CHAPTER IX.

A NEW HOME.

KEITH stood with big blue eyes fixed upon Lettice's face, as she leant against the foot of the bed.

"Why not now?" he wanted to know. "'Cause you're tired? And you've got to unpack all that lot of boxes?"

"Some, not all."

"And then you'll have a jolly race with me, and ever so many games?"

"Perhaps—" was the utmost that Lettice could force herself to say. She had never felt more out of tune for boisterous fun. Keith pranced off, banging the door, and she remained where he left her, drooping in a dead blank of depression and loneliness, the like of which she had not before known. Always she had had her home, her sister and brother, her right to love and be loved by them: and now she was alone.

Nothing to live for: nobody to care for: no one to live and care for her: only Felix far-away out of reach, and the kind Valentines scarcely more accessible. A sense of dreariness weighed her down. It was not so much active pain as dull pressure—the harder to be resisted. Her head throbbed with dull responsiveness: and a wave of temptation to despair swept over her.

What hope, what interest in life remained? A cup of tea might have brought relief to body and mind, but the cup of tea was not forthcoming: and she of course did not realise, as at such times one does not, how far the depression was purely physical.

Dropping her hat, Lettice crept to the side of the bed and lay down upon it—lay flat and still, with closed eyes; for more than an hour, never stirring a finger.

Nobody came, and in later years, this hour always stood out as one of the worst and bitterest phases through which she had had to pass. Worse even than when she had first learned Cecilia's true state; worse than the morning of Cecilia's death. For then she had had the help of kind faces and voices around, though they could not touch her sorrow: and now she was utterly alone. Minutes had never dragged past with such slowness. If one afternoon were so interminable, what would the whole of life be? thought the poor girl in her distress.

Past, present, and future were blended into one murky cloud of darkness. Burning tears crept at intervals through her closed eyelids, and an occasional sob fought for utterance: but Lettice dared not let the struggling passion have way. Once to yield would have been to lose all mastery over herself.

Then through the parched Sahara of her woe came a murmur, breathed softly like the voice of an organ in the far distance, with familiar words, which yet she had not particularly remarked—

"When the Lord saw her, HE . . . said unto her, Weep not."

In response, a rain of tears fell; but this time they brought a measure of relief. As they lessened, she seemed to hear again—

"HE said unto her, Weep not."

"O how can I help it? I am so alone—so alone?"

Yet once more the quiet murmur sounded—

"HE said . . . Weep not."

Lettice sat up, and gazed around with dim eyes.

"But how can I help it? What can I do? If there were any one to care—"

The whisper came in other words, equally familiar, equally unthought of—

"HE CARETH FOR YOU."

Lettice sank back on the pillow; a strange new peace at her heart. Prue had talked, and Bertha had talked, and their words had dropped on her dulled spirit, like stones against a wall. But now it seemed as if the Divine Comforter Himself had come; and with one little shower of heavenly rain, the arid desert was changed.

An indescribable sense of rest, of being loved and watched over, crept through her. Consciously and clearly she was no longer alone. With tears still undried upon her cheeks, she fell asleep, and though the sleep could hardly have lasted half-an-hour, it seemed to bridge over a chasm in her existence, to land her in a new world, inwardly as well as outwardly.

She had never slumbered more profoundly, and when she awoke, the same calm peace enfolded her. Everything looked different. "Jesus cares for me! Jesus loves me!" she murmured, clasping her hands. "I'm so glad—oh, so glad."

Then there was a bang at the door, and Keith bounced in.

"Because it's getting cold,—" reached her ears.

"I don't understand."

"What are you lying down for? That's awfully lazy. Mamsie says, if you want any tea, you'd better make haste, because it's getting cold. It's been up ever so long."

"I didn't know the time. I've been asleep."

Lettice rose slowly, feeling still battered and weak, but happy. Pain of body and pain of mind alike were stilled by that strangely deep slumber. She was able to smile on the child, as he stared at her with wondering eyes.

"What makes you—so?" he demanded.

"Makes me how? I don't understand?"

"Mamsie said you was ugly. But I think you're pretty."

Lettice stooped to kiss the boy. "Keith, will you love me?" she asked softly.

"Will you play with me after tea? Father said I was to be kind to you. Will you be my horse and let me beat you?"

"Yes, if you won't beat very hard."

"Oh, 'course not—you're a girl, you know. But I'll love you, if you'll be my horse."

He slid down the balusters, looking up with eyes of approval: and Lettice came after. A cup of tea was welcome, albeit not too warm.

And as she sat under Theodosia's critical gaze, the thought came again—"I'm not wanted here. But—'He cares for me.'"

"What are you dreaming about?" asked Theodosia abruptly, noting a transient smile.

Lettice could not answer the question, and she made no attempt to evade it.

"Have you been unpacking all this time?"

"She hasn't unpacked one single thing," cried Keith.

"She's been laying down, sound asleep."

"Lying down, you mean; not laying."

"And she's going to play games with me, Mamsie. Lots of games, and run races. And I'm going to love her, ever so much, 'cause I think she's pretty."

Theodosia's face darkened. The last thing she desired was that Keith should care for Lettice. Her own love for the child was of a jealous and exacting nature.

"Your friends at the Farm seem to have been in great hurry to get rid of you," she remarked coldly.

"O no, indeed!" Lettice could not let this pass in justice to the Valentines. "They would have kept me any length of time. Only Felix thought—and thought—it would not be right."

"I'm sure I wish—" Theodosia's sentence could not have been clearer, if fully uttered. "Why not 'right,' pray?"

"They are—no relations," faltered Lettice.

"Are we?—" in an undertone.

"I thought—Dr. Bryant—"

"He was related to your sister. Not to you yourself, of course."

"Sissie—my sister—had told me—" Lettice could not finish the sentence: and Theodosia moved impatiently.

"Do stop crying, pray." Then, in a tone of surprise—"Maurice! To-day! You said you would not come before to-morrow."

"Have you any objection, my dear?"

Theodosia made no answer. Dr. Bryant kissed her, patted Keith on the head, then passed on to the chair from which Lettice had risen. She said nothing, only lifted two brown eyes, wide-open and filled to the brim with tears. The upward look was singularly sweet and pathetic; and the inscrutable calm of the doctor's face changed slightly under it. He took her two little chill hands into his, and bent to kiss her brow,—a welcome so unexpected, that one or two big tears splashed on his wrist, despite all her efforts. She was glad that he stood between her and Theodosia, from whom a slight sound, half laugh, half sneer, could be heard.

"Miss Anderson is a young lady of sixteen, I believe, Maurice."

"Lettice Anderson is my little girl, and I am her old uncle, or father, if she will have me, Theodosia." To Lettice, he added softly—"For poor Cecilia's sake! Her mother was very dear to me."

Lettice clung fast to the kind brown hand. How could she hold back? The doctor put her into an easy-chair, and sat down by her, watching the working of the pale face.

"Not grown-up yet, surely?"

"O no, I'm only a little girl still."

"You and I are going to be friends, I see."

Theodosia's brows drew together. She did not wish Dr. Bryant to like Lettice.

"Have another cup of tea?" asked the unconscious doctor.

Lettice said "Yes:" and then was sorry, as she caught the covert flash of Theodosia's eyes.

"I have no more in the teapot."

"Easily have some made!" And Dr. Bryant rang the bell.

"For that child! Absurd!"

"I thought 'that child' was a grown-up young lady just now. Be consistent, my dear . . . Grown-up or no, she is a very tired little being of some sort. I shall order you off to bed soon, Lettice."

Keith shouted a protest. "O no, father—no—she's going to play with me."

"Hush! Don't make that uproar."

"But, father, she said she would!"

"Not to-day."

"I said I would," Lettice tried to interpose.

"I forbid it for to-day. Keith, if you make any noise, you leave the room."

Keith was on the verge of a roar: but thinking better of his intention, he only whimpered. Theodosia withdrew from the tea-table with a thundery brow, to pity and caress the boy, while Dr. Bryant poured out the tea for Lettice.

"You have not told me yet, what has brought you home in such a hurry," said Theodosia.

"Was there need? I heard from you this morning that Lettice would arrive to-day."

"Well?" indifferently.

"That was sufficient."

Theodosia's lips formed an "Absurd!" again.

"If I had heard sooner, I could have sent notice of my intentions."

Theodosia was uncomfortably silent. She had kept Lettice's letter to her husband two days before sending it on: the said letter being undated. But from Dr. Bryant's manner, she saw that he was not without suspicion of the fact. This was true: and a passing gleam of surprise on Lettice's face confirmed his suspicion. He asked no further questions, however. It was by no means the first time that he had had reason to fear a lack of straightforwardness in his wife.

For instance, he knew now that a telegram had been sent to tell of Cecilia's illness and detention at Reading: and he knew, with an almost certain knowledge, that the said telegram had been delivered into Theodosia's hands. Only, in face of her assertions, and notwithstanding the proved truthfulness of the messenger, he generously would not count it quite certain, and therefore, he said nothing. But his trust in her could no longer be absolute; and his eyes had become quick to note discrepancies. To put her to shame before Lettice would, however, have been the last thing he could desire.

"Lettice is to sleep, I suppose, in the spare room?" he said suddenly. Theodosia had expected no such question.

"In a spare room—yes, of course," slurring over the tiny word "a."

But Dr. Bryant's ears were sharp. "Over the dining room?"

"That room, for a child! You say yourself she is a child. Of course not. If it had been for two of them—"

"Where have you put her, Theodosia?"

"Upstairs. The other spare room. Where else should she be?"

Dr. Bryant's recollections of "the other spare room" were hazy. He walked off without a word, unheeding an eager protest from Lettice. There was an unpleasant gleam in Theodosia's eyes.

"It is too supremely ridiculous. As if we never were to have a decent room to offer a visitor. I certainly shall not give in."

Lettice hardly knew what to answer, and Dr. Bryant speedily returned.

"That will not do, my dear," he said.

"I don't see why not. It is the only room I can spare."

"Another has to be spared. I will not have Keith on the first floor, and Lettice on the second. If you like to send Keith upstairs—"

"My little delicate Keith!" Theodosia nearly choked with wrath.

Dr. Bryant glanced from Keith's rosy cheeks to Lettice's white ones. "It will not do," he repeated. "I don't insist on the best spare room. We may need that occasionally, I suppose." This was a reluctant concession, for he hated visitors. "But one room on that floor it has to be. Either Keith's, or your little sitting room, or the room next to it."

"My boudoir! Thanks! I am very much obliged. Keith is not going upstairs! And I can't spare that other room. I want it in a hundred ways."

"One of the three it must be. Lettice will sleep in the spare room until you have made up your mind. Will you give orders to that effect—or shall I?"

"I have nothing to do with the matter."

Lettice again remonstrated, but in vain. Dr. Bryant rang the bell, ordered the best spare room to be at once prepared, asked which boxes would be required for immediate use, and withdrew. He seemed to be unconscious of Theodosia's white-heat of fury. She held it in till he was gone: then, regardless of the boy's presence, she turned upon Lettice with a fierce—"You little—toad!"

Lettice was startled to an upright position. She had a feeling of being stunned, as with a blow. "But what can I do? How can I help it?" she asked. "I did not mean to make trouble. I would not have complained."

"Complained! I should think not! What right have you to anything here, pray? Not even a relation! What are you to any of us? To want the best spare room! Oh, I understand you, for all your innocent looks. It's easy to come over my husband: but you won't come over me! I advise you to be careful, or you will have cause to repent."

"I don't know what you mean! Indeed, I only wish to do what you like," pleaded Lettice.

"I dare say! I know how much that is worth! But it won't pay! Sooner or later my husband will find you out. And mind—if you say one word to him of this I—Come along, my sweet! Come along with me."

Theodosia swept to the door, and there halted, looking back with darkened eyes, for the boy had not at once followed, as she expected. He stood in front of Lettice, scanning her earnestly.

"Mamsie said you was a toad," the small voice uttered, as if in surprise.

Lettice thought Mrs. Bryant was gone. "Mamsie didn't really mean it, Keith," she said gently. "It was only—Mamsie was a little vexed."

"Mamsie doesn't like you, but I do, Lettice."

Theodosia's wrath was filled to the brim. She strode back, said scornfully—"You are mistaken! I do mean it—" snatched the boy's hand, and pulled him, struggling, from the room.

Lettice sat confounded. She literally did not know what to do or what to think of this display: since she had never before had to do with an unrestrainedly bad temper. She dreaded greatly the moment of their next encounter; but when it came, Theodosia had reverted to her former cold and careless manner. Lettice found this to be a usual course of events.

Theodosia's outbreaks of ill-humour were frequent, and she seemed to consider that a return to her ordinary manner was sufficient apology; if, indeed, she ever counted an apology called for. All the world might be in the wrong sooner than Theodosia herself: and if she knew what it was to regret her own words, she would not acknowledge the fact.

Lettice suffered keenly from constant association with a temper of utter uncertainty. There could be no repose in her intercourse with Theodosia. However agreeable the mood of the latter might be at any given moment, nobody could predict that she might not flame into anger before five minutes were over; and the incessant dread of possible cyclones weighed upon Lettice like a millstone. She could never be at ease in Mrs. Bryant's presence.

The manner of her life at Quarrington Cottage was not long in declaring itself. On second thoughts, Theodosia gave in to her husband's wishes about the bedroom for Lettice, yielding for that purpose the extra "useful room," which under Dr. Bryant's superintendence was nicely prepared and furnished. But she could not forgive Lettice for having been the innocent cause of this defeat; and she showed a ceaseless jealousy of Dr. Bryant's kind interest in the girl. Not for her husband's sake, but for Keith's sake. Theodosia never lost sight of the fact that some of his money might be diverted from herself and the boy by this "interloper," as she privately called Lettice.

Lettice saw and felt the jealousy without fathoming the motive which lay below. Had it not been for that motive, Lettice might perhaps in time have overcome Theodosia's dislike. Only "perhaps:" for another hindrance soon arose, in the shape of Keith's growing affection for Lettice. That Lettice should play with Keith, amuse him, wait upon him, slave for him, was merely what Theodosia expected, as a matter of course. But that Keith should give Lettice his little heart in return, Theodosia did not expect. The one devotion of her heart was for this boy, and anybody who could win any portion of his love, or who would stand in the way of his interests, became abhorrent to her. She was a complete slave to impulse: and Lettice's gentleness failed to conquer.

Dr. Bryant of course knew his wife to be of an "uncertain temper." Had he discovered the fact before marriage, he would not have married her: but he did not find it out till afterwards. The friction naturally deadened his enjoyment of her companionship, and drove him back into the old recluse habits from which for a time he had emerged; but because of those habits, and because he could always be content in solitude, it did not seriously affect his happiness. Sooner or later she would "come round;" and meanwhile he had his study, and the study-door had lock and key. He failed to realise the difference between his position and that of Lettice: failed to see that, where he might lift his eyebrows and retire, Lettice could only remain where she was, and endure.

He was careful to secure for the girl all that she might need in the way of material comfort. At once he began to allow her twenty pounds yearly for clothes. He superintended to some extent her course of reading, that education might not cease: and his kindness was unvarying. A warm affection sprang up between the two. All this afforded Theodosia fresh food for jealous anger.

During a considerable part of each day, Dr. Bryant was shut up in his study, oblivious of the outer world: and then Lettice had much to bear. Far more than the doctor ever dreamed; for while with him she was safe, and, in consequence, happy. Lettice soon saw that complaints would only make matters worse, even if she had had any inclination to complain. But how could she tell Dr. Bryant, in return for all his goodness, that Mrs. Bryant was not good to her? She could only bear up and bear on with continuous patience, watching for opportunities to make herself useful, and avoiding self-defence.

Young as Keith was, the child soon learnt to control his affection for Lettice in his mother's presence. When alone with Lettice, he would show boisterous love, clinging and kissing to any extent; but before Mrs. Bryant, he seldom ventured on such demonstrations. Her jealous displeasure was only too patent.

Lettice felt this concealment of his real little self to be disingenuous, therefore harmful; yet she had no power to prevent it. "Mamsie doesn't like me to love you, but I do love you," the boy often said; and Lettice was grateful for the love, even while it made her fear. Despite Keith's care, which at six years old was not likely to be consistently maintained, Theodosia knew pretty well how things were—too well for Lettice's comfort.

Her daily life was indeed a course of difficult steering among rocks and breakers. It would have been yet more difficult, but for the new joy which had been breathed into it. The more cold and harsh Mrs. Bryant grew, the more Lettice was driven to prayer. Between Dr. Bryant and little Keith she had many gleams of sunshine: but her happiest hours of all were those spent in Church and alone in her own room, when things unseen became most real, and the passing nature of this life apparent.

In all that she had to bear, the Divine Master still lived and cared for her. Gradually the very passion of her heart grew to be an absorbing love for Him: an intense desire to do and to suffer His will. This did not mean that doing ceased to be difficult, or suffering to be pain. It meant only that she could say from her heart, thoroughly meaning it: "Thy will, not mine."

So passed three years: and through those years Lettice never left Quarrington Cottage. Invitations came from the Farm; and Lettice could not go. The journey meant expense, and she knew too well the opposition which would be aroused in Theodosia if she asked Dr. Bryant's leave. So for his sake, and not to disturb his quiet, she never spoke of these invitations, but smothered down her longings, and quietly declined them all. If her friends counted her neglectful, she could not help it.

Nor did she once see Felix. Twice during the three years, Dr. Bryant invited him to the Cottage, and each time Felix refused to come—not too gratefully. Thereafter, for a while, Dr. Bryant let the matter rest.