CHAPTER XVII.

RULING PASSIONS.

LETTICE dropped her head on Felix's shoulder, and he slipped an arm round her, as he had done long before on the Brighton Parade. Looking down on her pale face, that day came back to him; and with the sudden recollection came also the old sense—almost forgotten of late—that he had to care for her. If she had reached him, happy and in gay spirits, it might not have been recalled; but the pale lips, the shortened breath, the clinging hands, all cried out to the manhood in him for protection.

"Don't cry! What's the matter?"

"You won't mind having me, will you? Just for a day or two! I didn't know if you would like it, but Prue said I ought to come. May I stay only over Sunday? They can't have me at the Valentines'. And I'm not wanted at home. Except—Keith—but I do dread going back."

"Can't have you at the Valentines'?"

"The wind has blown down part of their stack of chimneys; and the floors are all broken through. It is such a smash! Nobody can stay in the house; and they are in lodgings. Only two bedrooms; and Wallace has to sleep somewhere else. Of course there is no room at all for me, unless Prue turned out, and I couldn't let her do that. She is wanted, and besides, they will have such expenses now? And we thought you would let me come here."

"When did it happen?"

"Only this afternoon; not long before I arrived. Isn't it terrible for them? Mrs. Valentine and Prue were so good; but they couldn't keep me! At least, I couldn't let them! Felix, do you mind? May I stay, just a very little while? I couldn't go back to-night; it is too late. And to-morrow,—that would be such a tiny little peep . . . I do dread going back . . . Mrs. Bryant can't bear me; and even uncle thinks I did it."

"Did what?"

"That—oh, you know." She forgot that she had not told him. "It has been so hard to bear. Sometimes I have felt as if I must come away to you, and never go back . . . Felix, do love me just a little. Won't you?"

She tried to smile, and broke into a flood of tears.

Felix at first answered nothing. He was dumfounded by the revelation of what she had suffered, even though the cause of that suffering was still hidden. A wonder sprang up, how he could have been content to go carelessly on for so long a time, knowing no more. She clung to him as if for comfort; and Felix was glad that she could not see his face. In an unnecessarily gruff voice, he asked—

"What is all this about a bank-note?"

[Illustration: "You take a bank-note! I should think not. My sister a thief! Who ever dared to hint at such a thing?"]

"I didn't take it! Felix, I didn't, really." She lifted her head to look eagerly at him.

"You take a bank-note! I should think not. My sister a thief!! Who ever dared to hint at such a thing?"

"But it disappeared! Don't you remember? I told you, ever so long ago. And you never answered me."

"I remember something, not much. You said they couldn't find a bank-note; but I supposed it was all right, as you never said any more."

"They found it afterwards—some time after—locked in one of my boxes."

"Whew!"

"And ever since—even uncle believes that I stole it."

"Then he's a noodle!" declared Felix shortly. "What sort of box?"

"My biggest,—the one I have all Sissie's things in. I always keep it locked."

"Who found the note?"

"Mrs. Bryant and Susanna. Mrs. Bryant wanted to have my room turned out, and she insisted on having the keys of my boxes. I was going off for the day with uncle, so I could not help myself. And when we came back in the evening, she had found the bank-note; she and Susanna together."

Lettice found it a wonderful relief to pour out all this; and Felix drew her on to tell a good deal more, by questions at intervals. If his tone were dry, it was not indifferent. A lurid gleam came into his eyes.

"Plain enough!" he said at length. "Mrs. Bryant put it into your box herself."

Astonishment at his penetration rendered Lettice dumb.

"That woman hates you like sin. I saw,—it was clear enough. She's afraid you may stand in the way of her interests. You're not half sharp, child! But I should have thought Dr. Bryant had more sense."

"He did hold out for a long time. He wouldn't believe I could do such a thing. But when the note was actually found there—"

"Where it had been actually put by his own wife!"

"Felix—you can't know—"

"Can't prove it, if you like. I know well enough. Why else should she have arranged so cleverly to get to the box, and to have Susanna at hand just at the right moment?"

"But still—"

"And you have no more doubt of the fact than I have!"

What could Lettice say?

"Well!!" and Felix drew one long breath of resolution. "You don't go back to them again in a hurry! That's flat."

"But—"

"You don't! It's settled! I'll have you to live with me. So you just send for the rest of your luggage."

"Felix! O Felix! May I? May I really? Will you let me?"

"Of course. I'm not going to have my sister treated in that fashion."

"Oh, you dear, dear boy! You don't really mean it! Not—to live with you always!"

"Yes!"

"It will be so happy! I can't believe that it's true . . . And I'll work . . . I can work, you know . . . I'll teach, or copy, or do anything . . . And I'll eat as little as ever I can . . . I won't be a burden on you."

"You keep quiet, and don't talk nonsense! I've had a rise lately." Felix gulped down a sudden recollection of his beloved savings. "If you don't eat, I'll make you. So you just be a sensible girl, and stop fretting. You have done with those people, once and for all."

"Not uncle Maurice!"

"If he counts you a thief—!"

"He wouldn't, if—I think she talks and persuades him! And till it was actually found in my box, he always trusted me—though I had been alone in the room with the note, when it was left out."

"So had I!"

"Ah! That was the very thing. I knew you had, and I couldn't bear them to remember that, and so I did not dare at first to speak. Uncle almost begged me to deny taking the note, and I would not. I was so afraid of making them suspect you . . . Felix, I must tell you the truth. I didn't feel quite sure of you, and that made me wretched. And now I see how horrid it was of me to doubt. Will you forgive me?"

"I should think you might have felt sure," Felix said, in a constrained voice. "I'm not that sort of fellow."

"O I know, and I do hate myself for it!"

"Now, look here! I won't have any more crying. You'll wash the house away next. It's been a mess, and you've been an arrant little goose: and that is the long and short of it . . . I suppose, if we hadn't been so many years apart, things would have seemed different . . . Anyhow, it won't happen again . . . You just have to banish the Bryants out of your mind, and make yourself happy here."

"Make myself happy! Felix, if you knew!" She wrung her hands together in an ecstasy.

"Well, I've got to see about supper now. There's a single mutton-chop in the house; and I'm as hungry as a bear."

"And I'm not hungry in the least. I couldn't eat to-night—I couldn't, really. I'm not shamming, Felix. I think I'm too happy to eat."

"Rubbish! I'm going out to pick up something. My landlady never has a notion what to do at a pinch!"

"I don't really want any supper. My head aches."

"No wonder; after lakes of tears. You just tuck yourself into the corner of the sofa, and go to sleep again till I come back."

Felix used gentle force to induce obedience, and departed. Lettice leant back with closed eyes, in a dream of delight. Dearly as she loved Dr. Bryant, the relations between him and her had been of late far too constrained to permit any enjoyment: and the very thought of escape from Theodosia was relief unutterable. Only—poor little Keith!—what would he say?

"But Felix must come first! I couldn't go back," sighed Lettice. "I'll write to Keith very often."

Then a tap came at the door, and in answer to her "Come in," Wallace's voice asked, "May I?"

"Yes; please do. I want to hear about them all."

Wallace entered, glancing round the small room, perhaps rather gratified to find Felix absent. Then his regards travelled back to Lettice's face, and remained there.

"I'm afraid—things haven't gone straight," he said gravely. "Prue wanted very much to know; so I offered to come round. Has Anderson been in?"

"O yes. He is only gone out to get something for supper. It is all right," said Lettice, a brighter smile flashing over her face than Wallace had ever seen there, though her reddened eyes and pallid cheeks had at the first moment sent a shock through him. He would not have expected to care so much; but, as of old, he never could endure to see anything slight or weak in suffering.

"I am afraid you are awfully tired," he said.

"Yes, I think I am—perhaps," assented Lettice, with another flash of a smile. She went back to the corner of the sofa, and dropped her head down on the arm. "I hardly know how to sit up. But that's nothing—it only means going to bed. Please tell Prue I'm happier than I have ever been in my life. I am to live with Felix altogether,—not to go back to Bristol at all."

"That is good news indeed, if—" hesitated Wallace.

"There isn't any 'if'—there isn't, indeed. Felix is so good! What makes you look at me like that? Are my eyes red?"

"Well, just a little; and I thought—"

"I couldn't help crying. It wasn't Felix, only I have been so wretched, and now it is all changed. Don't worry Prue, because everything is right. Indeed it is."

"I'll be sure to tell her. She will see you, of course, to-morrow, while your brother is away. I was to ask if you would spend the morning with us,—at least with them. I shall be in the City, I'm afraid."

"Should I not be in their way? But I'll come round, and I shall soon see. Do tell me now about your house. Have any more chimneys fallen? Is nobody hurt?"

Nobody, Wallace assured her: and the furniture had nearly all been carried out by this time to a neighbouring warehouse. All, except what had been destroyed; and the amount thus lost was considerable. Whether any further collapse would take place remained to be seen; but since the wind had gone down, it was less likely.

"Things are bad enough without that," Wallace said. "The house can't be habitable for weeks, I suppose."

"And the expense—"

"Doesn't do to think of that yet!" responded Wallace.

It was hardly to be expected that Felix should go through no after-regrets on the score of his new resolve. His was not, indeed, a nature to fluctuate feebly to and fro over a determination once arrived at. If Felix made up his mind on a point, no matter how rapidly, he would carry out at all costs the programme laid down; and having given his word he would stick to it. He had plenty of faults, but neither fickleness of purpose, nor lack of honourable feeling, had a place among them.

Still, the prevailing habit of thought through years could not be broken by an instant's resolution. The original desire for "success," generally expressed by himself as "getting on," had gradually resolved itself into a definite desire for wealth. To this end he had toiled with a persistency rare in one so young: for this end he had laid by with remarkable self-control. In pursuit of this absorbing aim, all gentler outlets of his nature had been in danger of getting permanently clogged up.

To take Lettice into his little menage meant hindrance, to say the least, in the carrying out of his aim. It would imply some reduction in the amount of his savings it might even mean an infringement upon those savings. Under the influence of aroused feeling, he had experienced no doubt as to what had to be done; but a measure of reaction was almost inevitable. No hesitation existed as to the carrying out of his resolution; for to that he was pledged: but none the less the battle had to be fought. Questionings assailed him with respect to the wisdom of what he had undertaken to do. He blamed his own impulsiveness, and regretted that he had not at least waited for fuller consideration.

All Friday night he lay awake—an unwonted experience in his healthy youth—debating with himself; looking on the question from all sides; finding fault with his precipitancy; and grieving over the thought of his now diminished saving powers.

In the morning, when he came down to breakfast, one glance at the sunshine of Lettice's face chased the regretful mood away as if by magic. She had slept peacefully all night through, and had awakened to a new life of freedom and happiness. Felix, contrasting her joyous smiles with the tears and pallor of the evening before, felt that he could have done no otherwise: and to her no signs of his inward conflict were allowed to appear. Yet the same regrets assailed him over his work that day; and though on his return they were dispelled afresh, a fierce renewal of them at night drove him nearly frantic.

Next day, Sunday, he came down in a restless and worried state, which was only in part soothed by her companionship. "I shall have you all to myself to-day," she said repeatedly, and her delight awoke a response in him, even while those gnawing doubts went on. One shadow alone rested on Lettice, and that was the thought of Dr. Bryant. She could put aside bitter recollections of Theodosia, but not loving and pained recollections of him. Still, her prevailing sensation at present was of freedom and relief.

The brother and sister went to Church in the morning, and for a long walk in the afternoon. Felix once more found his inward battle lessening as her sweetness won him back to the old love of their childish days: and a keen consciousness was dawning that better things might exist in life than a hasty acquisition of wealth. In the evening, Lettice wiled him to Church again. She had been always used to go twice, and in London she could not, unless he would act escort.

He had not listened with any particular attention to the morning sermon; but this evening Mr. Kelly's text took hold upon his mind, and refused to be forgotten.

"For no man liveth to himself."

Some part at least of the sermon following was more or less an outcome of a certain conversation once held between Mr. Kelly and Prue, with reference to Felix himself. Of this Felix knew nothing; but he could not help listening. He had undoubtedly lived to himself of late, so far as such living is possible, and he knew it—nay, he had rather prided himself upon the fact. He had not lived for other men. He had not lived unto God. His one aim had been wealth; not wealth to be used for the good of fellow-men, but wealth purely and exclusively for his own advantage.

Such thoughts floated in a back region of his mind, while Mr. Kelly drew sharp distinctions between the life that is lived to God, and the life that is lived to self.

"In one sense," he explained, "no mean ever lives, or can live, utterly to himself. Our lives are so intertwined, one with another, that the lives of others must affect us, and our lives must affect them, at every point of contact. We must influence, and be influenced. We must help to make others more or less good, more or less happy. No choice here is left to us. From the very constitution of our nature and of human society, no man ever can live or die absolutely to himself alone. The manner of his living, and the manner of his dying, must tell upon the living and the dying of his fellow-men.

"Yet within limits we have choice—not only a choice whether our influence shall be for good or for evil; but also a choice whether our lives shall be unto God—unto our fellow-men—or exclusively unto self. The wide margin of aims, of motives, of intentions, is left to our decision. You must live; you must act; your living and acting must affect your neighbours and friends; all this, whether you will or no. But the spring of action, the motive-power of life, shall be as you choose. And remember, whatever you do or leave undone, God looks straight to the motive.

"In most men's lives we find one or two or more dominant motives, occasionally one only, so strong as to become a 'ruling passion.' Those who are so governed are commonly the men who get on, who do well, who succeed. That is to say, they succeed in their sins; they get on and do well in the thing which they have set before them to accomplish. The aim may be high or low: the thing may be good or bad; but at least they seldom fail in their object, because the full strength of body and mind is bent to the obtaining of it. When such men are won to the side of God, in the great battle against evil, they are men worth having. From them you will not see lazy or half-hearted service.

"If the leading aim, the mastering passion, in a man's life be Self, then the object for which he toils is poor and low; he gives money for that which is not bread, and his hunger and thirst cannot be satisfied. If the ruling aim and passion of his heart be to live unto God and unto men, then his object is noble, and unlimited possibilities lie before him.

"The love of self takes many different developments. It may desire money for self, success for self, comfort and ease for self, admiration for self. Or it may desire these things for the one being best loved on earth; and self may actually be worshipped and toiled for in that being, so that here we find another form of selfishness, though by no means so ignoble a form as the first.

"Now I do not for a moment say that these desires are intrinsically wrong. It is natural that we should like a measure of ease and comfort, that we should wish for wealth and success—natural and not evil. The evil lies in overbalancing. That which is right in moderation becomes wrong in excess. That which is harmless, even laudable, as a well-controlled aim, subject to high principle, becomes contemptible as the one sole object of a man's existence—becomes perilous as his mastering passion.

"Love God first; and other love will take its due place. Live for God first; and all your life will be in fair proportion. Work for God first; and you will work for fellow-men; Self sinking into a reasonable background. But put self first; live for self; toil for self; and the whole of your life will be ill-balanced, crooked, out of order and proportion.

"You need not for a moment suppose that this high aim is incompatible with a useful and successful career on earth. Rather, it should help you towards success, because it should ensure a single-hearted devotion to labour. Surely a man ought to work better for God and for others than for himself alone. No more inspiring, no more grand and uplifting motive can be found than this—'To do the Will of God!'

"Was ever any life loftier than the Life of Christ? He said, 'I come to do Thy Will, O God!' We too, in our little measure, may say and do the same. If that be the ruling passion of your heart, 'To do His Will,' then no success will injure you, and no adversities will shake your firm foundation. Whatever your line of life may be, it makes no difference. Christ is there; and you have to do His will. He may give you success; or He may not. But one thing is certain. You will not do your work less well because you do it 'unto Him.' You will not live a less beautiful life because you live it 'unto Him.'

"Success is more commonly His Will for the diligent; and He bids us to be diligent. He would not have us feeble and indolent servants. He would have us strive our utmost. And suppose He gives to us success and wealth—what then? What of the money so gained? My friends, remember, 'No man liveth to himself!' And wait upon your God for orders. The silver and gold are His, not yours. Whether you have much or little, you hold it all in trust for Him; and you have to do His Will."

Felix walked out of Church with those words sounding in his ears—

"You hold it all in trust for Him, and you have to do His Will."

He said not a word to Lettice. Like Cecilia, he was reserved. They talked of other things at supper; discussed Lettice's troubles; and planned little changes in their mode of life together. Lettice was in gay spirits, joyous as a kitten; and Felix was thoughtful, but not sad.

That sentence clung to him still, "You hold it all in trust!" His savings were not strictly his own; they were only held in trust; and if he were called upon to spend more, to lay by less, why should he resist? Further than this he did not advance before bedtime; and then the old struggle recommenced. But in the last few hours he had learnt something, and he was stronger to fight. These persistent regrets were far from noble. They drove him at last, in the dead of the night, to prayer, and from his knees Felix arose, victor over himself.