CHAPTER III.

A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.

"I SHOULD like to help you, but how can I, if you do not tell me your trouble? Try to think of me as a friend," Mr. Kelly had said.

Lettice pondered over these words in the days following,—days full of preparation for the journey.

To other people it might seem that the whole bulk of the Andersons' possessions was not large enough to give trouble. Yet after six years' stay in one house, though only in lodgings, things could not have failed to accumulate. Where each item had to be considered, with reference to taking or leaving, much time might be consumed.

Cecilia was forbidden all needless exertion. She had to lie on her couch and direct others: and with the nervous excitement, not uncommon in ill health, she could know no rest. The near separation from Felix pressed upon her unceasingly; and relief from thought in bodily action was denied.

Lettice had enough to do, those days, carrying out her sister's wishes. She did it all uncomplainingly; toiled upstairs and downstairs; packed, unpacked, and repacked, to any extent. And had it not been for the weight of her new knowledge as to Cecilia's state, she would have done it all blithely, as well as uncomplainingly. That made all the difference. Courage did not fail now, but blitheness did. The strain of keeping up told upon her a good deal. She was cheerful enough, almost too cheerful, in Cecilia's presence; and Cecilia was jarred by this, even while noting a certain unnatural strain of manner.

"I should like to help you," Mr. Kelly had said; and Lettice wondered what kind of help he meant. Suppose she were to tell him all, as he had suggested; to open out the dread which had fallen upon her life.

Lettice was to some extent reserved, but it was by training, not by nature. The desire for sympathy and help from another grew upon her in those days. To break through Cecilia's barrier of silence she felt to be an utter impossibility; and Felix had refused to accept the truth—had almost refused to hear what she had to say.

But Mr. Kelly knew already; he knew from Cecilia's own lips how matters were; and he might even be able to assure Lettice that things were not so bad as she feared. She had not heard all, or nearly all, that had passed between him and Cecilia. Some word of hope might have fallen later, which she had missed, and which he could repeat.

Lettice dwelt upon this possibility, until it gained large proportions; and the formal call upon Mr. Kelly, which at first she had shrunk from, became a necessity. Questions of propriety had not yet begun to trouble Lettice; indeed, she counted herself still a child, and Mr. Kelly, albeit a bachelor, was on the highroad to forty. Her hesitation sprang from shyness, and shyness yielded to the stronger desire for comfort.

Mr. Kelly, returning one day from a round of visits among the poor, was told that somebody awaited him in his study; and, proceeding thither, he found himself face to face with Lettice.

"How do you do?" he said kindly. "Is this a good-bye call? I have just been to your lodgings, but your sister was not well enough to see me. They tell me that you leave in three days."

"On Thursday, if—"

"If she is up to the mark, I suppose. Do you think her getting on?"

"I don't know." Lettice looked at him with strange eyes.

Did he mean what he said? When he knew that Cecilia could never recover! Or did he still think, like Felix, in spite of all, that she might get well? She did not remember, perhaps did not know, that patients even when marked for death have still their ups and downs, and often seem for a time to be improving.

"Please, I have come to ask—? Would you mind telling me—?"

"Yes? Would I mind telling you—what?" queried the clergyman. "Anything that is in my power. Would you not like to sit down?"

Lettice shook her head, and stood firm, grasping the back of a chair. She was doubtful as to the extent of her own self-control, and flight would be easier thus.

"What is it that you want me to tell you? Something to do with—Come, what is it?" encouragingly.

"About—O you know," she said. "You know! About—"

"I am afraid I do not." Mr. Kelly had had a busy day, and a mind full of other matters, including worries innumerable. Even the fruitless call upon Miss Anderson had failed to bring up with any vividness his last conversation with her, or his after-suspicion that Lettice might have heard something of it. He had the train of circumstances in possession: but at this moment, they lay in the background of his memory, not quite ready to hand. He looked dubiously with gentle eyes upon the child, repeating, "I am afraid that I do not. Cannot you explain a little further? Just a word or two more?"

"You do, really. Please, please remember. That day when you said—said you would help me—if—"

"Yes. I would help you—if—Go on, Lettice." He had once or twice considered whether he ought to begin calling her "Miss Lettice Anderson," after Cecilia's intimation of her years: but the notion vanished now. She was such a mere pale child, with troubled brow and brave lips. "Poor little girl!" he said compassionately. "Now see if you can make me understand what is the matter. I said I would help you—if—yes, of course I will. If—what? I—I wonder whether—perhaps—there may be a little difficulty—I mean, a difficulty as to all the expenses of the move, and the journey. You must not mind my asking this. I should be so very glad—"

"O no, no! Not that! Nothing of that sort."

Lettice spoke hurriedly, conscious how displeased Cecilia would have been at the bare suggestion of pecuniary help. "O no, indeed! It is only—only about her! She told you—and I want so very very much to know—if—if it is true?"

Recollections were dawning now: and the sound of the sob, which had haunted him for hours, came back. He hoped no tears might be impending. Nothing made him more unhappy than to see a child cry.

"If you would please just tell me! I know something—but I think—I don't think—I am not sure—and perhaps—" Lettice strained one hand in a fierce pull against the other, as words struggled for utterance. "If you only would please understand—and tell me—"

"Has Miss Anderson been talking to you about herself?" cautiously asked Mr. Kelly. "About her health?"

"No."

"Or anybody else?" Another negative. "But you are anxious. Is not that it? Lettice, were you asleep that day, when she and I had a little talk, and she did not know you to be present? Last time I called. Were you really asleep?"

She shook her head.

"I am sorry. It was very wrong of you. Never listen to what you are not meant to hear. Surely you know that it is not quite—not at all honourable! Why did you not get up and come forward at once?"

"I couldn't!" She lifted her face sorrowfully. "I did not mean to do wrong, but I could not help it. I couldn't move. And then—Sissie—"

"But when your sister spoke, could you not have explained?"

"O no: she would have been so unhappy. It would have made her ill. And indeed I did not mean to listen. I only heard just a few words; and then—then I felt so strange—and then Sissie found me out. Please, I can't talk—only I do want just to know if—"

She hid her face in her hands.

"My child, I only know what your sister told me. Nothing more."

"But if—if—O please tell me—if—"

"If any hope exists still? I think that, in a certain sense, while there is life, there is always room for hope. Sometimes a doctor may be mistaken. Sometimes illness is lengthened out indefinitely."

"But you don't think—she can ever get—well?"

Mr. Kelly did not think so. Cecilia had spoken in no doubting accents; and he knew Dr. Rotherbotham to be a man of cautious speech. He stood in silence, uncertain what reply to make; and Lettice knew what the silence meant.

"I can only say that we must leave the future in wiser Hands," he at length uttered. "Impossible to look forward: and we are but children—not knowing what is best. Not able even to guess. Lettice, don't you think you want help for yourself—help for the carrying of this trouble? It comes heavily on you, poor child!"

He had no response.

"Your sister could not see me to-day; and she may not be equal to another interview before you go . . . But there is one thing that we can both do for her: we can pray . . . I wonder if you often pray! . . . She is in God's hands; and He is very near to us. Always near. We cannot speak without His hearing. He sees all your sorrow now, and He is grieved for you. Would it not be a comfort to ask His help? Shall we do so now?"

Then, as they stood, a few petitions were breathed forth reverently: the clergyman bending his head low, while Lettice never stirred. It was such prayer as seemed to take the absent one, and to lay her in Divine protecting Arms.

"Teach her the road to Thee; and so bring her safely to Thy Home of Peace; and comfort this poor child of Thine, for Christ's sake," were the closing words.

Lettice was conscious of a soothed sensation; even while the knowledge that he so fully accepted the hopeless condition of Cecilia's health brought sharper heart-ache. She was on the verge of a break-down, and might no longer trust her own voice; but this he could not guess, and her immobility perplexed him.

"I shall pray often for her and for you. That at least is in my power. And remember, if at any time you are in difficulties, and will write to me, I will do all that I can . . . Meanwhile, try not to look forward. Take each day as it comes, looking up for strength; and you will be carried through. Even now, if God wills, He is able to make your sister well again. And if—"

Lettice put out her hand. "Good-bye," she said. "Please let me go." The next word was more than she could endure.

The girl's hasty utterance drowned his "If not—," which was too far advanced to receive a check. He understood then, and paused compassionately.

"Please let me go. And—thank you so much!"

"Well, good-bye. But you are going to be brave, I am sure, for your sister's sake. Some day you will write, and tell me all about yourselves. Will you not? And I shall often see Felix."

Lettice gave him one glance of gratitude, and rushed away. Mr. Kelly turned back into his study, with eyes not perfectly dry.

With the day fixed for the journey came a heavy snowstorm, but Cecilia would not hear of delay. Everything was settled: boxes were packed; Dr. Bryant would expect their arrival. A restless desire to have the parting over, and to be off, possessed her. Moreover, barely enough money remained, to pay part of the landlady's claims, to meet the expenses of the journey, and to supply the present needs of Felix.

Dr. Rotherbotham had given a conditional leave for his invalid to start, dependent on her state and on the weather. That she should go off in a snowstorm was the last thing he would have desired or imagined possible; but all opposition went down before Cecilia's will. Felix, who alone might have resisted it successfully, did not recognise the peril. He suggested an appeal to the doctor, and this Cecilia forbade. She silenced Lettice, would not listen to Mrs. Crofton, and declared that go she must and would.

Felix saw them off. To the last, he talked gaily of the little future home. While Cecilia spoke few words, but held his arm in a voiceless clutch, till the boy glanced round, ashamed, to see if any one were looking. Cecilia had never in her life, since babyhood, been seen to weep, and no tears came now.

Lettice listened to her brother's talk, and to his frequent directions, with a bewildered brain. London—cab—porters—tickets—luggage: it all had to be seen to, and she was courageously bent on doing her best. But she felt that they were going out into a wide world, unprotected; and the end of the journey seemed incalculably far-away.

"You'll have to keep your wits about you, Lettice; not let them go wool-gathering. I have asked the guard to have an eye on you both; but you must not depend on Sis, and the guard will only go as far as Victoria. Sis isn't fit for worry; and I shall not be there: so you must see to everything. Mind you count the packages, and don't lose any. You always do blunder, if you can; but to-day you must not. And, remember, you belong to me; not to those people. Don't get too fond of Dr. Bryant."

"I'll try." She longed to say how impossible it was that she should ever love anybody like Sissie or Felix; but she could not trust herself.

A few minutes more, and the train moved. Cecilia leant back, with shut eyes and wan look. In this parting, she tasted the bitterness of death; and not even Lettice, seated patiently by her side, knew half that it was to her, because not even Lettice knew the extent of her idolising love for Felix.

Outside the two closed windows went on a whirl of snowflakes, and many were driven in through crevices; for third-class carriages are not commonly built for inclement weather. The cold was piercing. Hot-water cans cooled fast; and Lettice soon found herself shivering. She had nothing wherewith to occupy her mind; and they had the compartment to themselves. Cecilia never lifted her eyelids, nor uttered a word.

Haywards Heath, at last! Only Haywards Heath! The journey seemed interminable to Lettice so far: and a blank realisation came of all that lay ahead. They had to reach London: to cross to Paddington: to travel down to Bristol: and even then a country drive of unknown length remained.

Lettice glanced at her sister's face, and found no cheer there. It had not only a sombre, but a sunken look. If already thus exhausted, how would she bear the fatigues of the whole day?

"Sissie is thinking of Felix. She will make herself ill! If I could but comfort her!" murmured Lettice.

She drew nearer, and laid a hand on Cecilia's, lovingly. Demonstrations of affection between the two were not common: but to Lettice they were natural, only Cecilia's reserve kept her in check: and it was something unusual for Lettice thus to take the initiative. She had always been in complete and even childish subservience to her half-sister. Now she felt herself in charge of the invalid, responsible for her well-doing: and the little tender action came involuntarily.

It did not seem to be a success. Cecilia opened her eyes, drew her brows slightly together, and with an impatient gesture pulled away the hand which Lettice touched.

"Couldn't I do anything for you?" pleaded the younger girl.

"Only leave me in peace, if you please."

The sharpness of tone sprang from bitter pain, and Lettice knew it: but none the less, she found that sharpness hard to bear. Was not the same pain of parting hers? She too wanted comfort, and she might have found comfort in comforting Cecilia, had not that been denied her? The check was just the one drop too much, and tears came thickly, obscuring her vision as they fell. She was too much absorbed to hear the slight bustle of somebody stepping in at the further end, and she did not at first notice that the train was again in motion. It was needful to master herself, before Cecilia's attention should be drawn and this proved not easy.

Presently the fact dawned upon her that she and Cecilia were no longer alone. Somebody sat opposite to herself—somebody at first indistinct through the haze of tears, but taking shape in time as a girl several years older than herself, dressed in a navy-blue serge costume of severe outlines, a long black cloak, and a black bonnet with white strings. The newcomer had dark eyes and pretty rosy cheeks: and she was bending a little forward, to study Lettice.

"What is the matter, you poor little thing?" came in soft tones.

"Oh—it doesn't matter," said Lettice, endeavouring to sit upright and to assume a sprightly air.

"Everything matters that makes people unhappy."

"O no, I'm only—stupid. I'm always stupid."

"Are you? I should not have thought so. You don't look stupid."

Lettice tried to smile, but not successfully. The stranger came over to the seat by her side.

"Now tell me: I want to know what is wrong. Something must have distressed you just before I came in. You had not been crying long. What was it, I wonder? . . . Is that your mother or—your sister?—" in surprise. "I should not have guessed it. She has been ill, I see. Isn't this rather bad weather for her to travel?"

"She wouldn't put it off. Felix said she ought."

"Who is Felix?"

"My brother—in Brighton. Sissie can't teach any more, and so we can't stay in Brighton," explained Lettice, with childish frankness. "We are going to live near Bristol, with an uncle that I have never seen. And—Felix—"

Lettice stopped short, setting her teeth rigidly.

"And you have had to leave Felix behind? Is that the trouble?"

Lettice nodded, and said "Part," with difficulty.

"But not all. Perhaps your sister's health—"

That line of questioning had to be abandoned. She saw it at once, and stopped.

"Tell me a little about yourselves. Keeping up bravely is all right: but just once in a way one has to give in. Don't you think so? Wouldn't a good cry make you feel better?"

"O no—Sissie—"

"Would it distress her? But she doesn't seem to notice us. Perhaps she is resting. Now I am going to tell you who I am. My name is Nurse Valentine, and my business in life is to take care of sick people. So I have come to the right part of the train, haven't I? And my home is close to Reading. We can go through London together, if you like. Do you think you can trust me? I'm such a stranger."

"I don't feel as if you were a stranger . . . I did dread London!"

"You need not now. I'll manage for you both. What is your name?"

Lettice responded to questioning, and various particulars oozed out about herself, about Cecilia's illness, about the sorrow of leaving Felix, about the unknown Dr. Bryant. She did not definitely tell what she knew of Cecilia's real state: but the weight of foreboding which underlay all else was easily detected by Nurse Valentine's observant eyes, and its cause was soon conjectured.

The relief of free speech was great. Lettice's brow lost some of its strain, her eyes some of their forlornness: and Nurse Valentine's hand coming between hers was held tightly.

"I wish I had you for a friend," she murmured. "There's nobody to go to."

"There's always ONE, child," in hushed tones.

"Is there? But Sissie is too ill. I must not trouble her. And she never likes people to cry. And Felix—" Lettice had to set her teeth rigidly again. "And—and—I'm so—stupid."

"Never mind that; you are not too stupid to feel sorrow, or to need comfort. Don't you know Whom I mean? ONE is always near. You can't get beyond reach of God's loving pity, Lettice. If you have no other friend, you have Him."

A wondering look answered her. The thought seemed new.

"Try, next time you feel lonely, try speaking to Him, and telling Him your need . . . Now you are to curl yourself up in the farther corner; and you are not to look at anything or anybody till we get to London. I'll see after your sister."

Lettice was sure Cecilia would brook no interference from a stranger, but she could not say so in words, and Nurse Valentine disregarded protesting looks. She watched in fear from her corner Nurse Valentine's first move to Cecilia's side, saw her stoop and murmur something, and saw that the advance was not repelled. Then in the relief of shifted responsibility, she fell asleep.

"Lettice—"

"Oh, is it time to get up?" For a moment she counted herself in bed.

"Don't be in a flurry. We are close to Victoria. Lettice, must you go on to-day? You could not spend a night or two in London?"

"There's nowhere to go. And it would cost so much. Is Sissie—?"

"I don't think she is well enough for the full journey; but in that case, it must be risked."

Lettice became aware that Cecilia was not in the same state as when they had left home. Then she had stood about, and had even walked a short distance. Now she had to be lifted from the train to the carriage; and again at Paddington from the carriage to the train. She made no complaints, and scarcely spoke, but her face wore unmistakable signs of acute suffering. Nurse Valentine counted it very doubtful whether she would be able to reach Bristol that afternoon: and her busy brain revolved different schemes.

"I can't leave that child alone to sink or swim. It wouldn't be Christian. I don't know when I have seen a face that appeals to one more. Miss Anderson, I am afraid, is in a bad way. They seem given over into my charge. I shall have to go on to Bristol, or else take them home with me . . . Which is best, I wonder? . . . She isn't fit for the journey. Well, I shall see presently."

They drew near in time to Reading. Nurse Valentine knew this, from her acquaintance with the country; and Lettice seemed to guess it, intuitively.

"Must you leave us now? What shall I do if Sissie gets worse?"

Nurse Valentine moved away to bend over Cecilia. A few low words passed between them; and she returned to Lettice.

"No, my dear, I am not going to forsake you. Your sister cannot travel so far as Bristol to-day. I shall take you both to my home."

"Home with you?" Lettice's whole face changed, pallor vanished, and her eyes shone with delight! "Oh, how good, how good you are: I can never, never thank you."

"Hush, don't let Miss Anderson hear; it is the only plan; but I have not told her yet. I wish we did not live so far out of Reading—nearly two miles—but it cannot be helped. I shall leave word with our doctor in passing, and a telegram must be sent to your uncle."

"I can't think what makes you so kind to us."

"Cannot you?" The train was slackening speed; but Nurse Valentine lingered a moment. "I have a dear Master, Lettice, and I think He is giving me this to do. My work is only to obey. The trouble! Oh, that is nothing. People cannot do anything worth doing without trouble; and always to be trying to save oneself is so contemptible. Trouble was the last thing our Lord ever thought about, when He was on earth; and it ought to be our last thought also."

Lettice had the look of one gaining a glimpse into a fresh world.