CHAPTER XVIII.

A NEEDED TOUCH.

"THREE months since I came! I seem to have been years in London,—years and years!" said Lettice aloud.

She had been busy all the morning over some mending for her brother: singing to herself as she darned and patched. To work for him was a pure delight, because she loved him, and because he was good to her. Lettice had fitted easily and completely into her new home, finding great happiness there. The dull little room, and uninteresting outlook, signified nothing. Perpetual cheer existed in perpetual freedom from Theodosia's rasping temper, in constant power to devote herself to Felix. She could often forget for hours together the unjust and cruel suspicion under which she still lay; and only the thought of Dr. Bryant weighed still.

He had written two or three times kindly, but with brevity; expressing no marked regret at losing Lettice, only trusting that she would be happy. What had passed between him and Felix, Lettice could merely conjecture. That a hot letter had gone off in her defence, she did know, though she had not been allowed to see it; and Dr. Bryant's temperate answer, while it made Felix "Pshaw" angrily, was quoted to her only in parts. Lettice knew thus much, that he still counted her guilty, and that his affection for her was not dead. Sometimes she feared that the cloud never would be lifted from her pathway in this life.

Once a boyish ill-spelt letter arrived from Keith, vehemently lamenting her defection. "It is horrid without you," he said. "There's nobody to talk to now, and not a scrap of fun." Lettice dared not answer the scrawl with any freedom, nor could she honestly say that she wished to be back.

After three months in lodgings, the Valentines were at length in their home once more. They and Lettice met frequently, spending many a spare hour in company. Prue was still the prime favourite of Lettice, but she heartily cared for them all; and Nan had dropped into something of her old awkward devotion to Lettice. Old Mr. Valentine once quaintly styled her his "outside daughter," and the name clung to her thenceforward. Wallace seemed to find particular pleasure in using it. Lettice was most willing to be his sister. Had he wished for a closer tie, he might have found the wish denied; since Lettice was too supremely happy in her new sphere, too entirely wrapped up in Felix, to give her heart easily elsewhere. But though Wallace liked to call, liked to chat with Lettice, and liked to show brotherly kindnesses, he failed to develop into a lover.

"I seem to have been years and years here," repeated Lettice, standing to look-out of the window upon the quiet street. It was a warm and bright day, with only the ordinary slight murkiness of atmosphere, which a true Londoner does not so much as perceive. Lettice, being not yet a true Londoner, did perceive it, with a transient recollection of the exquisitely clear air about her country home.

"But I would not go there again; oh, not if I could," she went on aloud. "I would do anything for uncle—anything; but until he believes in me again, I cannot make him happy. Being together is not real enjoyment. There is always a sort of shadow between us. And Mrs. Bryant—to live with her. Oh, no! And to leave Felix—so good as he is to me now—dear boy. And I am sure it is right for him—the best thing that could have been, even though it does mean not making money so fast. Prue says it will be the making of him, which is much more important. I want Felix to be a really nice man—a man that everybody may look up to. Who is coming now? I know that way of walking. Why, it is Bertha! Bertha herself."

Lettice ran out to open the front door, and Bertha presented a rosy cheek to be kissed. The two had never met since Cecilia's death: and those smiling eyes awakened a rush of memories. Not altogether sad memories. Lettice could not but feel how Cecilia would have rejoiced in the present arrangement.

"Bertha! How good of you! I knew you were to be at home for just one day, and I meant to leave you all to yourselves so carefully."

"And I meant not to be defrauded of a peep! Let me look at you. Yes, just as they say. The same, only more."

"More what?"

"Any agreeable adjectives that you like to string together. So you really are settled down with your brother—busy, and well, and happy! No need to ask if you are that."

"Sometimes I wonder if any girl is quite so well off as I am. Of course there are some things—I don't mean that I have every single thing in life I could choose. Only I do delight in being with Felix always, and having a little home so near all your dear people."

"I'm sure they are equally delighted to have you near."

"Sit down, please; if you can spare just a few minutes. And you are fond of nursing as ever? Not tired of it?"

"Tired! Never! Yes, I know what you mean by the 'something' that you want. Prue told me, of course. She knew you would not mind."

"About the bank-note?"

"It is a horrid shame, Lettice. That is all I can say. And you are the dearest little angel to bear it as you do. There—now you know what I think."

"Ah, you can't tell how I have often felt. Anything but angelic!"

"I can only toll how you haven't acted. I couldn't have borne it so in your place, that is certain. Never mind. Your brother understands, and so do we. So would anybody that really knows you, as mother and Prue and I do. Those people near Bristol don't signify. If I were you, I would just ignore their existence. A set of—"

"O no; I am very fond of uncle Maurice, and of Keith."

"So much the more shame for them. To treat you in such a way; you, with that dear little transparent face of yours. How anybody, with a grain of commonsense in his brain, could look at you for half a second, and believe that you could do such a thing—! It's perfectly insane!"

"I don't think your nursing-work has tamed you down yet," Lettice said, smiling.

Bertha's eager defence could not but be pleasant.

"It never will—if that means turning me into an automaton. I'm subdued enough in a sick room; but I hope I always shall have a little indignation to explode on injustice . . . Now I won't talk of that any more, or I shall be saying too much . . . Though I don't see that any blame could be too strong . . . To turn to something else. What do you think of Prue?"

"Of Prue?"

"Yes. Is she well? Is she happy?"

"She is always so good to me," said Lettice slowly. "And I think—one doesn't seem to expect Prue to be anything but well."

"Because she never talks about herself. She never contrives to draw attention to the matter. You don't hear Prue informing other people, unasked, how she has slept, and how she has eaten, and what are her latest sensations."

"No; that is it. Prue always seems to go quietly on just the same, whatever she feels. She does look very pale sometimes—and she is thin—but all this worry about the home—and the shock of the chimney falling—"

"My theory is different. Prue does not look as she should look: but I don't believe the chimneys have had much to do with the matter. I believe it is wholly and entirely Mr. Kelly."

Lettice opened her lips, and shut them again.

"Nothing but Mr. Kelly," repeated Bertha, watching Lettice critically.

"I never thought of such a thing."

"You know Mr. Kelly well."

"He comes to see us sometimes, not often. He has always been kind to Felix; and now I do a little work in the Parish for him."

"And you find him pleasant?"

"Yes—very. Why not, Bertha?"

"Does he ever speak of Prue?"

"Sometimes."

"But he does not show any especial liking?"

"He likes Prue, of course. Every one does."

"Don't you understand me yet? I am treating you as one of ourselves—and trusting you. Of course this is in strict confidence. But for Prue's sake, I thought I would ask you if you had noticed anything. Did you ever hear of the past time, when Prue knew him? Years ago."

"I know he is an old acquaintance."

"More than a mere acquaintance. For weeks we were thrown together, and he seemed to be definitely seeking Prue. I should have said there could be no mistake about the matter. And Prue gave him her whole heart. Poor dear! How happy she was! Then suddenly he drew back, and went away without a word. We lost sight of him for years. Prue suffered terribly, but she would not talk of him—would not allow any one to blame him. And I was as sure as she was that there must be some mistake—only, what could one do?"

"And you believe that Prue cares for Mr. Kelly still?"

"If Prue gives her love once, she gives it for ever. Don't you know her well enough to know that?"

Lettice sat lost in thought.

"The question is—does he care for her now?" Bertha went on.

"Bertha, I almost think he does."

"You don't imagine that he has taken to somebody else?"

"No."

Bertha saw that a certain conjecture in her own mind had not so much as penetrated into Lettice's thoughts; the idea of Mr. Kelly in connection with herself was non-existent.

"No," she repeated; "certainly nobody that I have come across. I don't know most of Mr. Kelly's friends, of course. But now that I think of it, I have noticed how he talks of Prue. I thought it was because she is such a friend of mine, only—"

"Men are not so accommodating. They don't understand the force of female friendships."

"But if he does care, why should he not speak?"

"Ah, there it is! He may not be sure of his own mind—he may still less be sure of Prue's mind. That self-restrained manner of hers is not easy to read. At all events, you know now how things stand."

"I wish he would! It would be only too delightful!"

"Well, you and I, of course, can do nothing. He must just please himself. Perhaps I feel a little more hopeful, after speaking to you—and I know it is safe! You will never breathe a word to anybody—least of all to Prue? . . . Tell me now all about yourself. I must not stay many more minutes."

After Bertha's departure, Lettice stood again, gazing out of the window, busied in consideration. She did not quite see why Bertha had said so much. It seemed that the conversation could lead to no particular result. As Bertha had truly remarked, they could take absolutely no steps in the matter. If Mr. Kelly did not come forward of his own free will, no living person had power to induce him to do so.

"And, after all, it may be a mere fancy," decided Lettice. "Mr. Kelly may have forgotten his old liking; and Prue may not really care any longer. Prue always seems contented."

Then, to her surprise, she saw Mr. Kelly himself in the street, apparently steering a straight course for the front door—Mr. Kelly, with downward-bent head and intent visage, evidently much occupied with some subject mentally viewed. Lettice did not open the front door this time.

"How odd that he should come now, just after Bertha's call! I have a great mind to make him talk about Prue, just for the sake of watching how he does it . . . Did Bertha think that perhaps I was getting to like him a little too well?" This idea flashed up unbidden, and Lettice burst into a soft fit of laughter.

"O how absurd! Then she really came in Prue's interest. Dear Prue! Why, he is old enough to be my father!"

"All alone, Miss Anderson?" Mr. Kelly surprised the laugh, only half completed; and he was not sure whether to be disconcerted, since it might be that she was laughing at him. "You seem very cheerful," he hazarded.

"O yes: I am as cheerful as possible," Lettice answered, composing her face with all speed. "Please sit down. I have a good part of the day alone, of course. And sometimes my own thoughts amuse me."

"Your mind to you, in fact, a kingdom is."

"Not always, I am afraid."

Mr. Kelly sank into profound silence. This was not his usual mode; and Lettice became speedily aware that he had something on his mind. He had been very friendly and pleasant of late, and she enjoyed a call from him; but the abstraction to-day became somewhat heavy. Lettice tried to get up a conversation, and there was no response. She spoke of Prue, and he only said, "Yes."

"I don't think Prue is looking at all well?" hazarded Lettice.

"No? Indeed?"

"For a long time past. Ever since I came."

"Ah, yes!"

"And Bertha thinks the same. Bertha has just been to see me."

"Yes, indeed," murmured Mr. Kelly.

Lettice gave up, and imitated his silence. For three minutes, at least, the noisy little clock had things his own way, undisturbed.

"Dear me, I'm afraid this is very unsociable," said Mr. Kelly at length. "I had no intention—I am sure—"

"I am afraid something must have gone wrong in the Parish."

"No, thanks; nothing at all. Nothing in connection with the Parish."

"Then, is it anything you would like me to do? Any work—?"

Another prolonged pause.

"Miss Anderson, you once came to me years ago, to ask a question—was it not to ask advice?" His memory was slightly at fault, but Lettice made no attempt to set it right. "I am come to-day, on something of the same errand—that is to say—to ask a question, for a particular reason."

"My advice would not be worth much."

"That may depend upon certain circumstances. If, for instance, you had better means of judging—"

Did he mean—Prue? The thought whirled through Lettice, producing an inward turmoil. Could it be? Yet, why should he come to her?

"Better means of judging—" reflectively repeated Mr. Kelly.

"If I have. Please ask me anything you like!" Lettice's cheeks were bright.

"It is, of course, in confidence. I may depend upon you—should there be no result."

"Quite!"

"Then, could you tell me this? Is there the slightest hope, that—say, under any circumstances—Miss Valentine might marry?"

"I don't see why not!"

"I imagined—that perhaps—she seems so entirely the home-daughter—"

"If it were for her happiness, how could they not be glad?" asked Lettice. "And they all love Prue so much! Everybody does, who knows her."

"As you know her!"

"Yes. I have never seen any one else like her."

A smile stole over Mr. Kelly's serious face, and vanished.

"She was once, I believe, engaged."

"Was she?"

"It was years ago, long before I first saw you. I knew her then, well. In fact—though I had not meant to reveal any personal interest in this question—I do not mind saying that she made a very strong impression on me then. But I was told that she was engaged; and I at once left the place."

"Fled! Without making sure if the report were true!"

"Perhaps I acted too precipitately. My information seemed reliable."

"It was not!" Lettice spoke decisively. "You were told what was untrue."

Mr. Kelly showed some slight agitation. "And all these years since—"

"All these years since, she has never been engaged." It seemed very strange to Lettice that Bertha's visit should have been just in time to prepare her for this interview. She could not but speak out, however, having the requisite knowledge.

"You are sure? It was a long while ago."

"I am sure: because I have heard particulars. Prue was not engaged at that time; and she has never been engaged since. I know so much, positively. There cannot be any mistake."

Mr. Kelly kept profound silence, and Lettice's heart beat fast. Would he ask any more? Had she said enough?

"Thanks!" came at length, and he stood up. "I must not pay a longer visit to-day."

"And this is all you wanted to know?"

"Yes, thanks. Of course you will not repeat this—this little talk of ours?"

"No, indeed. And I suppose I must not ask you one question in return. Would it be wrong? That impression—the impression Prue made upon you, all those years ago—I wonder if it has gone quite off? Do people change?"

"Some do!"

"I could not, if once I cared for anybody very very much."

"Nor I!" said Mr. Kelly.

She lifted her face to his, and said markedly—"Nor Prue!"

The light that broke over his face was very singular. Lettice had never seen anything exactly like it.

"Thank you very much," he said at length. "You have given me courage."

Then he was gone; and Lettice saw him striding off, at "double-quick-march" in the direction of the Valentines' house, that house which they had only reentered two days before. He would find things in some confusion; but what did that matter.

"I'm so glad I could say a word. If only he will come to the point!" murmured Lettice.

Three hours later, a note was left at the door, and Lettice read:

"DEAR LETTICE,—You must be the first to hear. Mr. Kelly has asked me to be his wife, and I have consented. He says it is your doing. Thanks, dear little 'outside sister.'—

"Ever your loving, "PRUE."

"Lettice, I say, here's a telegram for you."

Felix had overtaken the telegraph boy at the door, on arrival at the close of his day's work. Lettice looked up with dreamy eyes.

"A what! O Felix, I have such news! Guess—good news! What do you think is going to happen?"

"Can't tell."

"Mr. Kelly and Prue are engaged to be married."

"Time they should, if they ever mean to do it. I thought they would have dangled on to the end of the chapter. When did he speak?"

"Only to-day. Prue wrote at once to tell me. I am so delighted. Nothing could be nicer. And she will have a home so near to them all. But what do you mean? Did you expect it? How came you to think of such a thing?"

"How could anybody avoid seeing it? Here, what is this?"

"A telegram!" Lettice tore open the envelope and lifted scared eyes to her brother.

"Don't stare! What is it? Anything wrong?"

"Felix, I must go!"

"Go where?"

"Keith is dying." She sat down, trembling.

He looked over and read aloud. "Come at once; late train. Keith dying, wants to see you. Bring companion if needful. Will pay all expenses. No delay. Maurice Bryant."

"I must go directly. The very first train. Poor little Keith."

"Now, Lettice, be sensible! Don't upset yourself. It's no manner of use, and you'll only lose time. I will look-out trains, while you run upstairs and put your things together. You may have to stay a few days. There's a train, I fancy, about nine or ten. The boy is waiting, and a reply has been pre-paid. I'll say we are both coming. Yes, I shall go too. You can't travel alone at midnight."

"How good you are."

"I don't see much goodness in the question. There's nothing else to be done. That woman is having her deserts."

Lettice gave him a look, and rushed away. When she came back, he had settled everything, and was seated in the arm-chair.

"Supper will be up directly, but there is plenty of time. I declare it would serve the Bryants right if you did not go."

"I couldn't do such a thing."

"No; I dare say not. Only, it would serve them right."

"Felix, do you think you ought to come?"

"Why 'ought'?"

"If you feel so—"

"What! You think I might give Mrs. Bryant a piece of my mind?"

"You could not. You couldn't say anything unkind, when she is in trouble. And Felix, dear, you would not. I am sure of that. If you knew how she cares for that boy. It will almost kill her to lose him. O no; I am not afraid."

"I don't think you need be,—" in rather an odd voice. "But I do wonder what is the matter. I do wonder whether he may not, after all, get well!"

"Telegrams don't give very abundant information. You'll like to leave a message for the Valentines?"

"I had written to Prue, before you came in. I'll just add a word of postscript . . . What a day this has been. I am so glad for Prue! But oh, that poor little Keith! Felix, if you knew how loving he was to me before I came away: and how he said he would miss me. Oh, I hope we shall be in time!"

"Here comes supper. Now, mind, if you don't eat, you don't go!" Felix spoke with a determined air of authority.