THE VALENTINES AGAIN.
DR. BRYANT made a hasty movement. "What do you mean? Where did you find
the note?"
"You are not likely to guess."
"Guess! Nonsense. This is no matter for jesting. Where was it?" A
vague alarm had seized him, and he was in danger of losing his usual
equanimity.
"I advised you once to have Lettice's room searched, and you would not
hear me. So I took the matter into my own hands, and on the whole I
consider that I have managed it pretty cleverly. If she had had the
least notion beforehand—well, naturally, the note might have found its
way elsewhere." The keen and angry sting of conscience, following upon
these words, found no expression in Theodosia's face. "I took care not
to speak of the keys till the last moment. What her object was I cannot
so much as guess—keeping it hidden away all this time. No good to
herself or anybody."
"Lettice!" The word was rather a groan than an utterance.
"Of course. Who else could you suspect? Deep down in her biggest box."
Lettice's cheeks were bright still with happy relief, on behalf of her
brother. "But that is nonsense!—I mean, that must be a mistake," she
cried impulsively. "I never took the bank-note."
"O yes, you will deny it now, of course! Now that we have full proof!"
"Who found it?" the Doctor asked.
"Susanna and I."
"I do not see what Susanna had to do with Lettice's boxes."
"I dare say not; but I do. I asked for the keys on purpose, because I
had my suspicions, and I meant to institute a regular search. You saw
how Lettice behaved, and how she begged me to leave the largest box
alone. It didn't need much cleverness to suppose why. I took good care
to have Susanna present: and it was she, not I, who unpacked that box,
while I stood by. She didn't understand, of course; and she made a
fuss, but I insisted. If there had been no other reason, I would have
had all those musty old clothes turned out for an airing, and I told
her so. Near the bottom—at least, about half-way down—Susanna picked
out a crumpled paper; and she was, dropping it on the floor, when I
said: 'What is that?' I shall not forget her face, when she opened it,
and found the bank-note in her hand. I thought she would have fainted."
"But I can't imagine how it ever came into that box. I never put it
there," urged Lettice.
Dr. Bryant turned slightly from her; his face grey. Lettice went to his
side.
"Uncle, won't you believe me? You know I would not do such a thing.
Indeed, indeed, I never touched the bank-note. How could I, after all
your kindness?" She grew crimson, then paled and trembled. "Somebody
must have slipped it into my box on purpose."
"A box always kept locked," commented Theodosia.
"Yes: I do keep it locked; but I might have forgotten, or have left my
keys about. I don't know in the least how the thing has happened; only
I am not to blame—really and truly."
Dr. Bryant gave her a look, and remained silent.
"If I had known where the note was, should I have given up the keys
this morning?"
"You had no choice," Theodosia said promptly. "You did your very best
to escape giving them up."
Dr. Bryant could not but recall Lettice's marked reluctance, as well as
her after uneasiness, and the avowed cause which to him had seemed so
inadequate. He had felt a measure of perplexity all day on the subject;
and these recollections now told heavily against her.
"Of course," continued Theodosia, "you hoped that I should not come
upon the note. A bit of paper crumpled up is easily overlooked. If I
had not been on the look-out, we should not have noticed it."
Lettice glanced despairingly at Dr. Bryant. The ground seemed to be
slipping from under her feet.
"Then this is why you have refused to speak!" he said slowly. "This—the
reason! And I could trust you throughout—"
"Won't you trust me still?" besought Lettice. The temptation to tell
him all was strong; but after her unfounded suspicions of Felix, it
seemed too cruel to avow them to another, as a means of defending
herself. Such a confession, tantamount almost to a declaration that
he was not trustworthy, might never be forgotten. Lettice restrained
the words which almost broke from her lips, and repeated passionately:
"Won't you trust me? Won't you believe me? I had a reason for not
speaking; but indeed this is the truth. I don't know how it got into my
box. Indeed, I am innocent! Won't you believe me?"
Dr. Bryant made no answer whatever. He rose, quitted the room, and was
heard to enter his study, shutting the door heavily. Lettice knew that
at last, he condemned her as guilty.
The Valentines had been nearly a month in London. Only in the
outskirts; but the veriest fringe of the great City's garment is apt to
seem overpowering to country people. After the "dear old Farm," where
every patch of grass was familiar, and every bush was a friend, where
cottages could be counted on the fingers, and people might be numbered
by tens, the ceaseless rivers of human beings, the never-ending roll
of human noise, and the uncountable blocks of human dwellings, had a
tendency to weigh upon the spirits.
Perhaps Mr. Valentine felt this weight most severely. He was a thorough
old yeoman, absolutely at home among the clods of a ploughed field,
utterly lost among bricks and mortar. Not only had he lived in the
country all his life, but love of rural quiet was inherited by him
through a long line of yeomen forefathers; and dislike of crowds was
ingrain. His gentle old wife grieved over the change, and was tried by
the narrow limits of her new sphere; but she had no strong inherited
proclivities either way, and her girlhood had been mainly spent in
town. The brick and paving-stones, the hum of sound, seemed natural
enough, only wearying from want of use. She grew at times pale and
tired, but her placid face had not the forlorn look which fixed itself
permanently in the lines of her husband's features.
Nan fretted and fumed, hated town restrictions, and above all things
kicked fiercely against the wearing of gloves every time she set foot
outside the front door. It was "like being in a prison," she wrathfully
declared. But she had no support in the grumbling line from Wallace,
who fell into the new manner of life with unlooked-for readiness,
seeming to like it as well as the old. "Takes to London like a duck to
water," grunted his father discontentedly.
And Prudence! Everybody had expected Prue to suffer under the
uprooting. Quiet Prue, retiring Prue, the good home-daughter Prue, how
should it be otherwise with her? A good deal of pity was wasted upon
Prue; and people found themselves a little out of their reckonings.
Prue showed no sign of suffering, beyond a reasonable amount of
sorrow in bidding farewell to the old home. When they reached London
she was not depressed; nay, she showed herself the most alert of the
whole party, the quickest to spy out pleasant points in their novel
surroundings, the readiest to discover fresh interests, the most eager
to settle down and change "house" into "home."
"London seems to suit you, my girl, anyway," the old father sometimes
observed, not quite approvingly. Prue had not for years worn so young
and cheery a look. When it was remarked upon, she smiled, and even
blushed a little.
Mrs. Valentine understood, and she alone. Others of the family knew
that, on finding this new home, they had dropped—oddly, because without
intention—into the Parish of a former acquaintance; and some of them
remarked on the "curiousness" of so doing.
"Rev. Robert Kelly—yes, I remember him. Not a bad fellow. Dare say we
shall like his sermons," Mr. Valentine said carelessly.
But Bertha was far-away, nursing a long and severe "case," while Nan
and Wallace barely recollected the name of "Kelly." It had not been a
prominent factor in their lives. Only Mrs. Valentine divined what this
resuscitation of an old friendship might mean to her eldest daughter.
She was sorry for it. Prue had seemed uniformly happy of late years.
Would it mean the former trouble over again—Prue caring too much,
hoping too much, only to be disappointed.
"Such a pity," mused the old lady. "And Prue remembers him still, I
know. She has never really forgotten."
If it did not mean disappointment to Prue, it might mean to Mrs.
Valentine the loss of her daughter. That she could bear, for her
child's sake; so that only it might mean Prue's happiness. Yet what if,
for Prue, the best thing which could happen should be the denial of
earthly happiness? Or what if that which seemed to promise happiness
should mean life-long sorrow?
"After all, we're but blind creatures," murmured Mrs. Valentine,
mechanically knitting, while she glanced backwards upon certain
passages in her own early life. "If I had been allowed to choose for
myself, I should have had a very different story. Not a happy one,
either. I couldn't guess then. And now I'm wanting to choose again for
Prue . . . Perhaps not to choose altogether—only to wish we had not
come to live just here . . . Yet if that is the very thing God meant
for her? How do I know? We didn't come—knowing—and perhaps He has just
guided us to this very spot."
They had not yet seen Mr. Kelly. On the day before their arrival, he
had gone off for his annual holiday; and the exact date of his expected
return was not known to them. Still, it would be soon; and Prue must
see him. Mr. Valentine had left his card at the Vicarage, and Mr. Kelly
would therefore know where they were. "And then—" sighed Mrs. Valentine
almost audibly. "And then—"
She looked up, to find Prue near at hand; Prue, with a faint colour in
her cheeks, a faint indefinable glow and brightness over her sometimes
too impassive face. It was like a dim imprisoned light, shining outward
from within. "If he were to see Prue now, he would think her as taking
as ever," Mrs. Valentine thought. She, like Prue, always believed that
Mr. Kelly had cared, and that some hindrance had come between.
"What was that sigh for, mother?"
"Did I sigh, my dear?"
Prue sat down, unoccupied; a rare state of things. Her thoughts were
too busy to allow the hands to work.
"No letter yet from Lettice," she said, becoming aware of a solicitous
glance. Lettice had not been the subject of her cogitations.
"How long is it since you heard?"
"One has to reckon. A good many weeks. Nothing since the little scrawl
written the morning after her birthday. I fancied the tone of it
unhappy, and I wrote again soon; but she has never answered."
"I wish we could get hold of the child."
"I wish it too. She refuses invitations so persistently—yet I always
feel sure that she does wish to see us again. There is some obstacle
in the way. Not money, of course; for Dr. Bryant is well off; but
something. Is it Mrs. Bryant?"
"Lettice never seems very fond of her. But after all we don't know
much."
Then a pause.
"Mother, Mr. Kelly has come home. We shall hear him preach next
Sunday." Prue had never spoken more composedly.
"He used to preach well."
"I have heard no sermons equal to his."
Mrs. Valentine could have sighed again.
"How do you know he has come back?"
"I saw him—going in at the front door. He did not see me."
"You are sure you would know him again?"
Prue's face exhibited a gleam of amusement. "Know him!" she repeated.
"It is a good many years since you both met. He must be changed."
"No, not much. But perhaps I am! If he saw me—I don't know whether he
looked, but if he did, he passed me by. Am I so altered?"
Mrs. Valentine could have said "No!" with all her heart, but she
hesitated. Would it be true?
"I suppose there must always be a difference between twenty-one and
thirty," she said. "Not in my eyes, but to outsiders."
Disappointment stole over Prue's face. "Yes, of course," she said in
flat tones. "But still—"
"He would see the old look still. Anybody must."
"If he takes the trouble to think about the matter."
"He has fresh interests now. I hardly expect the old intimacy to
revive—do you? We must expect to be merely one family among hundreds."
Prue could have given vent to a rebellious protest. She said: "Only he
has known us, and he has not known them."
Then the door opened to admit a caller, taking them both by surprise.
For it was none other than Mr. Kelly.
Mrs. Valentine welcomed him, after her kind and placid manner, casting
not a glance towards her daughter; and Prue held back somewhat coldly.
Light and colour had fled from her countenance. How should it be
otherwise, when she was utterly in the dark as to his sensations? She
was conscious of a quick heart-beating, quick enough to shorten her
breath; but all tokens of agitation were veiled; and her "How do you
do?" was emotionless.
Beforehand she had not looked for this prosaic type of meeting. The
prominent idea in her mind had been her own pleasure in seeing him.
Not till the actual moment arrived did the reverse side of the picture
present itself, the possibility that he might experience no particular
pleasure; and not till then did she see the imperative need to hide
aught which she might feel, lest he should not feel the same. Prue
acted her part so well that Mr. Kelly had no part to act. Ere merely
had to greet her as he had greeted hundreds in his new Parish; and
if a slight touch of disappointment came to him also, it was mingled
with something like relief. He had been so long a bachelor for Prue's
sake, that he was not now at all certain whether, even for Prue's sake,
he wished to be anything else; and yet he was glad to see that Prue
remained distinctively herself. More gone off in looks, perhaps, than
he had expected; but still unlike any other woman of his acquaintance.
At least Prue would never be ordinary.
"So many years since we saw you last," Mrs. Valentine was saying.
"Yes, indeed." He was glad to turn from Prue, and to put on one side
awakening recollections. "When I found your husband's card, I felt
sure that it must be yourselves. It was an agreeable surprise. Are you
spending a summer in Town?"
"We have come to live here. Our old home is given up."
"Not permanently?"
"It is sold."
Mr. Kelly asked a good many questions, and expressed due sympathy. His
manner with the elderly lady was kind and gentle, all that it should
have been; but Prue's still reticence baffled him, and aroused a
growing desire to draw her into the conversation. He wanted to see if
she were indeed the old Prue, or whether she were greatly altered: and
Prue would not be drawn in, without more obvious efforts than Mr. Kelly
cared to make. Not fully knowing his own mind, he had to be cautious.
The girl, Prue, had been, in his estimation, everything that a girl of
twenty-one ought to be; but the woman, Prue, at thirty years old, might
be another individual. He had not gauged her yet. The fact that the
Valentines would live in his Parish was an unexpected complication. "I
shall be thrown a good deal with them," he thought: not sure whether to
congratulate himself: and when the question arose, "Why not?" He made
no attempt to answer it.
Lettice Anderson's name presently came up. "Yes, I have seen much of
her brother off and on," Mr. Kelly said, responding to Mrs. Valentine.
"He often came in to supper with me on Sunday evenings: and I have been
able to get him into a good house of business in London. Did you not
know that he was in this neighbourhood? He is likely to make his way."
"You think him clever?" Prue's still tones asked.
"Capable, certainly. He has in him the making of a good man of
business, and I should expect him to be a successful one. I am not—not
thoroughly satisfied—however—" This was said slowly.
"Lettice wrote lately, just after they met, and I thought she seemed
disappointed."
"He is very difficult to know. In fact, I do not know him, often as
we meet. Any more than I knew his sister—Miss Anderson, I mean: not
little Lettice. But there is a serious difference between the two. Miss
Anderson lived a self-devoted life for others. Felix lives—I fear—a
self-devoted life, for himself. I hardly know how else to express my
meaning. It sounds like a contradiction in terms—but you understand?
There is a growing absorption in his work, which seems to wall off all
external claims. He cares for nothing but how he may advance towards
success."
"Is the wish for success wrong?"
"Intrinsically, no. It is needful, to some extent. No man is likely
to get on well in life, who has not set success before him as a goal.
No doubt we are meant to make the best use possible of our gifts. The
desire is perfectly lawful in its right place, as a main object, but
not as the sole object of existence. Do you not see?"
Mr. Kelly looked appealingly towards Prue, who had been noting with
pleasure his greater decision and readiness of speech. The old
self-distrust and shyness had markedly lessened. "If the entire
horizon of his life is filled with that one object, no room remains
for a higher aim to come in. He is absorbed in his work for its own
sake—and that is the sum of the matter. I wish one could bring some
other element into his life—something outside and beyond mere personal
success."
"There is Lettice," Prue said.
"True: but they rarely meet. Perhaps in London his circle may widen.
He has been in a narrowing groove at Brighton. The young fellow
works manfully: and he is self-controlled—almost extraordinarily
so. The resoluteness of his life would be admirable, if only the
expenditure of will were for some loftier object—including this,
but not this exclusively. I would not do away with the good I find
in him, but certainly I would add to it." Mr. Kelly did not often
flow so easily in conversation. He was subject commonly to fits of
silence, or of shy hesitation: but Prue's intent serious face drew him
on: and unconsciously, he enjoyed having her for a listener. She was
appreciative.
"Will you ask Mr. Anderson to come and see us, if he is within reach?"
asked Mrs. Valentine.
"I have found him lodgings in this Parish—not wishing to lose sight
of him. Thanks: nothing could be better. I shall hope much from Miss
Valentine's influence . . . I have seen this self-absorption closing in
upon an older man, but rarely in one so young. There is danger of its
becoming a positive ossification."
A little more in the same strain, and Mr. Kelly took his leave.
Prue closed the door, and came back to her mother.
"That explains—partly—the grieved tone of Lettice's last letter," she
said.
"Mr. Kelly is very good to interest himself in Felix Anderson."
"He has the power. It is part of his work. It would not be right not—"
said Prue dreamily. "Mr. Kelly looks older."
"Naturally."
"Yes, quite naturally. He will be very busy here. I do not suppose we
shall see much of him."
"No—perhaps not."
"You have dropped a stitch, mother. Let me see."
She worked steadily at the knitting for some minutes, then gave it
back, remarking, "Now I have put things right."
"Prue—"
"Yes."
"I have been thinking so much to-day about my own past. About when I
was a girl."
Prue was a little surprised. Mrs. Valentine seldom talked voluntarily
of herself.
"One sees the meaning of things—looking back. There was a time when I
would have given all I possessed for a different life from this that I
have had."
"Don't most people go through that—more or less?"
"A good many. It was before I knew your father. Somebody else—somebody
who seemed to care for me—for a time I thought he did care. And when I
found my mistake—found he had deceived me—I thought my life was over.
Nothing seemed left . . . And yet my life really was hardly begun:
and that which I wanted would not have been happiness, but misery.
Nothing short of misery. He could be winning enough when he chose, but
there was no strength of principle. His wife has had a bitter story
since, poor thing—and it might have been mine, if I could have had my
choice . . . The real happiness came later: and I have often thanked
God that He guided me away from those quicksands, and denied me my
heart's wish. Though at the time it seemed almost more than I could
bear. Nobody ever had a better or truer husband than I in your dear
father."
Perhaps Mrs. Valentine was unreasonable to expect that her past
experience should serve for Prue. There was a slight pause, and then—
"Some men one can be sure would not act so."
"Yes: but one cannot be sure what other kind of unhappiness might be
bound up in the thing one wants. God knows best."
"I never doubt that . . . One doesn't question His knowing best . . .
The difficulty is not to wish for the thing He denies—even if it is bad
for one. Or to believe that it can be bad."
"If we could see a little way on, I suppose we should be willing
always, Prue. I mean if we could see beyond the border of this life.
If we could know how much each single step here tells upon our future
there . . . I suppose we should choose for ourselves the very things
that God does choose for us now, because they would so clearly be the
best . . . Perhaps that is clearer to me than to you, because I am
nearer the border."
"Mother—you may not be. Who knows? . . . Do you think we should
choose—not to have the things we want most—even if we could see—"
"If we could see the evil they would bring? Yes, surely we have sense
enough for that."
"But if God gives the thing we long for, cannot He keep it from being
an evil? He has all power. Is there ever a 'must be' of that kind?"
"In one sense—no. But He will not work needless miracles, dear. Why
should He? If you drink a cup of poison, however unconsciously, you
will die. God could save your life, of course, but in most cases the
poison does its work."
Prue smiled faintly. The "thing" which she had in her mind seemed so
far removed from any poisonous tendencies.
"Sometimes, not having what we want means only waiting for it—till
God's time. And that time may not be in this world . . . I often love
to think how wonderfully all our longings will be satisfied, and all
our emptinesses will be filled, there—in the life to come."
Prue made no answer in words. She bent slowly forward, and was folded
in her mother's a long close tender embrace. One or two tears might
have dropped unseen: but when she sat up, she was smiling. "That always
does me good," she said.