A CRASH!
LETTICE could not control her start. Every pulse in her body seemed to
leap with the shock. For some seconds she uttered no sound. At first
she dared not let herself speak. She could only sit motionless, holding
back the burning words which crowded to her lips; while the boy stared
at her with half-frightened eyes. Then she said in a muffled voice—
"What makes you think so?"
"I know she did."
"How do you know?"
"I saw her."
"And you never said a word! Never a word!—To clear me!"
"Lettice—I couldn't! How could I?"
She felt the force of the remark. How could he indeed? The marvel
was, not that he had not spoken earlier, but that he had spoken now.
"Yet, have I not a right to be cleared?" Lettice asked of herself, in
a tumult of agitation. "Am I to bear this always—because Keith must
shield her?"
It seemed too hard—too much to expect. "I have promised; but I could
make Keith give way. I could make him!" came next in the rush of
thought.
She saw suddenly a scene in the study—herself confronting Theodosia,
accusing Theodosia to Dr. Bryant, and calling upon Keith as a witness.
It would be no more than Theodosia deserved. Lettice did not shrink
from the pictured scene. Her gentle nature was for once aroused
to a glowing energy of anger. What had she done to bring this on
her? Nothing could be too bad—no punishment could be too severe—for
Theodosia!
Yet she had to forgive! And her pledged word had to be kept. She might
not betray the boy.
"But to go away from home, leaving them all to think this of me, when
one word might set it right!" she cried passionately in her heart,
while outwardly a dumb still figure, only trembling with the shock.
"Must I? Must I? May I not do something?—Say something? Oh, it is hard
to bear!"
"You don't mind so very much, do you, Lettice? What makes your hand
shake? Are you cold?"
"Keith, I want you to tell me all about it—exactly what you saw . . . I
am not vexed with you . . . Only I must hear the whole."
He nestled close to her, and spoke in a subdued undertone.
"It was the day Mr. Anderson came, you know. Father and you had gone
off to the station with him; and I was hiding in your room for fun. I
meant to jump out on you when you got back, and to give you a fright.
It was dark, and I slipped under the sofa, and lay down there. And
presently Mamsie came in . . . She had a candle, and she looked so
queer and pale. And she had a scrap of paper, or something, in one
hand—at least, I think she had. Lettice, what does make you shake so,
all over?"
"Never mind. I can't help it. Go on."
"Well, she tried to open your boxes, one after another; and they were
locked. So she hunted about in your table drawer; and presently she
found a bunch of keys somewhere. I couldn't see, but I heard them
rattle. And she lifted off the topmost one of the two big boxes—she
always says she can't lift things generally, you know, so I wondered
she was able! And she found the right key for the bottom box, after a
lot of trouble; and she unlocked it, and put her hand in. I saw her
arm go in, more than half-way up to the elbow. And I was so afraid she
would see me, I hardly breathed. Then she locked the box again, and
lifted back the other one, and put the keys away, and went off. And I
got out of the room as soon as ever I could; because I knew she would
be so angry, if she found I had been there. And I never told anybody.
Ought I?"
Lettice could not speak. A strong nervous tremor had possession of her
still; and her teeth chattered as if with cold. She put her arms round
the boy for support; and rested her cheek against his curly head.
"Ought I? Lettice, you're not ill? What is it?"
"No, nothing. Never mind. I'm only—Hold me tight, Keith; and go on."
"You're speaking in such a queer voice."
"It doesn't matter. Go on. Tell me the rest."
"There's nothing more. That was all. I didn't think about it again—not
even when the bank-note was lost. Because, of course, I didn't see a
bank-note in her hand; only I'm sure there was something. And then when
they said it had been found in your box, I couldn't help remembering."
Lettice shivered silently.
"You've promised you won't tell. But I say, what could make her do such
a thing? It wasn't like Mamsie! It has made me feel horrid since—I
mean, since I guessed what she did . . . Only you must keep my secret,
Lettice. I couldn't have her know that I knew. I shouldn't dare."
"A boy—not dare!"
"Oh, but this sort of thing. I'd fight a boy any day, and not care; but
I can't tell about this! Lettice, I couldn't! It would be so—Oh, you
know! You'll keep my secret?"
"I must. I have promised."
"And you don't mind?"
"Yes, I do mind. Of course I mind—very much. I want to be cleared, more
than you can imagine. It is dreadful to have people thinking that one
is a thief. But I do not mean to break my word."
"If it were any one else; any one except Mamsie! I shouldn't mind then.
I couldn't possibly tell now. I do wonder, though, what made her do
such a thing. What could make her?"
"She doesn't like me, and she doesn't like you to love me. That is no
real reason, of course; and I don't know any other . . . I think we had
better not talk any more of this just now. I shall be saying something
I ought not."
"And then you would be sorry, wouldn't you? Lettice, are you cold
still? It's getting near teatime. Why don't you come downstairs?"
"No hurry. What did you want me to do for you?" She could not yet face
Theodosia.
"Oh, only to paste in some of my scraps. I've got a nice lot of paste.
Will you do it now?"
He rushed away for the scrap-book, his mind at once diverted from the
subject under discussion. Lettice longed for a quiet half-hour; yet
perhaps employment was better for her than solitary cogitation, and
Keith's chatter left no loophole for steady thought. Trembling lessened
under the need for careful work, but severe headache came on instead,
and at length she was obliged to lay down the paste-brush.
"Keith, I don't think I can do any more till I have had some tea. I
wonder if you could get me a cup?"
"I'll ask Mamsie. And some cake?"
"No, only tea. And then I needn't leave this to go downstairs."
Keith ran willingly enough, but he returned with a crestfallen air.
"She says it's nonsense, and I shall smash the china; and if you want
any tea, you are to get it yourself."
"Very well. You can finish sorting these pictures while I am away."
Lettice made her way slowly, not to the drawing room direct, but to
her own room first. She hardly knew how to meet Theodosia; to meet
her injurer, and make no sign. Beneath an outer strained calm lay a
seething turmoil of indignation. If that should break bounds, what
might she not say or do, in this hour of bitter resentment? Lettice
dropped on her knees by the bedside, with face hidden, crying out
voicelessly for the help needed; and ten minutes of wrestling went by
before she dared to venture downstairs.
"You seem fond of cold tea," Theodosia observed, carelessly handing her
a cup.
Lettice made no answer in words. Their eyes met: Theodosia's handsome
and repellent, albeit capable of pleasant regards when their owner
chose; Lettice's constrained and inwardly dark with some new meaning,
which Theodosia could not read. The same was inscribed also, though no
more legibly, in the firm set of the white lips. Theodosia tossed her
head; and Lettice went to a chair, again trembling, so that she had to
put down her cup.
"What have you been doing upstairs?" demanded Theodosia.
"Helping Keith."
"Is that all?"
"And—talking." The recollection of what had passed swept over Lettice
afresh. Theodosia to have deliberately done such a deed, and to go
about for weeks after with no sign of guilty consciousness: it seemed
incredible! She had a sense of shuddering repulsion; and she remained
with downcast eyes, almost forgetting where she was, only conscious of
Theodosia's vicinity.
"What is the matter?" asked Dr. Bryant's voice.
"Nothing," Lettice began to say, and checked herself, for it would not
be true.
"Something, surely."
"I have a headache."
"Since when? You had no headache at lunch."
"It came on—since."
"Upstairs?"
"Yes."
"Why do you not take your tea? Have you had some already?"
"No." Lettice put out her hand, and then found the cup held to her lips.
"Stay; this is too cold to do you any good. Have you none hotter,
Theodosia?"
"If Lettice chooses to dawdle upstairs, she must take the consequences!"
"There may be reasonable excuse for delay. Has anything happened to
upset her?"
"How should I know! She has had a letter from the Valentines."
Dr. Bryant rang the bell and ordered fresh tea. Then he returned to
Lettice.
"From the Valentines? About your visit? Any disappointment?"
"O no. I am to go—"
"When?"
"Friday, I think. If you do not mind."
"I do not mind what is for your good. I should like to know the cause
of your state at this moment."
Lettice could not meet his gaze of grave solicitude. It went to her
heart to know how dear she was to him still, even though he could
believe her guilty of so despicable an act, and even though the old
tenderness of manner was absent. To let him go on thinking this thing
of her, when by a word she might clear her name, was hard indeed, yet
that she might not do, because of her promise. The strain and distress
were almost more than she knew how to bear. She hid her face in her
hands.
"Really, it is too ridiculous," declared Theodosia.
Lettice heard no answer, and was not at first aware that Theodosia had
left the room. After a while, she felt the firm touch of Dr. Bryant's
hand.
"Now drink this."
Lettice obeyed silently. When she had finished he took from her the
empty cup, and she leant back with closed eyes, anxious to escape
questioning; but presently he said:
"Look at me."
She obeyed again; and the steadfast gaze led to an inward remark on the
part of Dr. Bryant, "I never saw guilt more like innocence." Aloud he
said, "The tea has done your head good."
"Yes, thank you."
"What has happened this afternoon?"
She demurred painfully what to say. "I was—worried," came at length.
"About leaving home? . . . Is that it? . . . The prospect of going with
this cloud upon you?"
She could truly answer, "Yes;" though after the "Yes," was a qualifying
"Partly."
"One course lies open to you still—the course of frank confession.
Nothing can undo what has been done; but next to the undoing of evil
comes the confession of it . . . Have you no wish for my forgiveness,
Lettice?"
There was a pause of some seconds before she answered, "If I had done
what you think, uncle, I should wish to be forgiven."
"Still obstinate!" And the Doctor sighed.
Lettice lifted one of his hands, and pressed it to her lips. He drew it
away.
"No. I would give anything to have back the old state of matters
between us, and to some extent it is not impossible even now. But only
one road lies open. Until you take that road—"
She moved her head slightly,—a quick involuntary negation.
"Some day I shall be cleared," she whispered, with unsteady lips. "Some
day it will be made plain. I can't say what is not true."
"Hush! We will not discuss the question any further. Let me know what
time you go on Friday, and I will take care that you have enough money."
Dr. Bryant quitted her abruptly, and Lettice's tears fell fast. The
next moment, two warm arms were flung round her.
"Lettice, you're crying. What are you crying about? Has Mamsie been
scolding? My pictures are all arranged. Don't you mean to come and help
me paste them in?"
She tried to say, "Yes, when you like."
"I want to get them done before you go. I do wish you wouldn't go.
It'll be so horrid. Lettice, you mustn't cry."
"Keith, if you knew how hard it is—to have uncle think such things of
me!"
"I wouldn't if I was him," said Keith.
"He does. And how can he help it—not knowing? But I am going to try to
be patient. I will ask God to help me. And some day—some day the truth
will come out."
"Does God love you, Lettice?"
Lettice burst into fresh tears.
"I don't know what I should do, if I did not feel sure of that," she
whispered.
"Then I'll ask Him to make you happy. Shall I? And I'll say my prayers
every day, all the time you are away: and I really will try to be a
good boy, Lettice."
"So Lettice comes to-day," said Mr. Valentine, over his breakfast on
the following Friday. "She was a nice little girl, once upon a time,
but girls do alter so . . . I wonder if Londoners call this a fresh
egg? I don't! Got another? . . . Well, this is a dull house to come to:
but young things like London bustle. That's the difference between them
and me. I'm too old for uprooting, and getting used to a new soil."
"It takes time," his gentle wife said. "You've always been used to the
country, you see."
"And to fresh eggs! And to country ways. One of which is not lying late
in bed," grunted Mr. Valentine. "Where's Prue gone? And what is Nan
after?"
"Prue's only gone to see if Nan has overslept herself."
"Shouldn't do it a second time, if I'd the management of her!—" with a
reasonable appreciation of his own power in the household as compared
with his wife's.
"What time does Lettice get here? I shall find her come, I suppose,
when I get back," said Wallace. He had a distinct recollection of his
old boyish worship of Lettice; merely a recollection. The feeling had
died out through intervening years, as such boyish feelings do die
out. Presumably it might be capable of revival; though Wallace was now
a young man, and Lettice a young woman. The young woman is often an
unexpected development from what the child has been: nothing remaining
of the former individual except her identity.
Wallace felt it to be extremely uncertain whether the present Lettice
would excite in him such sensations as had been awakened by the former
Lettice, nor was he particularly desirous that she should. He could
look upon those sensations with the composed and critical interest
which a man feels, surveying his sensations in a past illness. The
little episode of his early enthusiasm had sunk into a background
corner of his canvas. Some interest was aroused by the thought of
seeing her again; but it was not keen enough to affect his appetite.
"Who will meet her at Paddington, mother?"
"Prue, of course."
"If Prue has not time, I'll go," Mr. Valentine said, unexpectedly. He
was known to detest above all things a huge London terminus. "Hallo,
Nan! Taken to fine lady lie-a-bed ways!—" as his youngest appeared in
the rear of Prue, buttoning her cuffs.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, father, but I went off sound after I was called.
No, never a fine lady!" cried Nan indignantly. "You ought to know me
better."
"Well, well, well, sit down and eat your breakfast, my girl; though
it doesn't boast country butter:" and the old farmer, mollified by
her protest, rubbed his broad hands together. "Hark to the wind! It's
getting up for a storm, and no mistake."
"Glass has gone down fast," put in Wallace. "Taken a regular leap!"
"Well, it may or may not mean the same here. I'm not used to a sky
mixed up with chimney-pots. I should know well enough, down at the old
home, what to expect. Blowing up for a gale of some sort—that's clear."
"I'll tell you what,—I had better go to the station and meet Lettice,"
said Wallace. "Just as well." In an undertone, he explained to Prue his
father's proposal. "Luggage sure to be lost, or something go wrong. I
can get away in good time this afternoon, I know, and it will save all
bother."
"And I'll meet you at Paddington, just before the train comes in,"
cried Nan.
So matters were arranged, somewhat to the relief of Prue, who had many
little businesses in hand, and foresaw small leisure. But Nan failed to
keep her share in the appointment; and she failed through no fault of
her own.
Mr. Valentine proved to be a true weather-prophet, so far as that
particular gale was concerned. Unknown to him, at the moment when he
spoke, a cyclone had been announced in the papers, as on its road
across the Atlantic, and the cyclone turned out to be no effete or
worn-out specimen of its kind. As the morning passed, ever-increasing
howls from warring elements could be heard, and the wind became after
midday so violent, that at street-corners women were nearly swept off
their feet, while flying tiles rendered walking a matter of danger.
"Do you think you ought to go?" Prue asked, when the younger girl
appeared in hat and jacket. Prue was with her mother in the drawing
room, the windows of which overlooked the street in front.
"They say a chimney has come down, in the next square."
"Oh, I'm all right. I shall not hurt. It will be fun to see the people."
"You must take care. Father went out to the post-pillar, and a slate
fell close to him."
"Like being under fire, isn't it? But everybody can't stay in, and why
should I?" asked Nan. "Why! I've got two odd gloves."
"If I went, I would go respectable."
"Of course you would, because you are Prue! As if I cared!" said Nan,
flourishing the second right-hand covering. "Not worth another climb. I
hate London staircases."
"Wallace will mind."
"Wallace won't see. I'll keep my left hand hidden, so. Good thing my
sleeves are so long. I say!—What fun!—Look at that lady holding on for
dear life to the railings. I don't mean to do anything so ignominious."
"Nan, my dear, you are almost old enough to leave off saying, 'I say!'"
"If I shall ever be old enough, mother!"
Mrs. Valentine shook her head, with a little smile.
"I wonder what we are all going to do to amuse Lettice! I wonder what
she has grown into, and what she is like. Well, I ought to be off.
There's a book in Wallace's bedroom, which I promised to take back;—I
must get it, and leave it now. What's that?"
The question was not so much as heard. A prolonged heavy crash sounded;
not a crash only, but a reverberating mixture of sounds; both roar and
rattle, with a continuous grinding downpour, as if some semi-solid
Niagara had launched itself into the house from above; and the whole
room shook with the concussion. Voices were not at first audible. Prue
made one hasty movement to her mother's side, and Mrs. Valentine grew
pale; while Nan stared at them both, aghast.
"What is that?" burst from all three, as soon as words could be
distinguished.
Shrieks arose from lower regions; and shouts in Mr. Valentine's hearty
voice.
"Something must have fallen—or been blown down," said Prue, not losing
her composure. "Father is not hurt. I hear him calling out."
"Thank God," passed Mrs. Valentine's lips.
"Wait, Nan! Don't go! It must be a chimney, and more of it may fall."
"Then you're not to go either," declared Nan.
"I will only look-out." She opened the door of the drawing room, which
was on the first floor, over the dining room—the back of the house
being given up to bedrooms,—and came face to face with her father,
hurrying upstairs.
"All right? Nobody hurt?" he called. "Mother safe? That's a mercy! One
of the biggest mercies I ever had to do with! Not a soul in the back of
the house! Must have been killed if—just look here!"
A cry escaped from Prue, and Nan shrieked outright, as Mr. Valentine
flung open the door of the bedroom, across the passage. On that side,
the house was a wreck. Almost the whole stack of chimneys had crashed
downward, breaking through floor after floor, till the basement was
reached by a mighty mass of bricks and broken beams, flooring, ceiling,
furniture, all jumbled together. Above, the sky was visible through the
rent roof; below yawned a cavern.
"And nobody hurt?" asked the gentle voice of Mrs. Valentine, who had
followed her daughters.
"Not a soul. The servants were in front."
"But I should have been behind in another moment," Nan said, in
awe-stricken tones. "I was just going into the downstairs back bedroom!
I should have been underneath all—that!"
"Hush! Don't talk of it now!" whispered Prue, seeing her mother's
cheeks whiten.
"Now, look here, you've all got to get out of this as soon as
possible," ordered Mr. Valentine. "There's more to come down, yet,
maybe; and any part of the house may give way, after such a shake. You
get hats and shawls, sharp—eh, what? Everything in the back rooms!
Well, pick up what wraps you can."
"Where are we to go, father?" asked Prue.
"Out of this, my girl! That's certain! Somewhere over the street we
must get taken in, I suppose."