" and meanwhile he had his study, and
the study-door had lock and key. He failed to realise the difference
between his position and that of Lettice: failed to see that, where he
might lift his eyebrows and retire, Lettice could only remain where she
was, and endure.
He was careful to secure for the girl all that she might need in
the way of material comfort. At once he began to allow her twenty
pounds yearly for clothes. He superintended to some extent her
course of reading, that education might not cease: and his kindness
was unvarying. A warm affection sprang up between the two. All this
afforded Theodosia fresh food for jealous anger.
During a considerable part of each day, Dr. Bryant was shut up in his
study, oblivious of the outer world: and then Lettice had much to bear.
Far more than the doctor ever dreamed; for while with him she was safe,
and, in consequence, happy. Lettice soon saw that complaints would only
make matters worse, even if she had had any inclination to complain.
But how could she tell Dr. Bryant, in return for all his goodness, that
Mrs. Bryant was not good to her? She could only bear up and bear on
with continuous patience, watching for opportunities to make herself
useful, and avoiding self-defence.
Young as Keith was, the child soon learnt to control his affection for
Lettice in his mother's presence. When alone with Lettice, he would
show boisterous love, clinging and kissing to any extent; but before
Mrs. Bryant, he seldom ventured on such demonstrations. Her jealous
displeasure was only too patent.
Lettice felt this concealment of his real little self to be
disingenuous, therefore harmful; yet she had no power to prevent it.
"Mamsie doesn't like me to love you, but I do love you," the boy often
said; and Lettice was grateful for the love, even while it made her
fear. Despite Keith's care, which at six years old was not likely to be
consistently maintained, Theodosia knew pretty well how things were—too
well for Lettice's comfort.
Her daily life was indeed a course of difficult steering among rocks
and breakers. It would have been yet more difficult, but for the new
joy which had been breathed into it. The more cold and harsh Mrs.
Bryant grew, the more Lettice was driven to prayer. Between Dr. Bryant
and little Keith she had many gleams of sunshine: but her happiest
hours of all were those spent in Church and alone in her own room, when
things unseen became most real, and the passing nature of this life
apparent.
In all that she had to bear, the Divine Master still lived and cared
for her. Gradually the very passion of her heart grew to be an
absorbing love for Him: an intense desire to do and to suffer His will.
This did not mean that doing ceased to be difficult, or suffering to
be pain. It meant only that she could say from her heart, thoroughly
meaning it: "Thy will, not mine."
So passed three years: and through those years Lettice never left
Quarrington Cottage. Invitations came from the Farm; and Lettice could
not go. The journey meant expense, and she knew too well the opposition
which would be aroused in Theodosia if she asked Dr. Bryant's leave. So
for his sake, and not to disturb his quiet, she never spoke of these
invitations, but smothered down her longings, and quietly declined them
all. If her friends counted her neglectful, she could not help it.
Nor did she once see Felix. Twice during the three years, Dr. Bryant
invited him to the Cottage, and each time Felix refused to come—not too
gratefully. Thereafter, for a while, Dr. Bryant let the matter rest.