FOUND! AND WHERE!
AS days went on, however, Theodosia was not satisfied. She had had
her will: but results did not shape themselves according to her
expectations. The money was still lost—so far as Dr. Bryant was
concerned—and suspicion pointed its finger direct at Lettice. Moreover,
Lettice still declined to refute that suspicion by denial. Yet the
separation between her husband and Lettice, for which Theodosia craved,
had not come about. Though the Doctor called himself "displeased"
with Lettice, it was a calm and affectionate displeasure, devoid of
heat; rather indeed an acknowledgment of what he ought to feel, than
a showing of what he really felt. He did not believe that Lettice
had helped herself to the money: he only thought she had not treated
him with becoming openness: and he said so to his wife, plainly. No
arguments shook his opinion.
Unpaid bills had to be paid, and the Doctor supplied his wife with a
£20 cheque uncomplainingly. He would not even tell her how careless she
had been—perhaps because it was useless, perhaps because he disliked to
rouse her self-assertive annoyance. To suggest that Theodosia had done
anything not entirely wise and right, meant always a wordy outburst on
her part. In hopes of finding the lost bank-note, he instituted various
inquiries, but with no result.
Vain, too, was his effort to shield Lettice from general suspicion.
Theodosia took that matter into her own hands, and the Doctor had very
limited power over his wife's tongue. If he had but known it, the one
real power which he did possess was through Keith's interests, and
the future disposition of his money. The one thing which would have
restrained Theodosia, would have been the knowledge that aught she said
or did might harm her boy's prospects. The crooked path upon which she
had entered was for Keith's sake—at least so she counted it to be.
Jealousy and ill-temper had also no small hand in the matter. Theodosia
knew, and could not forgive, her boy's love for Lettice.
True, the two did not indulge before her in affectionate
demonstrations. Keith had sense enough to see that such demonstrations
would bring trouble: and as a rule, he abstained, reserving bear-like
hugs for Theodosia's absence. But love is not easily hidden for any
length of time. Keith might put on spoilt-child airs, and speak with
a certain imperiousness to Lettice; yet the look in his eyes when he
turned to her was unmistakable.
And even if Theodosia had doubted, the servants and villagers were
not loath to supply her with the unwelcome information. "Master Keith
do care for Miss Lettice and no wonder!" "He's that devoted to her!"
"Well, I says he just worships the ground she treads on!"
These and other like remarks could not be ignored, and they were as
gall and worm-wood to the heart of Theodosia. She never quoted them,
and she persistently treated Lettice as a person of no account in the
household; but deep down in her own mind she knew that Keith loved
Lettice with a love which he did not give to herself. For the one was
the affection of relationship only; the other was the love which grows
and is sustained by what the loved one intrinsically is. Where both
co-exist, the tie becomes very strong indeed; but the first without the
second is apt to prove more of a trial than a joy in life, if not to
snap altogether.
Theodosia knew, and smarted under the knowledge, that this higher love
of her boy's heart was given to Lettice, not to herself; yet she made
no effort to become different, that so she might win it. She only
scorned and hated Lettice for having what she had not.
In fear of what her husband might do, Theodosia had effectually
silenced Keith's prattle as to the lost bank-note. The boy had his own
thoughts, doubtless; thoughts which caused no diminution of his love
for Lettice. But before her and Dr. Bryant, he did not again allude to
the subject during many weeks.
To lie under suspicion could not but mean sharp suffering to Lettice's
sensitive nature; and the suffering did not lessen with time. True,
Keith was silent; and the servants in the house scouted as utterly
false Mrs. Bryant's accusation; so in this quarter Lettice had no
needless pain to bear. But among acquaintances, and even in the
village, she could not but be aware that the thing was known. Askance
glances and unpleasant whispers were only too patent. Everybody had
heard the tale.
Yet these things, disagreeable as they were, she could better endure
than Theodosia's sneers. To have it perpetually thrown in her teeth,
that she had done what her whole being loathed, and to be unable
to deny the same, for fear of diverting suspicion upon Felix, was
hard—especially hard, because the agony of shame was real for the
possibility that he might be guilty. There lay the sting. Had she
been sure of his innocence, she could have held up her head, and gone
forward cheerily. That which made her droop and grow thin, through
succeeding weeks, was not the pricking of Theodosia's gibes alone,
though they did prick sharply. It was rather the dread, ever-present,
that Felix might actually have done the deed of which she was accused.
Only she did not know. There was no certainty. Had there been, the
question must have arisen, whether she were right to hide the truth
from Dr. Bryant. So long as uncertainty existed, her main care was to
avert from Felix a suspicion which might be totally undeserved.
Writing to Felix, she spoke of what had occurred, mentioning that the
bank-note had been left loose on the desk that afternoon, and asking
whether he had observed it. A reply was long in coming; and when it
came it contained no allusion to what she had said. The silence might
arise either from guilt, or from indifference. Felix seldom answered
piece-meal her items of news; still, in this case it perhaps had a
serious signification.
She could not at all times feel confident that Dr. Bryant believed in
her innocence. There was a slight change in his manner—too slight to
be apparent to Theodosia's superficial observation: decided enough to
mean sorrow to Lettice,—a slight loss of the old confiding affection.
It seemed to Lettice that he watched her soberly, and waited anxiously,
holding the expression of his love in leash, till matters should become
more clear. The rift was a small one: and as weeks went by it narrowed
rather than widened; but it brought unhappiness to Lettice, even while
to Theodosia it brought disappointment.
"I thought you meant to take Lettice for a day's excursion somewhere,"
said Theodosia.
The remark excited considerable surprise. Theodosia to wish Lettice a
pleasure!
"I did speak of such a plan," the Doctor responded moderately.
"I wish you would fix the day. I shall be glad to have you both
out-of-the-way for a few hours. For house-cleaning purposes."
Another shock of surprise! Theodosia had always declared on such
occasions that Lettice could not be spared.
"Would you like to go, Lettice?" The girl's face glowed. "Well, I am
willing enough. Where shall it be? To the top of West Hill? I don't
mind if we name to-morrow. The sooner the better this fine weather."
Luncheon was over, and Dr. Bryant arose, to find Lettice at his elbow.
"Ought I?" she whispered.
"Ought you—what?"
"Have such a treat, just now—when you are not pleased with me?"
The Doctor looked steadily into her eyes.
"If I believed that you really had done it, child, I should demur.
But—I do not. Breakfast at 8.30, sharp!"
"I shall have your room thoroughly turned out, Lettice. It is a good
opportunity," said Theodosia, in an unwontedly agreeable manner.
Lettice was perplexed again: since she saw no need for such an
opportunity. The room could have been "turned out" any day, without
the slightest difficulty. She supposed, however, that in some manner
Theodosia meant kindness.
A faultless morning dawned, and the Doctor was early astir, eager as
a boy for his treat. He and Lettice were seldom permitted a whole day
together, unchecked: and whether he were or were not still judicially
"displeased" with the girl, her companionship gave him satisfying
pleasure. By nine o'clock breakfast was over, and the Doctor stood upon
the front doorstep, basket in hand, with the day's provisions. Lettice
ran downstairs, and Theodosia emerged from the breakfast room.
"I suppose I am not to expect you back until dinner-time," she said.
"Hardly! Such a day as this! Come, Lettice. Ready?"
"One moment, Lettice. I want to have all your boxes moved, and one or
two are too heavy. Are your keys upstairs?—In case we should have to
lift out a few things to lighten them?"
"Tuts, my dear!" remonstrated Dr. Bryant, and a flood of colour rushed
into Lettice's face. The Doctor looked at her curiously.
"Are the keys upstairs?" repeated Theodosia.
"I don't think the boxes are so very heavy," faltered Lettice.
"Much too heavy for the maids to drag about," said Theodosia
decisively. "Quick—where are the keys?"
"Come, child," said the Doctor.
"The keys, Lettice!"
"Just inside my desk—and the desk is not locked," murmured Lettice.
"But—" with an effort which brought another rush of colour—"please,
please, don't move any of the things that belonged to Sissie."
"Why not?"
Lettice could not have told why. Tears filled her eyes.
"Which box are they in?"
"The big one—underneath another. Please may that wait till I am at
home?"
"I'll see—if it is not too heavy."
Which of course it would be, seeing that it was the heaviest. Lettice
followed Dr. Bryant slowly, her pleasure marred for at least an hour.
The idea of Theodosia turning over and handling with cold critical
fingers all those sacred relics of the loved past, was painfully
repugnant to Lettice. She almost felt at first as if she must give up
the excursion, and stay at home to protect her treasures. The thought
of Theodosia's sneering laugh, and careless toss to one side of dresses
worn by Sissie, knick-knacks valued by Sissie, books treasured by
Sissie, sent a positive shudder through the girl. Many of these things
she would naturally have had out in her room for use, but she had
always been restrained by the dread of Theodosia's chilling remarks and
questions. Theodosia now had stolen a march upon her.
Another recollection had helped to hinder her ready acquiescence. A
half-written letter to Felix lay In her desk, speaking of Theodosia in
terms which, however true and moderately expressed, and by no means
unkind, were not intended for Theodosia's eyes. In searching for the
keys Theodosia could hardly fail to come upon the letter. This would
have been a matter of indifference, if Lettice could have felt sure
that Theodosia was honourably incapable of reading another person's
letter: but no such confidence was possible. She knew too well that
Theodosia was not honourable. The small wrong of the letter, however,
went down and sank into nothing before the real pain of having her
cherished treasures at Theodosia's mercy.
"Eh, Lettice! What is the matter?" asked the Doctor.
Lettice looked up silently. She had not heard the question, till it was
twice repeated.
"Something is disturbing you, child."
"Oh, nothing—I mean nothing really of consequence," said Lettice
cheerfully. "It was only—about my room."
"What about it?"
"Mrs. Bryant wanted to be able to open my boxes. She said they would
be too heavy to move. I don't know why—they never have been." Lettice
usually made it her rule never to complain to the Doctor of his wife:
but resentment was for once too strong to be mastered. "I shouldn't
care with any of them—except one."
"Do you keep your boxes in your bedroom?"
"Yes. I don't mind. Mrs. Bryant said there was not room anywhere else
in the house. And I shouldn't like that one to go—the biggest."
"Why?"
"Sissie's things are all in it—" very low.
"Theodosia will not hurt them, child." He could not enter into the
girl's feelings.
Lettice shivered, and said, "No."
"Then what are you afraid of?"
"I am not—afraid."
"Not of anything? I don't understand." Dr. Bryant was regarding her
attentively.
"It isn't being afraid. She will not hurt anything—of course. It is
only—I don't think I can explain. I don't like the things I love so
much—to be—to be handled—by—"
"By one whom you do not love! Is that it?"
"Oh, I did not mean—I do want to love Mrs. Bryant."
"I would not give way to that feeling, Lettice."
"I do try not," she murmured.
"And to-day you will be wise to banish all recollection of the box. It
cannot be helped now,—and we cannot go back, to tell my wife that you
do not wish her to touch those things. It would be—rather an invidious
thing to do . . . After all, the feeling is mere sentiment, and not a
very healthy kind of sentiment . . . Could you not make a better use
of your sister's possessions, than to keep them locked up,—useless to
yourself and to everybody?"
"I don't know. I didn't think of that before." Tears came fast.
"Well, give a little thought to the question when you get home. Now you
have to forget it, and to make the most of this perfect day. See what a
blaze of sunshine!"
Lettice made a resolute effort to obey, smiled, chatted, and seemed
to forget her trouble. But the Doctor did not forget. A transient
wonder more than once crossed his mind—had Lettice told him all? Was
it possible that some other cause existed for this odd reluctance
to let Theodosia open her box? The reluctance seemed "odd" to the
Doctor, since such a feeling would not have been natural to himself in
her place. He could not now feel absolutely certain of her truth and
transparency, as once he could; and if he continued to trust her in
the main, it was resolute trusting in the face of doubts. Such doubts
assailed him to-day, once and again. Lettice looked up wonderingly, at
the sound of a sigh, in the midst of their cheerful talk. She would
have liked to ask the reason, but did not: and the Doctor vouchsafed
none.
"You are late!" declared Theodosia, as the two came in, close upon
seven o'clock. "I expected you an hour ago. Dinner has had to be put
off, and of course everything will be spoilt."
"I suppose we are both rather tired. It took us longer coming home than
I reckoned."
"People always manage to knock themselves up in these ridiculous
excursions." Theodosia forgot for the moment that she was herself the
originator of the excursion in question; and nobody reminded her of the
fact. She stood looking at them, a restless exultant gleam in her eyes.
"I suppose you know that it is past dinner-time. The gong will sound
directly."
"Five minutes to seven. And you said just now that you had put off
dinner."
"I told them to wait if you were not back. Of course they have seen you
come in."
"Well, we have a little superfluous mud and dust to get rid of, before
we can sit down. Get ready, child, as fast as you can."
Lettice went to her room, in sudden dread of what she might find there.
She had managed pretty well, during the day, to banish recollections of
Theodosia and the keys; but the pent-up wave of foreboding broke bounds
now, and rushed through her mind, to the exclusion of all else.
Two boxes, the heavier ones, stood open; and that which contained her
chief treasures was more than half emptied. Cecilia's dresses lay about
on bed and chairs; Cecilia's little treasures were tossed together on
the floor. What Theodosia's object could have been in leaving things
thus, Lettice was unable to conjecture.
A torrent of recollections took possession of her, at the sight of an
old brown merino, which Sissie had worn incessantly the last autumn,
going to and from her lessons . . . Those dear old days! Gone for ever!
Sissie's face came back with an extraordinary vividness: and Lettice
knelt by the bed, kissing passionately the old merino which Sissie's
hand had touched. She forgot dinner: forgot the need for haste: forgot
her own muddied condition. There was no room in her mind for such
thoughts.
"But oh, dear, dear Sissie, I would not have you back, if I could," she
murmured. "So much happier there! It would be selfish! And it isn't so
very long to wait. I shall see you again—by-and-by. O dear Sissie!"
She kissed again the brown dress: then folded and repacked it
reverently, putting in the other dresses and all the little
knick-knacks, with loving tender fingers. "Dear Sissie!" she whispered
again and again, and she strove to forget Theodosia.
Then the gong sounded: and Lettice knew herself to be inevitably late;
blamed herself for it too, since Theodosia would be offended. Make
haste as she might, muddy boots could not be in one moment unlaced, or
disordered hair made straight, or evening dress put on.
"Have they begun?" she asked, meeting Susanna in the hall as she
descended. Susanna was the parlour-maid, a middle-aged and most
reliable person, of long-standing in the household. It was she who
had from the first taken a resolute lead in declaring "Miss Lettice"
innocent of Mrs. Bryant's charge; and she had always shown a marked
affection for her master's adopted niece. This evening she looked
strange and pale, and she scarcely answered when Lettice spoke, keeping
her eyes averted. Lettice noted the unusual manner, and was perplexed;
but no time could be spared for questions.
"You certainly are not remarkable for speed in dressing," Theodosia
remarked. "The soup is gone. I suppose you do not wish for any."
"No, thank you . . . I ought to have been in time, but—"
"If you would like some soup it is not too late," the Doctor said.
"Oh, I would rather not, uncle. I ought to have been down,—only I
waited to put away some of my things."
The restless gleam appeared again in Theodosia's eyes. Some absorbing
thought seemed to hold her in possession: and she talked in an odd
broken way, forgetting to finish her own sentences, and plunging into
the remarks of others. Dr. Bryant scanned her steadily once or twice:
and Lettice was conscious of an unusual atmosphere.
"Where is Keith?" asked Dr. Bryant, when dessert appeared.
"I told him to go to bed, and not to come in to-night. I thought we
might be late."
"Ten minutes past the usual time. I do not think Keith would have been
the worse."
"It doesn't matter. I gave him some fruit—instead. And I wanted—I had
something to say—"
Nobody asked her what it was. The other two simply waited. Susanna was
gone; and Dr. Bryant peeled an orange for Lettice. Theodosia's colour
deepened, and she played with a bunch of raisins, pulling it slowly to
pieces.
"I have something to tell you," she said again, breaking silence.
"Well?" responded the Doctor.
"I have found the lost bank-note." Theodosia tossed a crumpled bit of
paper across the length of the table, towards her husband.
With a visible sharp movement of surprise, Dr. Bryant leant forward to
pick it up.
Lettice sprang to her feet.
"The bank-note! Found!" she cried. "Oh, I am so glad! Oh, I am glad!"
Theodosia sneered—a wordless but distinct sneer. Dr. Bryant glanced
from the one to the other.
"You have stumbled upon it at last! Not in your desk surely?"
Theodosia's eyes glittered. "No! No; not in my desk."
She took another bunch of raisins, and broke them from the stalk, with
nervous haste, as if unable to keep still.
Lettice sat down, glowing with pure heartfelt delight; for this
discovery entirely exonerated her brother. "Poor Felix! How could I
ever have thought such a thing?" she asked herself; and then she came
to a rapid resolve not to let any one know what she had imagined—not
even Dr. Bryant. This, at least, was in her power, by way of reparation
for the wrong she had done to him. "I must have been crazy! Of course
he never did, never would, never could! Of course not! Nobody must ever
even guess that I had such a fancy. It might make people think that he
really could do that sort of thing, if they knew I had suspected it—I,
his own sister! I ought to have understood him better! Poor Felix! What
a shame it has been!" Then she woke up to hear Theodosia speaking, with
a repetition of former words—
"No: not in my desk. Do you wish to know where it was?"
"What does that matter, so found?" cried Lettice joyously. "So long as
the wrong person cannot be blamed."
"Not much fear of that—now!" declared Theodosia hardily, gazing past
Lettice. "I should say that it mattered a good deal—to the person in
whose box it was hidden."