CHAPTER XV.

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."