A DISCOVERY.
LETTICE, away in her western home, had no such comfort as Prue; no
loving mother-arms to enfold her; no gentle mother-lips to kiss away
heart-ache. Those who have never known this sweetest of all earthly
comforts cannot realise the emptiness of not having it; and the grief
of conscious loss is not theirs. But Lettice did sorely feel the need
of some such love and sympathy.
She had comfort: the highest comfort: a love deeper than even
mother-love; a tenderness exceeding even mother-tenderness; because the
love and the tenderness were Divine. But while Divine comfort is in a
sense all-sufficing, it cannot do away with the human need for human
sympathy.
The Son of God Himself, as Man of Sorrows, though He had angels to
comfort Him, yet experienced this lonely human craving; and so much
the more fully He can understand its strength in the "children of
earth." True, we never need stand where He stood; because, while He was
absolutely cut off from all human sympathy, while there was literally
"none" among His brother-men to comfort Him. We may have always, in
unlimited measure, the most Human sympathy of Christ,—our Lord and
Master, yet truly our Brother-Man! But the full realisation of this
fact is not to many so vouchsafed, as that it shall entirely take the
place of need for other human sympathy.
And Lettice was very lonely. Dr. Bryant's confidence in her had broken
down under the stress of Theodosia's discovery. He now looked upon
Lettice as guilty of the theft.
It was to him a bitter grief: scarcely less, if indeed not more,
than to Lettice. For she had the full consciousness of innocence to
bear her through; while he had the pain of believing himself utterly
disappointed in her.
Once only he spoke on the subject; and that was on the morning after
their excursion. Gravely and sadly, he avowed his fixed belief,
refusing to hear denial.
"No other view of the matter is possible," he said. "Assertions are
useless, unsupported by the slightest evidence. What have you to bring
forward in your defence? Absolutely nothing. All these weeks you have
not even attempted to clear yourself, and I have endeavoured to trust
you in the face of all appearances; but this is too much. The very fact
that you will speak now, when you would not before, seems to me an
additional argument against you. Your past silence I do not understand,
coupled with your present denial; but whatever your motives may be, or
may have been, I can feel no doubt whatever as to your guilt."
"I did not take it," she said, her lips hardly able to frame the words.
"Hush! No more useless denials. At least you can abstain from further
untruth. For the present, the matter must be dropped. When you can
resolve to confess freely what you have done, then I will hear. Then
you shall have my forgiveness, though you can never again be to me what
you have been, because the old trust is no longer possible. But until
then, you are under my displeasure."
A sob broke from her. "Oh, it is hard! How can I confess what I have
not done?"
"Hush!" he said again. "No more of that. The proofs are unhappily
too strong." He paused, looking into her agitated face. "It will be
better and happier for us both, when you speak out . . . This is a
great sorrow to me, greater than you imagine. At least, you can make
it possible that I should forgive, that I should take you to my heart
again! . . . Wait a moment; do not speak hastily. Think of the sin
against God, and of your need that He should forgive. If you do not
confess the truth to me, how can you look for His pardon? You will
have a hard fight to get back to your old standing, after so grievous
a fall. The first step must be full confession. That is absolutely
essential. Why put it off? Why not speak out now—at once—looking on me
as your father?"
"I do—oh, I do!" sobbed Lettice. "You have been—"
"Then treat me as a child should treat her father. Tell me freely,
openly, how you came to take such a step, and what led up to it."
Lettice mastered her distress with a great effort, and lifted to his,
her straightforward glance. "But, uncle, I did not take the bank-note.
I do not know in the least how it came to be in my box."
Dr. Bryant turned, and coldly left the room, without another word.
From that day, a barrier of separation divided the two, robbing their
intercourse of all its old sweetness.
Theodosia was at last satisfied. At last she had obtained her wish.
And perhaps in all England no more unhappy woman could be found. Such
gratification of the heart's desire carries its own vengeance with it.
As wilful injurer to injured, she naturally showed small kindness
to Lettice; and but for Keith, the girl would indeed have been
solitary. His affection never varied; yet now and then the boy seemed
constrained, and not fully himself; while before his mother he was more
careful than ever to hide his feeling for Lettice.
Once upon a time Susanna, the parlour-maid, an old and tried servant,
of weighty influence in the household, would have been entirely on
Lettice's side; but Susanna, like Dr. Bryant, could not stand against
the discovery of the bank-note in Lettice's box. The collapse of her
trust was severe in proportion to its previous sturdiness. "Anything
short of that!" she avowed to her confidante the cook, "and I'd have
held out still. But bank-notes can't walk, nor open locked boxes; and
that box, I know for certain, wasn't never left unlocked. I don't say
Miss Lettice wasn't drove to it by some as ought to know better. She's
had a deal to bear; but there's no manner of excuse for dishonesty. I
wouldn't have believed, short of seeing; and when I did see, why, you
might have knocked me down with a straw. And I'm sure, to see master's
face, it just goes to my heart. He did think a lot of Miss Lettice, and
no mistake. But, anyway, Miss Lettice took the money; more's the pity;
and I'll never be certain of nobody again in this world!" Susanna ruled
the kitchen view of matters.
Lettice had not now the consolation, which had been hers earlier, of
enduring for the sake of Felix. Her present suffering bore no fruit of
advantage for another; at least, so far as she could see. It may be
that all undeserved pain, borne meekly for Christ's sake, does bring
advantage to others: but this we cannot yet perceive.
Still, the trouble was permitted,—was the Divine Will for her. So much
she could know with unquestioning knowledge. She had to bear, because
the burden was laid upon her; she had to bear bravely, because by so
doing she would please God. If she had done the thing she was accused
of, she would have been required as a simple duty to take the blame
patiently, deserving no praise whatever for the same. But "this" quiet
endurance of hers, because it was endurance of unmerited blame, did
deserve praise, being "acceptable with God." Lettice found consolation
in the thought.
Others might look coldly and sternly; but her Heavenly Father saw,
understood, and was pleased. He would set all right in time. He would
clear away the cloud. He would establish her as blameless. Whether
sooner or later, whether in this life or the next, the truth would be
made manifest. Till then she would not murmur, but would put her trust
in Him.
She wrote no word to Felix of what had happened, beyond the early
intimation, which he had never so much as answered. Doubtless to him,
absorbed as he was in his own work and prospects, it had seemed an
unimportant matter. To tell him now how matters stood would only be to
arouse useless anger in him. He could not clear her; and she resolved
to wait until they should meet, and she could explain all by word
of mouth. He did not very often enquire by post if she were well or
happy; but he sent full particulars of his move to London, and of his
new surroundings. Lettice wrote cheerily in answer, showing no sign of
depression.
A letter came from Prue one day. "Your brother has been to call," she
said, "and we hope to see something of him. He is in lodgings near
us. Will not this tempt you to pay us a visit? Our present home is
small—very different from the Farm—but you will not mind, when Felix
is at hand. For his sake come if you can. A sister may have power over
a brother; and it seems to me that he has been too long alone, with no
softening home influence. You will forgive me for saying this! I am not
finding fault with your brother; only I cannot help seeing that there
is a need. Will you not give us a month or six weeks? Would Dr. and
Mrs. Bryant object? Your last letter was very sad—so sad that it gave
me a heart-ache. Has anything been troubling you very much of late?"
"If I could go! Oh, if I could!" murmured Lettice, a wild desire
taking possession of her for kind looks and loving voices, in place
of the cold indifference which now fenced her in. She realised all at
once how long it was since she had seen the Valentines, how complete
the separation had been between herself and Felix for years. Was it
right that she should stay away, if by any means she could get to
her brother? What if the character of Felix should undergo permanent
deterioration, for lack of the sisterly softening which she might have
power to supply?
"And there is no real reason! I am of no use here. I may just as well
be there!" she uttered half aloud. "Prue does love—does care; and I
think Felix does too, down below—if I could only get at him. If I only
might go!"
"Go where?" demanded Theodosia by her side. Lettice had not known any
one to be present; and she turned a stirred face to Mrs. Bryant.
"I did not mean to be heard. Prue Valentine asks me again to pay them a
visit."
"Where are the Valentines?"
"In London. Close to Felix. I should see him too."
"Well, go, if you like. Why not?"
"You always said I could not. I thought it would be the same now."
"Go, and welcome." Theodosia spoke shortly.
"But the journey. I have no money."
Theodosia sneered.
"Perhaps you meant to spend part of the twenty pounds in that way."
Lettice neither flushed nor whitened. She had reached a stage beyond
such demonstrations. Her clear eyes looked into Mrs. Bryant's.
"I did not take the note," she said. "I do not know how it came into my
box."
"Perhaps you think I put it there." Theodosia had so accustomed herself
to the present state of things, and to continuous deceit, that she
could say such words without a change of colour, almost without a
twinge of conscience. Conscience, habitually unresponded to, becomes in
time deadened, and loses its power to speak. Theodosia had set before
herself a certain end, and that end she was in a fair way to attain.
She had not indeed yet found out what were the terms of her husband's
will, but she had brought about estrangement between him and Lettice;
and for the continuance of their estrangement, nothing perhaps could be
better than Lettice's absence. This dawned upon her in a flash; and it
was at once subversive of her previous policy with regard to Lettice's
friends.
There was a pause, Lettice looking earnestly at Theodosia; and the
change of colour, which had not come with Theodosia's own utterance,
began under the pressure of that quiet gaze. Lettice noticed, but
attached little meaning to the flush.
"No," she said slowly, "I should not like to accuse you or anybody of
such a thing, unless I were very very sure. It is too terrible, and I
know too well how hard it is to bear being falsely accused. Sometimes I
almost think you know a little more than you will allow,—I mean, that
you could perhaps help to clear me, if you would . . . But I do not
know how. It is only a feeling . . . Why do you dislike me so? I have
tried hard to please you ever since I came here; and it seems of no
use."
"If not you—then your brother—"
"You do not suspect him, really," Lettice answered, with the calmness
borne of long endurance. "If you did, you would have spoken long ago.
Felix was not once in my room after lunch that day; so how could he
possibly have put the note into my box? But talking does no good. I
cannot clear myself yet. The truth will come out some day. Do you wish
me to go to the Valentines?"
"Yes."
"For a month or six weeks?"
"For as long as you like."
"When?"
"Whenever you please."
"I will ask Dr. Bryant."
"There's no need to trouble him. I shall explain, of course."
"He would have wanted me to speak—"
"Before he knew you to be a—" The lying word stuck in Theodosia's
throat.
"I shall speak to him all the same," Lettice answered resolutely.
"If he wished me not to go—but I think he will be willing. To-day is
Monday. I can ask if the Valentines would like to have me on Friday or
Saturday."
Theodosia merely said, "Very well," and walked away.
Dr. Bryant entering immediately after, Lettice put the question before
him.
"You wish to go?" he said, in the measured voice which had become
habitual.
"If you do not mind, uncle?"
"No. It is quite as well. Fix your own plans; and I will supply the
money."
She looked wistfully into his face, longing for a touch of the old
kindness. "If I thought you wanted me, I would rather—rather stay here."
No softening came into the set features. "I could wish it on one
condition," he said. "That condition you know. When you resolve to
speak out, in plain confession—but until then intercourse is only pain
to me. It is better that you should be away."
Then as usual, he broke the conversation off, and Lettice had to
struggle with rebellious tears. The change in him was hardest of all
to bear. Keith, now nearly ten years old, but small, pretty, and
childish, not to say babyish, for his years, made no small outcry
over the prospect of losing his playfellow. She never minded trouble,
and was always unselfishly ready for an active game, when it suited
him; and perhaps nobody had realised, Lettice least of all, what a
difference her absence would make in the boy's life. Keith himself saw
it instantly; and from that moment he flung aside his usual caution,
lavishing kisses and caresses upon her, in a manner which brought
chronic blackness to the brow of Theodosia.
For years, Theodosia had done her best to spoil the child. It never so
much as occurred to her that, in later years, she would herself pay the
penalty for this mode of training. She could not endure to part with
him, even for his good; and she sent him daily to a small second-rate
school, a mile off, instead of consenting to place him, as Dr. Bryant
wished, at a first-class Bristol school. At home, she gave in to all
his fancies, seldom enforcing obedience.
Theodosia counted that she and she alone had main possession of her
boy's heart; but suddenly now she found that, despite all her efforts,
his chief delight was in Lettice. In his indignant distress at the
thought of losing his companion, he made no secret of the fact, but
openly declared that "nobody" could be what Lettice was. Even while
afraid of consequences, Lettice could not but find pleasure in the
avowal.
She spent some serious thought over her answer to Prue. If the
Valentines knew of the cloud under which she lay, would they wish to
have her still? True, the accusation was undeserved, and she could
scarcely be bound to tell of it: but she chose the safe side, and a
touching little letter went off:—
"I shall love to come, if you will have me," she wrote. "I could get
away on Friday or Saturday, if that is not too soon for you. But I
must explain first about what has happened lately. They believe here
that I have done such a dreadful thing. I am accused of stealing a £20
bank-note. Mrs. Bryant left the note lying about, and it disappeared,
and after some time it was found locked up in one of my boxes.
"I did not do it, Prue dear: and I cannot imagine how the note came
there. Only, there it was: and even my dear uncle now thinks that I
took it. I have been very unhappy. Will you believe me? Or had I better
stay away? I do long for your kind faces: only I could not bear to come
among you all, and to have you doubt my word, or think that I could do
such a thing. So please tell me what to do.
"I have not mentioned this to Felix, because I knew how much it would
worry him."
Prue's answer, by return of post, was decisive.
"Come, and you shall have a welcome," she wrote. "Come on Friday,
by all means. I have told my mother of your trouble, and no one else.
We believe you perfectly. Poor child how you must have been tried!"
Lettice had hardly finished reading the letter, when Keith rushed in.
He had been kept at home for a slight toothache, which vanished so soon
as school was given up: and he wanted Lettice in the playroom.
"Come! Come along," he cried, clinging round her waist, regardless of
the fact that Theodosia was present. Lettice tried in vain to loosen
his grasp. "It's no good; you can't make me," he cried. "I mean to have
all I can of you—every day—and there's lots of things for you to do.
You don't mean to be long away, do you? I wish you wouldn't! When is it
to be?"
"On Friday."
"Oh!" The boy gave vent to a kind of indignant howl.
"Pray stop that noise!" ordered Theodosia. "You make yourself quite
ridiculous. The sooner Lettice leaves, the better, if you behave in
this absurd way."
"It isn't absurd. I wouldn't care if everybody else went. I only want
Lettice. She's never cross."
"Hush," whispered Lettice.
"But I don't mean to hush: because I hate to lose you. You are the
dearest old thing: and I shall be all alone. Come along to the
playroom, do! I want you to myself."
Lettice yielded, in fear of worse to follow: and she really did not
dare to look towards Theodosia. The boy dragged her upstairs, clinging
all the way to her waist and when the playroom was reached, he flung
himself upon her afresh with boisterous affection.
"I say; what makes you do such a stupid thing? Why can't you stay at
home?"
"Why should I? Nobody wants me."
"Yes, they do. I want you. I want you a great deal more than anybody
else. I want you always, and always. Lettice! I say, you're not crying?"
Lettice dashed aside a bright drop, trying to smile.
"Haven't I some reason to cry?"
"Why? What do you mean? Because Mamsie doesn't like you?" Theodosia
encouraged him to keep up still the old baby-term, when strangers were
not present.
"Because I am accused of doing a thing I did not do; and no one will
believe me."
"But I do. You didn't take the money."
"No, I didn't, of course. Only I can't prove it. Do you believe me,
really, truly?" She longed to feel that at least one in the house, even
a child, put faith in her still: longed it the more, because she was
going away.
Keith laughed. "Why, I know you didn't," he said.
"How do you know?"
"Why, I know! I know quite well. Mamsie won't let me say you didn't:
but I do say it, all the same. She can't guess why I'm sure. But I know
it, all the same. I know it perfectly."
Lettice stooped to kiss him, and was subjected to a bear's hug.
"I shall tell her I'm quite sure, if she says anything again. I'll
declare you didn't do it."
"No good, I am afraid. Keith, you'll be a little sorry to have me gone?
Just a little! Nobody else minds."
"Father does."
"No; not now. He would have minded—once."
"Father minds!" positively. "Mamsie doesn't. And of course I do. I
should just think so. I shall count and count the days till you come
back. How long will you be? More than a month! Oh, I say, that's too
horrid! . . . Lettice, I've a great mind to tell you something! It's
such a shame!—And I don't see why I shouldn't!—Only—you must promise
you won't tell anybody else! Not a single person."
"Why?"
"Oh, because I couldn't tell you, without. And I have nobody else to
say it to. I want to say it to somebody. Promise, won't you—like a dear
old girl!"
She could not withstand the coaxing affectionate manner: and his
complaint of "nobody else to say it to," appealed to her own
loneliness. The pretty boyish face looked up into hers. "Let me tell
you," he entreated. "Do, Lettice. It's so horrid not to have a fellow
to speak to; and I shan't when you're gone. Only you've got to promise
most faithfully that you'll never say it to anybody else—not to
anybody! And more particularly, not to let Mamsie know."
"I'll do anything you like, so long as it isn't wrong—Yes, I promise
not to repeat it to any one, without your leave, unless it is something
that I ought to speak out about for somebody else's sake. And then you
must give me leave."
His hand came over her mouth. "But it isn't! It isn't! It won't hurt
anybody, except you."
"Oh, then that does not matter. I can't have much more to bear than I
have had lately. What is it?"
"You promise not to tell?"
"Yes."
"Promise faithfully!"
"So long as it is right."
"Not to tell Mamsie—"
"No."
"Or anybody?"
"Not unless you let me."
He glanced at the door apprehensively, pressed nearer, and whispered—
"Mamsie put that bank-note into your box herself!"