CHAPTER XVI.

A PERSONAL APPEAL.

AS the train came in, Wallace gazed about for the delicate shy child of his recollection; and failing to find her, he laughed at himself. Of course she was child no longer. He had to find a young lady; and what particular type of young lady, it was impossible so much as to guess. For a while, nobody presented herself who could in any degree answer to the mental picture which he failed to banish. And he began to think that she must either have failed to arrive or have betaken herself off, when a gloved hand touched his.

"How do you do?" a sober voice said.

And Wallace's curious gaze met a pale girlish face, with brown eyes, wistful and sad as ever of old. Late trouble had brought back the look which he knew, which a few weeks earlier would have been lacking.

"How do you do?" she repeated, with a faint smile, into which some amusement stole.

"I'm very sorry. I ought to have seen—I mean, of course, I couldn't know you," apologised Wallace, trying to take her bag.

"Am I so altered?"

"Well, yes—no—I'm not sure yet. Will you have a cab?—I mean, of course you must have a cab. What luggage have you got?"

"Only a trunk and a Gladstone bag. A porter has gone after them."

"Hadn't we better go after him?"

"Thank you."

Lettice walked by his side, and then stood dreamily outside the throng into which he plunged. She had a semi-bewildered sensation, for crowds were new and somewhat overpowering after years of country life. All through the earlier part of the journey a load of distress had pressed her down. How to endure the secret let out by Keith; how to bear with patience the false accusation from which at any moment she might clear herself; how not to loathe Theodosia with a detestation which should darken all her spiritual life;—these problems had been of absorbing interest. For a while they had filled her whole horizon.

But as the train rushed on, each moment widening the distance between herself and Mrs. Bryant, each instant bringing her nearer to Felix and the Valentines, a sense of quiet crept into the turmoil. First, the old comfort—old, yet always new; God knew, God loved, and it was the will of God. In His love and in His knowledge, He permitted this; therefore it was well. Then followed pity for her injurer; pity that Theodosia could so act, could so debase herself; pity that Theodosia's child should know what must slay his esteem for her,—and a child's love is largely a love of esteem, because it is almost of necessity a looking up love.

Verily, Mrs. Bryant had prepared a sharp scourge for her own future. All this came to Lettice as she was borne swiftly eastward, and the wrath and loathing died out, till at length she only felt bodily weary and mentally bruised, like one who has gone through a heavy conflict.

"These two yours?" asked Wallace, coming up, with an indication towards the articles in question. "That all?"

"Quite all, thank you."

"I say, you've found the journey rather long, haven't you?"

She smiled at him in answer—the old child-like smile, and Wallace at once said to himself, "She's not spoilt, and hardly a day older."

"Well, yes,—rather, I suppose. What a windy day it is!"

"Regular gale. Haven't seen anything like it since we came here. Tiles are flying about like snowflakes."

"Not quite!"

"Of course that's a figure of speech. I didn't get knocked down, but I might have been; anybody might be. I was glad I had promised to come, so that Prue could stay indoors. Nan meant to meet me, but she hasn't ventured."

The drive was a long one, and much of it was performed in silence. Wallace had not a great deal to say, and Lettice had a great deal to see. Once only had she passed through London before, and visions of that day were strong, as the cab rattled noisily through street after street.

"Nearly there now," Wallace said at length.

"Are we? I'm glad."

"You want a good rest." Wallace had been studying her fitfully, without seeming to do so.

"I want to see them all again—" with another smile.

"Well, just in a minute you will. Nan's sure to be on the look-out. Here we—Halloa! What's wrong?"

Lettice had a bewildered sense of something unusual; of a dense crowd; of a policeman stopping the cab; of Wallace's exclamations. She said nothing herself, waiting to learn what had happened. Then Wallace flung himself out of the open door, and Prue's face appeared.

"Lettice!" There was a kiss exchanged, despite the gaping crowd. "My dear, I am so glad to see you. But only think—such a thing has happened! Just within the last hour our stack of chimneys has been blown down, and the house is uninhabitable. Nobody is allowed to go near for fear the remaining chimneys should fall. The police have made a regular cordon."

"O Prue, I am so sorry!"

"It is unfortunate—to-day of all days. We have gone into some lodgings over the way, the only ones we could find empty near at hand, and I have been keeping a look-out for you. Every one is so busy. Drive to No. 15, please!" Prue said to the cabman, stepping in.

"I don't see—where is Wallace?"

"Gone off with my father. There are men at work bringing out the furniture."

"Out of the house! But didn't you say nobody might go in?"

"Nobody except those who are actually doing the work. Quite enough things are destroyed already. They will save as much as they can. I am so glad to see you at last, Lettice."

"I wish I had not come to-day. I shall only be in the way. I am so sorry!"

"We must think what to do. It is a little awkward, isn't it,—just at the moment when we are turned out of house and home? Awkward, I mean, because we had hoped to make you so comfortable, and now—But nobody is hurt, and that is such a comfort. The chimneys fell on the back top room and smashed through floor after floor, carrying everything with them. Anybody on that side of the house must have been killed. But my father was in the dining room, and mother and Nan and I were in the drawing room, and both servants were in front. Nan would have gone to the back in another minute. Think—if she had been underneath! All the rest is nothing in comparison."

"No, indeed!" murmured Lettice.

"This is the house where we are lodging. Come and find my mother. It will do her good to see you. She is wonderfully composed—wonderfully little upset by it all."

Lettice thought Prue no less marvellous. She was ushered into a shabby little lodging-house parlour, there to be affectionately received by Mrs. Valentine.

"This is a most unpleasant welcome for you, my dear," the old lady said kindly, with her placid look.

She and Prue were actually less pale and shaken, though they had been on the spot at the moment of the catastrophe, than was Lettice, coming in afterwards to hear of it.

"I am only so sorry! If I had not fixed on to-day!"

"No one can tell this sort of thing beforehand. It is all quite right," Mrs. Valentine said calmly. She looked at Prue, and added, "The cabman?"

"Yes; I told him to wait for a minute."

The words startled Lettice. "The cabman—I forgot," she said hurriedly. "But what ought I to do? I might—could I not go back to-night? If there is a train early enough—"

"No, dear. That is quite out of the question," Prue said at once. "It would be wrong, for the sake of Felix. And we could not let you go after dark, alone. You are not used to manage for yourself. You poor child! How tired you are! Take off your hat."

"But the cabman—"

"Only an idea, that we might use him for something! On second thoughts, I will make him bring in the boxes, and send him off,—" with an expressive glance at Mrs. Valentine. "Take off your hat, and lean back."

Lettice was glad to obey, merely delaying to hold out her purse. "But I don't know what I ought to do. If I knew—" she said, when Prue returned.

"Tea first," Prue answered cheerfully. She sat down by Lettice's side, and kissed her brow. "You dear child! How exactly the same you are! It is nice to see you again."

"But I can't stay. If I don't go back to-night, I must go to-morrow." What Theodosia would say Lettice dared not think. "I must," she repeated. "I could not stay to be a burden to you all; and you can't have much room in these lodgings."

"No, not much. That is the difficulty."

"I don't see how you can, even one night."

"I wish I could get some tea—that poor little head of yours is so bad. All the world is distracted just now, and the water won't boil."

Lettice tried to laugh, and nearly burst into tears. "It doesn't matter! I'm only—it's only—thinking about—"

"Don't think just yet. We'll talk over plans presently."

Lettice was fain to submit, and Nan burst in upon them with sensational details of what was going on across the street. The wrecked house could just be seen from their windows; and Nan had also been hovering about near at hand.

"What's going to be done with Lettice?" she blurted out.

Nan received a "hushing" until after tea, and then she was banished from the room. "I suppose we must consider plans now," Prue remarked, taking a seat by Lettice. "You see we are rather cramped here. There is one bedroom for my father and mother, and another for Nan and me. Wallace will have to get a bed somewhere else."

"You can't possibly keep me, Prue."

"I don't know about the 'possibly.' If it were needful, we could. But another idea has come to us. We happen to know that a spare bedroom is to be had at your brother's lodgings. Nan went round to ask, and the woman said it could be ready in half-an-hour. Now I do not see why you should not stay there for at least three or four days, or perhaps a week; and by that time, I hope we shall have something arranged, so that you can come to us. My mother thinks the same."

"If Felix would like it—"

"It would be so good for him, and surely he would be pleased. Don't at all events settle hastily against the plan. We are not attempting to send word to your brother. Far best to let him come home and find you there. A short telegram could not make clear what has happened."

"I don't know what to think. If I could be sure that he would not mind—"

"I think he would not. He has seemed to look forward so much to seeing you again. What if this were the right step for you to take, Lettice?—a means for getting back into your old place with him? You two have been apart so long. And really this afternoon you have almost no choice. We literally have not room for you here. Of course I could put you to sleep with Nan, and go somewhere else myself, only—"

"O no, indeed! I wouldn't let you do it."

"But—" in an undertone—"I don't quite like to be away from my mother to-night, after all this. And for you to go to your brother seems such a simple and natural plan. Don't you think so?"

"Yes; I'll go, Prue. I don't think he will be vexed."

"He ought to be delighted."

"Yes. I dare say—"

"You are unnerved by all you have gone through lately, poor child."

"I've grown so used to nobody wanting me—" with trembling lips.

"It will not be so here, Lettice." She put her arm round the girl, and held her affectionately.

Mrs. Valentine had moved away, and was looking out of the window.

"Shall I go now?"

"There is no hurry. I do not suppose your brother will get home for another hour or two. The only question is, whether you might like time just to unpack and settle in, and to have a little rest. I should like you to look rather more fresh when he comes in and finds you there."

Lettice shivered; then tried to laugh. "What will he say?"

"I know what he ought to say. My dear, you will be only two streets off—quite close to us. If he did not want you, you could but come back at once. But I am not afraid, and I don't think you would be either, if you were not so weary."

"Perhaps not. Prue, I'll be brave. And I think I had better go at once. I shall feel more cowardly if I wait; besides, you must have enough to see after."

A fact undeniable: nevertheless, Prue insisted on seeing Lettice, with her luggage, to the lodgings.

Felix had two rooms by this time—a small bedroom and a diminutive front sitting room. After saying good-bye to Prue, who had to hasten back, Lettice inspected her bedroom under the landlady's guidance, unpacked so much as was needful for the night, and then went downstairs.

The abrupt collapse of pleasant plans could not but be depressing. She had not the slightest doubt that three or four days at most would see her once more at her uncle Bryant's. Felix would not want her longer; and she could not be a burden on the Valentines in their trouble. She tried to believe that the seed of some unexpected good might be hidden in this withered flower of disappointment. Had she only felt sure that Felix would give a hearty welcome, the delight of even one night under his roof might have sufficed to outweigh all else; but severe doubts assailed her as to what he might say or do. It would mean additional expense; and Felix was wont to calculate his outlay to the penny.

Suppose he gave her no welcome? Suppose he were annoyed, even angry? Lettice scarcely knew how to face the possibility. To be repelled here, and then to go back, unwelcomed, to her lonely life in the cottage—she hardly knew which of the two was worst. A wave of distress rolled up anew and overpowered her. She was so thirsting for love and kindness.

Her thoughts went back to his old promise of a "little home" when he should be able to provide it—a promise, the repetition of which had flagged of late. Did he wish to provide for her still? The dullest home with Felix would be sweet, because it would be her own—not merely somebody else's home to which she was admitted on sufferance. "But only if he really wanted me," she murmured.

A recollection came up of the dear old Brighton days, and with it a craving for Cecilia. The years between faded to nothing, and she seemed again to see Sissie's face, to hear Sissie's voice, to feel Sissie's touch. Little jars or misunderstandings of that period had died into unimportance. Only the love remained.

Lettice dared not yield to this mood. She was shaken by it to the core, and was in danger of a complete break-down. With a desperate effort to put away thought, she strolled round the little sitting room, examined the titles of a row of books on the prim chiffonier, took another look-out at the window, then, deciding that Felix could not reach home for another hour, she resolved to follow Prue's advice and her own resolution, and to have a rest. It was, to say the least, undesirable that she should greet Felix with dull looks, or with the smallest tendency to feminine tears. So thought Lettice, weighing the matter soberly. Sleep might not be possible; but at least she would lie still, and would control the vagaries of her mind.

The latter intention might not have been easy of fulfilment in her unstrung condition; but the resolute quietness took happy effect. In ten minutes, Lettice was sound asleep.

Felix, wending his way homeward somewhat late, partly by omnibus, partly on foot, had not the remotest idea of what awaited him. He knew that Lettice would be at the Valentines' house, and he meant that evening to go in and see her. Some words of commendation, spoken to him by one of the heads of the business, had put him into good spirits. It would be pleasant to tell this to Lettice.

Though Felix never made an effort to win a friend, he did sometimes wish for a friend. It is not good for a man to be alone, and Felix was alone. Not merely sleeping alone in lodgings, as many have to do, but literally living alone, apart from other men, neither giving nor receiving sympathy. This is a terrible kind of solitude, and the worst that can happen to a man is to grow so used to it that he ceases to wish for aught else.

Felix had not reached so far, though he was on the high road to it. On this particular evening, rather curiously, a feeling of loneliness assailed him. Perhaps it was born of the consciousness that nobody in London cared for the praise he had received. Nobody would look the brighter for it—unless Mr. Kelly. It mattered to nobody except himself whether he succeeded or did not succeed—unless to Lettice. But the question arose involuntarily—Did he work now with any view to Lettice's future? Well, anyhow she would be glad—unselfishly glad. He wished he could see her alone, not surrounded by a crowd of people who were nothing to him. The unwonted sense of solitude and of desire for his sister deepened as he entered the narrow passage, politely called a "hall" by the landlady. He hung up his overcoat, and entered the back parlour, opening the door with no peculiar gentleness.

There he came to a standstill, petrified by the sight he beheld. Work lying on the table, a travelling-bag on a chair, and on the sofa Lettice asleep!

She did not wake with the jar of his entrance. It was as profound a sleep as Felix had ever seen. One hand supported a pale cheek, the other lay carelessly on a shawl which half-covered her. The eyes were closed, the brow peaceful.

Felix shut the door softly, and stood gazing. He did not know what had brought her there, and at the moment, he did not much care. There she was, and his sense of solitude was gone. It was enough for him to stand and look. Presently, he brought a chair to her side, moving with great caution, and sat down, to continue watching.

The extreme quiet of her face was entering into him, invading the cold crust which had been building itself around his heart. For that was a living quiet, not a frozen stillness. It had in it warmth and life underlying. The parted lips—not dropping open, but just parted—were full of sweetness. Sometimes the brow became dented, as if with some kind of pain or distress; and then another wave of calm would smooth it out. Felix wondered if she were dreaming.

Perhaps the steadfastness of his gaze disturbed her, for the troubled look recurred. She stirred restlessly, and her lips grew sorrowful. "I did not do it!" she said aloud. "It is so cruel! I did not take the money!"

Her eyes opened, and looked full at Felix. "Tell them I didn't! O please, please believe me!"

Then she slept again, but no longer profoundly. The restless movements continued, and she clenched her hand. "Please believe me! Please believe me! I did not take it! . . . Sissie would believe me! Sissie would know! O Felix! O Felix, take care of me!"

The last words were cried out sharply, in a voice of fear, and the open eyes again gazed blankly.

Felix had not for years been so stirred. The personal appeal went home, for it seemed that in trouble she had habitually turned to the thought of her brother. Somehow he had never pictured Lettice as needing help. He had been content to take it for granted that all was right in that quarter, since she did not complain.

"Wake up!" he said. "You're only dreaming. Nothing is wrong. See—I'm here! And there's nobody going to touch you."

"Felix! Oh, don't let them have me!"

She clang to him, confused still with the sudden awakening, and scarcely conscious of her whereabouts. He could feel the quick beating of her heart against him.

"But what is it all about?" he asked. "Why are you so frightened? Nobody's in the room except ourselves. Who did you think was going to take you?"

A sigh of relief came. "It must have been a dream. But it did seem so real."

"Well, here you are, safe and sound! I don't know yet why you have come, only I know you are in no danger from anybody."

"I thought they were taking me to prison—because of the bank-note. And Mrs. Bryant looked so dreadful. I wanted to scream, and I could not. It was like a sort of nightmare."

"You did call out pretty loud. What is that about a bank-note?"

"You will believe me, will you not? I couldn't bear to have you think it! Will you believe me, Felix? It has been so hard to bear. And I did not know what you would say, to find me here. If only you can believe me, I don't think I shall mind anything."

"Of course I shall. What do you mean? Speak out, and tell me all about it."