AGED NINETEEN.
"NINETEEN years old to-day! Will Felix remember?" asked Lettice.
She put the question to herself, since nobody was at hand to
hear—naturally obtaining no answer. It was betimes in the morning of
an early spring day—scarcely 8 A.M., and the air was sharp, through
a wealth of sunshine. Beads of dew sent forth prismatic rays from
grass-blades, and hung upon linked festoons of spider-silk. Lettice
stood upon the wet grass, careless of damp.
Three years had drawn her out of a delicate childhood into a healthy
and well-balanced girlhood. She was of medium height: the face still
small beneath a pale brow; but cheeks and lips were nicely tinged, and
the slim figure displayed a wholesome rounded plumpness. Nothing bony
or sallow might be seen in her: only tokens of a well-proportioned body
and mind in right conditions. Despite all the snubs and worries of her
"Cottage" life, she had an eminently placid look, a look of habitual
content, better than high spirits. She had managed to possess herself
of the "little wayside flower," happiness, which so often fades from
the grasp of those who have fullest opportunity for its cultivation.
"More than three years since I came here. Have they been long or
short?" questioned Lettice, in the half articulate murmur sometimes
indulged in by solitary people. After the fashion of a monotonous
existence, while days and weeks had often dragged past slowly, years
shrank and narrowed under a backward review. "Will the whole of life
shrivel up into nothing, when we look on it by-and-by?" she queried.
"Or will it open out—broader and fuller—because of the new meanings
in everything? I wonder which! Why should one mind so much the little
frets, with that lying ahead? And yet—one does mind—" as her memory
went to Theodosia. For after all a thorn is a thorn, and while it
pierces the flesh, one cannot reason the pain away.
"Never mind now! I'll have my birthday walk," declared the girl
cheerfully, putting aside unwelcome recollections. "Nothing lasts
always. Some day perhaps I shall have a home with Felix. But that would
mean leaving uncle Bryant! Must everything in life hurt one somewhere?
Well—no need to look forward. Things will come right one way or
another: and isn't the sunshine good now?"
Lettice loved an early ramble in bright weather; and this was almost
her first since wintry mornings. Now and again in summer Dr. Bryant
would be her companion; a treat to them both, which might not often
be ventured on, because of Theodosia's jealousy. Lettice had indeed
half-hoped to see him appear on this particular day: but he did not.
Why should he?
He was famed for forgetting birthdays, unless reminded of them: and
Theodosia would not remind him. Lettice, perhaps, scarcely realised how
warm a corner she occupied in the heart of the elderly man, labouring
under the disappointment and loneliness of one who is mistaken in the
wife of his choice.
Dr. Bryant knew now, with a knowledge which left no loophole for a
mistake, not only that his wife loved his money better than himself,
but—worse still—that her word was not to be depended on.
"He will not remember, of course. But I am sure Felix will write to me,
quite sure," murmured Lettice, as she walked.
She dwelt earnestly on the thought of Felix, weighing his probable
future. Lettice did not love Felix less because she loved Dr. Bryant.
The more one loves, the more one has power to love. He was very near
her heart, even though she received scant show of love from him. She
belonged to him—that was his view of the matter—and he had a right to
her best affection, her supremest interest. But he did not count it
needful to repay her in kind.
He was getting on well, in the ordinary sense of the word; fulfilling
thus far the aim which Cecilia Anderson had set before him in her
life—not that which she had proposed to him in her dying message! He
was giving satisfaction, receiving an increased salary, studying hard
over-hours. Contented he was not, his whole heart being restlessly bent
upon an early escape from the stationer's shop: but if not content with
his position, he was well satisfied with himself. "I shall get on," was
still the key-note of his tune.
There were changes passing over Felix: changes noted by the far-away
watchful sister, whose only means of judging was through the post.
She scrutinised his letters, re-reading them often, with an anxious
endeavour to see "between the lines;" and often she was haunted by a
sense of uneasiness. For these epistles were full to the brim with his
own doings, his own affairs: and he wrote less affectionately than of
old. Less and less room appeared to exist in his mind for aught but the
one absorbing object.
If he might succeed fast enough to please himself, he asked no more.
Earth and Heaven lay outside that desire, and Lettice was a mere
adjunct to it. The passion of Felix Anderson's heart was, more and
more exclusively—"self;" in marked contrast with the nobler passion
of Lettice's heart. "To do Thy will:" "To have my way!" gives briefly
the two aims. Felix lived for self, worked for self, mainly if not
absolutely. Unselfish designs were not yet crushed out in him: but the
crushing process was far advanced.
"And yet I am sure he loves me still—if he loves nobody else," thought
Lettice, reflecting sadly on his not unfrequent assertion that he "made
no friends." "Will he ever come here? If I could but see him again!"
At so early an hour, Lettice hardly expected to meet anybody. She kept
mechanically to the main road, because too much absorbed to choose any
other path: and presently she saw the postman coming. He greeted her
with a "Good-morning, Miss," and held out a letter—only one, and that
not from Felix. Had he really forgotten? The man passed on, and Lettice
stood still to read.
"DEAR LETTICE,—You must have a line to tell of coming changes, which
I think you would be grieved to learn in any other way than from
ourselves.
"My father's long-standing embarrassments are not unknown to you. They
have come to a point lately. Some months ago, he resolved to let or
sell the dear old home, since farming had ceased to bring much profit,
and difficulties were increasing. Sooner than we expected a purchaser
has appeared: not offering the full value, or nearly that,—but still
perhaps it is as good as we ought to hope.
"Unless you should be able to pay us a visit very soon—and you know
how welcome you would be—you may never see the dear Farm again.
"Plans are very uncertain: but Wallace hopes to find some kind of
work in London. We are not without interest there, and he has worked
steadily at his books in the last three years. I think my father and
mother will settle somewhere near London, to make a home for him: and
either Nan or I—if not both of us—must be with them. Bertha will go on
with her nursing.
"It all seems very sad and strange, but perhaps when the changes are
over, things will be less hard to bear. I must not write more to-day.
"Ever your affectionate,
"PRUE VALENTINE."
Lettice shed a few quiet tears; and she could not have analysed how
much of the feeling which caused them was due to sympathy with the
Valentines' troubles, how much to her own distress at the silence of
Felix. The sympathy was real, but the other pain was the sharper. He
had never before entirely missed over a birthday of hers. She retraced
her steps slowly, and presently in her rear came the sound of a quick
tread overtaking hers.
A young man paused by her side, to ask, "Pray, is this the way to
Quarrington Cottage?"
"Felix!" Even before she could turn to look at him, the voice was
unmistakable.
"You don't say it's Lettice! Hallo! This time in the morning! You are
an early bird! Well, how do you do?"
He evidently expected no particular demonstration of feeling, and his
careless kiss administered a chill. Still there was brotherly interest
in his survey of her.
"It is such a surprise. Why did you not write? How did you manage to
come?"
"No use in writing. I say, what have you been crying about?"
"Oh, it doesn't matter. I was only—silly."
"Like the little goose you always were."
"I was disappointed—not getting any letter from you. It's my birthday."
"Yes. Many happy returns. I've meant to come for some time, and this
was as good a day as any. Not to sleep—no, not I. I shall go back by an
evening train. I've half a mind not to see the Bryants at all, if I—I
mean, now I have seen you. What's the good?"
"Felix, you must. He is so kind to me. You must thank him. If he were
my own father, he could not do more."
"And she?"
"I don't think Mrs. Bryant cares for me much. She is different—but of
course she doesn't mean to be unkind."
"If I come, I shall not stay. Mind that. When have you got to be in?
Nine o'clock? And how far-off? We can take it easily. You've grown any
amount—and you're not such a bad-looking girl either. Quite tolerable."
"Felix, you'll be nice to uncle Bryant." She laid her hand pleadingly
on his arm. "Please do."
"Why shouldn't I? Oh, you mean what I used to say. A boy's fancy. It is
a good thing you are able to be here."
"When will you have a home for me?"
"Can't say, I'm sure. It's slow work. However, I have news to tell. I
am going to London."
"To leave Brighton?"
"Yes. It is Mr. Kelly's doing. He has a living there, and he is
getting me into a first-rate house of business. No, not a stationer's.
Tea-trade. Not a retail shop, but a wholesale house of business. If I
do well, there's no reason why I shouldn't make my fortune some day.
Everybody says I am capital in that line. I mean to stick to it, and
lay by, and sooner or later I may become a partner. At least I hope so.
I don't see why not. I'll be a successful man in time. Life would not
be worth living without."
Lettice thought of the dying message of Cecilia. Had he no recollection
of those burning words?
"Is it always the best thing for one to be successful?" she asked.
"Of course. What a question."
"I don't mean that one ought not to try to get on. But that alone
doesn't seem worth living for."
"If it isn't, I don't know what is."
"What Sissie said—" very low.
"Oh, of course. I say, what sort of a person is Mrs. Bryant? Something
of a termagant?"
"O no—I don't think—Oh, she is only a little quick-tempered. You must
not mind if she does not seem particularly pleased to see you. Dr.
Bryant will be delighted."
"Then you don't call him uncle?"
"Very often. Always when we are alone together, but Mrs. Bryant doesn't
much like it."
"I say, Lettice," abruptly, "you have an allowance?"
"Twenty pounds a year."
"What do you do with it all?"
"I get my own clothes."
"Well, of course you have to look neat—but in this out-of-the-way
place—why, anything would do to wear. You used to talk of laying by
part."
"Yes, for you," gravely. "But it is harder than I thought. Mrs. Bryant
likes me to get some things—a good many things—besides clothes. And I
never tell my uncle."
"You ought. It is his money, and she has no right to put upon you. How
much have you now?"
"My last quarter—five pounds. Are you wanting money for anything?"
"Well—I shouldn't mind! There's my journey here and back, and I have
to get a lot of new things going to London. I don't mean to disturb a
penny of what is laid by. I would rather go shabby. No end to that, if
once one begins."
"I only wish I had more," sighed Lettice, trying not to look in the
face what she really felt.
When they reached the cottage, Keith alone was downstairs, and he
stared with round eyes at the newcomer. Lettice left them to make
acquaintance, and ran upstairs for her purse. How to get on without her
quarter's allowance, during the next three months, was a mystery, since
Mrs. Bryant was in the habit of making frequent calls upon it; but she
would not refuse Felix. She always had meant to send him the first sum
she could spare. Only, that he could ask her for it, not even inquiring
what her needs might be, was an unlooked-for blow. She dared not trust
herself to think, and hastened back to put the little purse into his
hands.
"It is all I have, Felix—just five pounds. I wish I had twenty pounds
to give you!"
"Thanks," Felix said, not without a touch of shame; and Mrs. Bryant
swept in, wearing a handsome morning-dress, and a by no means cordial
face. Dr. Bryant followed; and Keith, now a fine boy of nine, pranced
after, exclaiming, "That man says he's Lettice's brother."
"Anderson at last! I am glad to see you!" Dr. Bryant shook warmly
the young man's hand, while Theodosia made no attempt to conceal her
annoyance. The greeting she gave was of the coldest description.
For a while, no allusion was made to Lettice's birthday. But when
breakfast was begun, Dr. Bryant said, "Hallo! I'm forgetting,"
apologised and vanished. He brought a small parcel, laid it before the
girl, and wished her duly, "Many happy returns."
Theodosia's face darkened. He had not recollected her birthday, six
weeks' earlier, till reminded. It darkened still more when Lettice,
with sparkling eyes, uncovered a little old case, and found within a
handsome bracelet of gold and emeralds.
"O uncle! You don't mean this for me."
"It belonged once to Cecilia's mother. I gave it to her, and when she
died, her husband sent it back to me. A rather singular thing to do! If
any one has a right to it now, you have."
"I never saw anything more beautiful. Felix, look! It is perfect."
"Worth—?" queried Felix, with an involuntary reference to £ s. d. after
the habit of his mind.
"It is worth uncle's love and kindness," Lettice said softly, with an
eloquent look.
"I wonder when you expect her to wear it!" Theodosia spoke sharply.
"Opportunities will offer," said the Doctor.
Theodosia curled her lip.
Felix had brought no present. Instead of baying a birthday-gift, he had
begged one, and with all her willingness, Lettice was keenly alive to
the distinction.
Yet on the whole the day passed happily. No persuasions could induce
Felix to stay over the night, and indeed, say what the Doctor and
Lettice might, Theodosia's manner was not encouraging: but he remained
till a late hour in the afternoon. Lettice took him about the place,
talked to him of her interests, listened to all he had to say, and did
to some extent thaw the crust of self-absorption fast forming over his
being. Only, would it remain thawed, away from the softening influence?
They saw little of Theodosia, until afternoon tea. She gave her husband
a bad quarter of an hour, on the score of the bracelet, and he endured
the same with man-like philosophy. What was the use of minding? He had
done what he considered to be right, and Theodosia was unreasonably
angry. Sooner or later she would come round; and meanwhile he had his
study. To that haven, he retired; and into it, for an hour, he invited
the brother and sister after lunch, making a pleasant impression on the
young man, despite early prejudices.
"Really, he is not half bad," declared Felix, on emerging from the
elderly man's "den."
"Maurice."
"Yes, my dear."
"I must have a cheque for eighteen pounds, if you please."
Dr. Bryant lifted his eyebrows.
"It's no use your looking like that. I told you yesterday."
"Fifteen, I think you said you might require."
"Well, I find it must be eighteen. My London dressmaker's bill has come
to more than I expected."
"I hope the cows and swallows admire results," murmured the Doctor.
"I don't wish to be a scarecrow, if there is no one to see, in this
horrible place." Theodosia was offended still about the bracelet, and
when offended, she was always tart.
"Certainly not," assented Dr. Bryant. He opened his purse, took out a
£20 Bank of England note, and placed it in her hand. "That will cover
your necessities," he said.
"Thanks. I shall manage now."
The two extra pounds were perhaps meant as a peace-offering, and
Theodosia was grateful for them; yet she could not recover her
equilibrium. Each time that her thoughts recurred to the exquisite
bracelet, "flung away on that stupid girl," as she phrased it, her
anger flamed up afresh—partly against her husband, and much more
against Lettice. Evidently Lettice had an increasing hold upon Dr.
Bryant's affections, and who could say what this might lead to, in the
matter of will-making?
Theodosia had given in to jealous and bitter moods, until they had
complete mastery over her. Worse, she had given way to habits of
not entire truth, not perfect straightforwardness, till there too
her powers of resistance were weak. As she sat in the drawing room,
discontentedly fingering the bank-note, and weighing her grievances, a
sudden thought came, a suggestion of evil, sharp and clear as a flash
of lightning—or rather a string of suggestions, in quick succession,
flash after flash.
First, a distinct longing to do something to separate those two—her
husband and Lettice. Then, a recollection of the words which she had
overheard Lettice utter that morning, from outside the breakfast
room, "It is all I have . . . just five pounds. I wish I had twenty
pounds to give you!" Thirdly—the idea, was Felix in debt? And had he
appealed to Lettice for help? Fourthly—suppose such a bank-note to be
left carelessly in the way of Lettice, was it certain that the girl's
principles could be strong enough to withstand sudden temptation? Might
she not be led to possess herself of it, for the sake of Felix? She was
very young, and perhaps she would not fully realise what the deed meant.
Theodosia recoiled from her own evil thoughts. To wish to lead that
young creature into sin! It was too terrible. Deliberately to plan
temptation, in the hope that it might prove irresistible! Theodosia
shuddered at herself for the desire, yet she did not cast it away,
and slay it. She let herself look at it steadily, and the sense of
repulsion lessened. A thought of the bracelet came up anew. Then
Theodosia grew harder, and when she viewed the suggestion once more, it
seemed not quite so black, but only natural under the circumstances.
At the worst, she was merely proposing to use a slight test, the kind
of test that comes to everybody sooner or later. She was not going to
tempt or injure Lettice. If she chose to leave the bank-note lying
outside her desk, instead of locking it up at once, whose business was
that? All the world might see it there; Lettice and Felix included,
of course. If it remained untouched, she would have proved the girl's
inviolable honesty. So much the better for Lettice.
When the two came in, they found Theodosia in a mood to all appearance
friendly. Lettice, being used to these sudden variations, thought
little of the change. She knew how slight was the dependence to be
placed on Theodosia's happiest frames.
They talked of where the brother and sister had been, discussing the
neighbourhood. Theodosia presently called Lettice out of the room, on
some slight pretext, leaving Felix alone, with the bank-note on her
desk, half-covered by papers, yet distinctly visible. The figure, £20,
might be seen from half across the room.
Then she brought Lettice back, begged her to wind a skein of silk, and
led Felix into the conservatory, making talk about the plants for a
good ten minutes. After which, at the sound of the incoming tea-tray,
she sauntered to her desk, with carefully averted eyes, that she might
not see if the note were or were not still there, and tossed all loose
papers into her desk, turning the key upon them securely. It was a key
which she always carried on her watch-chain.
Nor did she again shudder at herself for what she had done. As one
grows used to the dim light of a darkened room, it seems to become a
little less dark. Theodosia's eyesight was becoming accustomed to the
blackness of that evil desire which had taken possession of her.