Lettice

“Poor woman!” said Lettice gravely, “she has undertaken a hard task. I could almost find it in my heart to be sorry for her.”

Nina could not help smiling as she replied, “But it need not be a hard task, Lettice; not – not unless we make it so for her.”

“False positions are always hard,” said Lettice oracularly. “She is coming to take care of us, and we don’t want or need to be taken care of.”

Then, a moment after, she surprised Nina by asking her to write to Mr Auriol to tell him when they were starting, and when they expected to reach Faxleham, as she had promised to let him know.

“I am so tired,” she said, which was an unusual confession, “and I should be so glad if you would do it for me. Besides, he likes you so much better than me; he will be pleased to get a letter from you.”

“I don’t think he really likes me better,” said Nina innocently. “I am not clever enough for him. If he had met you – differently – I am sure he would have liked you best.”

Lettice did not answer. But a moment or two later, as she was leaving the room, she spoke again on the same subject.

“You’ll let me see your letter before you send it, won’t you?” she said. “Don’t be afraid that I shall be vexed if you write cordially. I don’t want him to think us ungrateful. It isn’t his fault.”

Nina could scarcely believe her ears. What could be coming ever Lettice? She wished Arthur were at hand to talk over this wonderful change, which she felt completely unable to explain. But it was not Nina’s “way” to trouble or perplex herself about problems which, as she said to herself, would probably sooner or later solve themselves. In this, as in most other characteristics, she was a complete contrast to her sister.

She wrote the letter – a pretty, girlish, almost affectionate little letter it was – and brought it to Lettice for approval. The elder sister read it, smiling once or twice in a manner that would have puzzled Nina had she been given to puzzling.

“Yes,” said Lettice, “it will do very well;” and she was turning away, when Nina stopped her.

“Lettice,” she began.

“Well?”

“I wanted to tell you – yesterday, when I was out with Bertha, we – I – met Mr Dexter. It is the first time I have seen him since our – our mourning.”

“I think it was very inconsiderate of him to speak to you in the street,” said Lettice. “Here, too, where everything one does is observed.”

“It was only for one instant,” said Nina, appealingly. “He asked me to tell you – they are leaving to-morrow morning – to tell you that he will call this evening to say good-bye, and he hopes he may see us.”

Lettice’s face had grown harder.

“I thought they were already gone,” she said, as if speaking to herself. Then second thoughts intervened. “I suppose we must see him. I don’t want to be rude. Besides, he is a friend of Godfrey’s. Yes; perhaps you had better tell Marianne that if he calls she can let him in.”

The permission was not too gracious, but it was more than Nina had hoped for.

“It is evidently for Godfrey’s sake,” she reflected. “And yet, when he was here, Lettice was so seldom the least pleasant to him.”

Philip did call. He was nervous, and yet with a certain determination about him that impressed Lettice in spite of herself, and she felt exceedingly glad to hear him repeat that he and his sister were leaving the next morning.

“I shall look forward to seeing you again, before very long, in England,” he said manfully, as he got up to go.

“I don’t know much about our plans,” said Lettice, and her tone was not encouraging. “We have only taken a house for the summer. I don’t know what we shall do then.”

“Faxleham is not so very far from my part of the country,” said Philip.

“Is it not?” said Lettice suspiciously; and she looked at Mr Dexter in a way that made the young man’s face flush slightly. He was one of those fair-complexioned men who change colour almost as quickly as a girl, and whose good looks are to themselves entirely destroyed by their persistent boyishness. At five and twenty he looked little more than nineteen.

“But I am not likely to be there for the next twelve months,” he continued coldly, and with a certain dignity. “My place has been let for some years, and the lease will not expire till the spring. No; if I see you at Faxleham or elsewhere I must come expressly.”

He looked at Lettice and she at him. It was a tacit throwing down of the gauntlet on his part, and angry as she felt, it yet made her respect the young man whom hitherto she had spoken of so contemptuously as a boy. She bade him good-bye with courtesy, not to say friendliness, much to Nina’s relief, and even carried her attention so far as to accompany him to the door, talking busily all the time of the details of his journey, so that, as she flattered herself, there was no opportunity for any last words between him and her sister. And as she went upstairs, where Bertha was already beginning the packing – such a sad packing! the hundred and one little possessions of their mother to cry over and wonder what to do with – all the bright-coloured belongings with which, full of the hopefulness of inexperienced youth, they had left England in the autumn, to consign to the bottom of the trunks and wish they could be put out of sight for ever – she said to herself, not without self-congratulation at her perspicacity, that it was evidently time for that to be put a stop to. And she would have been strengthened in her opinion had she known that at that very moment Nina, leaning sadly on the balcony —she had not gone to the door with Philip – was cheered by the sight of his face, as, passing up the street instead of down, certainly not the nearest way to his home, he stood still for a moment on the chance of seeing her again, and, lifting his hat, called out softly, not “goodbye” but “au revoir.”

Lettice wondered at Nina’s good spirits that evening.

“Evidently she does not, as yet, care much about him. She was so very young when she first met him – how unfortunate it was! – and was, no doubt, flattered by his attention. But she cannot but see how superior Godfrey Auriol is – how much more of a man– and then by-and-by it will be easy to suggest how mother would have liked it. One of her own name, and altogether so closely connected with her!”

And the imaginary castle in the air which Lettice had constructed for her sister’s happiness assumed more and more imposing and attractive proportions. Lettice had such faith in herself as an architect; she knew so much better than people themselves the sort of castle they should live and be happy in.

So that, on her side, Nina wondered at Lettice’s improved spirits during the last few days at Esparto, and even through the journey. For, besides the other recommendations of the project she had built upon such slender foundations, Lettice felt that there was a good deal of magnanimity in herself for approving of and encouraging such an idea.

“It shows I am not prejudiced,” she said to herself with satisfaction. “And if dear mamma could but know it, she would see how ready I am to sacrifice any personal feelings of mine when hers would have been concerned. For, of course, though Godfrey is not actually connected with the Morisons, he has entirely ranged himself on their side.”

We have wandered a long way from the evening of the arrival at Faxleham, but perhaps it was necessary to explain how it came to pass that the outer sunshine was matched by greater inward serenity than might, all things considered, have been expected.

It was, as I said, a most lovely evening. The drive from the station at Garford was through pretty country lanes, where the hedges were at their freshest, untouched as yet by summer dust, and the wild roses and honeysuckle were already in bud, giving promise of their later beauty. And to the young travellers, after their several months’ absence in different scenery, the sweet, homely beauty of their own country was very attractive.

“Is it not pretty? So peaceful and yet bright! Just think how mamma would have liked it!” exclaimed Nina; and, though Lettice did not speak, she pressed her sister’s hand sympathisingly.

The children, of course, were in ecstasies, though once or twice they glanced up at Lettice, half ashamed of their own delight; but she smiled back at them so kindly that they were quickly reassured; and a whisper which she overheard of Lotty’s gave her greater pleasure than she could have expressed.

“Lettice is getting like mamma,” the child said. “When she is so kind, she always makes me think of mamma.”

And Lettice always was kind when she felt thoroughly pleased with herself, as she did just now. If only her foundation had been the rock of real principle, and not the sands of passing moods and impulses!

“Don’t you think, Lettice,” said Nina, in a low voice, venturing a little further – “don’t you think we are going to be happy – at least, peaceful – here?”

Lettice had not the heart to repulse her.

“I shall be very glad, dear, if you feel so,” she said, “and I am sure I want to make the best of things. If – if there were not that unhappy Miss Branksome looming in the distance – in the nearness, rather! I know exactly what she will be like. I know those decayed gentlewomen so well. Tall and lank and starved-looking, always having headaches and nerves, and tears in her eyes for nothing, and yet everlastingly interfering. Of course, she must interfere. It’s her business; it’s what she’s there for.”

But before Nina had time to reply, the carriage stopped. They had reached their destination.

Faxleham Cottage was what its name implied – a real cottage. It had no drive or “approach,” save the simple, old-fashioned little footpath, leading from the garden-gate to the wide, low porch entrance. But unpretending as it was, an exclamation of pleasure broke involuntarily from the lips of its new tenants, as they stepped out of the carriage and entered the sweet, trim, and yet luxuriant little garden, gay with early flowers, not a weed to be seen, bright and smiling in the soft evening sunlight.

Lettice, too, felt the pleasant influence.

“How I wish mamma could see it!” was her unspoken thought. “If it were she who was to welcome us instead of – ” And as she went forward she glanced before her apprehensively, half expecting to see realised the unattractive personage she had ingeniously constructed in her imagination.

A lady was standing in the porch, and, as the new-comers came forward, she stepped out to meet them.

“I am so glad to see you all safe,” she said in a bright, pleasant voice. “I must introduce myself, but you know who I am?”

“Miss Branksome,” said Nina, always the ready one on such occasions, probably because her mind was never over occupied with herself or her own concerns. But, with her usual tact, she stepped back a very little, leaving Lettice, as the eldest, to shake hands first with the lady-companion.

And Lettice, to her own surprise as she did so, found herself thinking, “How pretty she is! She is certainly not like a decayed gentlewoman.”

Miss Branksome was very pretty; some people might think it better to say “had been,” for she was more than middle-aged; she was almost elderly. Her hair was perfectly white, and her soft face had the faint delicate pink flush that comes to fair complexions with age, so different from the brilliant roses of youth. Her eyes were bright, but very gentle in expression, and her figure was daintily small.

“She looks like an old fairy,” Nina said afterwards, and the description was not a bad one.

Everything that genuine kindliness, based on thorough good principle, and aided by great natural tact, could do to make the orphans feel as happy in their new home as was possible for them, was done by Miss Branksome that first evening. Even Lettice succumbed to the pleasant influence. It was new for her to be taken care of, even, as it were, petted, and it came so naturally to the bright, kind-hearted, active little woman to make everybody about her happy, or at least comfortable, that she could not help trying her hand on even the redoubtable Miss Morison, as to whom Mr Auriol had given her some salutary warning.

“You must be so tired, my dears,” she said, with the smiles and tears struggling together at the same time, “I thought you would like tea better than anything; and perhaps – this first evening – would you like me to pour it out?”

It was perfectly impossible to stand on one’s dignity or to keep up any prejudice with one so genuine and single-minded; and Nina’s heart was relieved of an immense weight when they all went to bed that night.

For some time everything went better than could have been hoped. By dint of her simple goodness, by dint, perhaps, of in no way planning or scheming to get it, Miss Branksome unconsciously gained Lettice’s confidence; and when Mr Auriol came down to see his young charges two or three weeks after their arrival, he was most agreeably surprised by the happy state of things. Not being above human weakness, he could not help congratulating himself on the skill which he had displayed in an undoubtedly awkward situation, though, at the same time, he was only too ready to give credit to all concerned.

“You have done marvels,” he said to Miss Branksome, who had been a friend of his from his childhood. “They all seem as fond of you as possible. Not that I had any fear for Nina or the little ones; only for – Lettice.”

“And yet of all, she, I think, has most gained my heart,” said the little lady. “She is so thorough; there is nothing small or ungenerous about her. Nina is very sweet; but if there is any triumph for me, or satisfaction rather, it is certainly with regard to Lettice. I feel so sure of her. I cannot quite understand your having found her what you described. Are you sure – forgive me now, Godfrey – are you sure there was no sort of prejudice on your side?” Godfrey’s face flushed.

“None whatever,” he exclaimed. “I met her as free from prejudice, from any preconceived idea even, as was possible. And the first time I saw her I thought her as charming and gentle as she is personally attractive. It all came out when the question of the Morison feud was raised. It seemed to change her very nature. You have not come upon that as yet, I suppose?”

“Not in the least. Of course I have no right to do so, unless she does; but she knows that I do not know her uncle and aunt, and that they do not know me. I think that has given me an advantage with her. At first I fancied she suspected, or was ready to suspect, that Mr and Mrs Morison had had to do with my being chosen, and I was glad to be able, indirectly, to let her see they had not.”

Mr Auriol seemed lost in reflection.

“I wonder when I should speak to her – to them all – about their uncle again,” he said at last. “He is so very anxious for some happier state of things, and he trusts to me to bring it about. Lettice could not be pleasanter than she is now, just like what she was at the very first. I wonder if I dare risk it?”

“Not yet,” said Miss Branksome. “At least, that is my impression. Let her not think that you came down this time with any purpose except to see how they all are. Leave it all a little longer to her own good sense. She might commit herself to some decision she would afterwards be ashamed to withdraw from, if you spoke of it all again before she has had time thoroughly to consider it.”

Mr Auriol shrugged his shoulders.

“She has had time enough, it seems to me,” he said. “However, I know you are wiser than I.”

Just at that moment Lettice and Nina joined them in the garden.

“We are going to fetch Auriol home from school,” said Lettice. “Would you come with us?” she added, looking up at her cousin.

“Certainly, with the greatest pleasure,” he said; and the three set off.

But they had not gone far when Lettice stopped and hesitated.

“If you won’t think me rude for changing my mind,” she said, “I think I would rather not go to-day. I want to write to Arthur.”

Nina looked at her in surprise, and a slight look of annoyance crossed Mr Auriol’s face. But Lettice did not see it.

“Of course it doesn’t matter,” said Nina good-naturedly. “But I don’t think you need be in such a very great hurry about writing to Arthur.”

“I want to write to-night,” Lettice repeated, “and I know Mr Auriol won’t mind;” and she smiled so pleasantly that the annoyance left his face.

“She is an odd girl,” he thought to himself. “However, it is as well perhaps that my walk is to be tête-à-tête with Nina and not with her. I might have been tempted to try the ground again in spite of Miss Branksome’s advice, and might have done more harm than good. With Nina I am quite safe.”

And, so far as Nina was concerned, the result of their talk was perfectly satisfactory. It was with a more hopeful feeling than he had yet had on the subject that Mr Auriol re-entered the cottage on their return from the walk to Gardon. He and Nina stood for a moment in the porch – they did not notice that Lettice was at an open window above, whence she could clearly see them, and for a moment or two Godfrey stood with Nina’s hand in his, her fair face, in which was more colour than usual, raised towards him.

“You may depend on me,” she said softly, “to do all I can. There is nothing – really nothing almost, that I wish so earnestly.”

“I am sure of it,” said Godfrey. “Perhaps, indeed,” he added with a little hesitation, “I understand more about what you feel than you think. Not that I think you are selfish, dear Nina. I think you one of the most unselfish people I ever knew, and,” – he hesitated still more this time – “he will be a happy man who wins you.”

Nina’s face was crimson by now. But she stood by her cousin a moment longer. He was leaving the next morning, and it might be her last chance of seeing him alone.

“Then I am to do what I can, and, in a sort of way, to report progress. You will come down again in two or three weeks?”

“Yes, and in the meantime I shall see Arthur;” and then he released her hand and she ran upstairs to take off her hat.

“Have you had a nice walk, dear?” said Lettice, who was waiting in their room.

“Very,” said Nina heartily.

“I think you and Godfrey are getting to understand each other wonderfully,” lattice remarked.

“Yes?” said Nina, with a happy little laugh.

“I almost think so too;” and Lettice, observing the flush on her face, congratulated herself on her generalship.

“She is evidently forgetting all about Philip Dexter,” she thought. “How pretty she looks! How nice it must be to be so sweet and attractive; not hard, and cold, and repellent, like me. But it is forced on me.”

And though she told herself things were going just as she wished, there was a little sigh in her heart as she kissed her sister on their way downstairs.

Chapter Six.

A Cavalier Reception

“Fell his warm wishes chilled by wintry fear, And resolution sicken at the view: As near the moment of decision drew.”

Trans. of Dante.

But things seldom turn out as even the most reasonable people expect. Much more than two or three weeks elapsed before Godfrey Auriol came down to Faxleham again. This was owing to a complication of circumstances – unusual pressure of business on him, for one thing, Lotty Morison’s catching the measles for another; and the difficulties in the way were yielded to more easily than might have been the case had the same urgency existed for bringing matters to a decision. But Mr Ingram Morison and his wife were early in the summer obliged to go for several months to an out-of-the-way part of Ireland, where some of Mrs Morison’s family lived, on account of sudden and serious trouble among them. So the question he, and, indeed, she, too, had so much at heart, was left dormant for the time, and Nina heard no more, except a few words of explanation which Godfrey enclosed to her in a letter to Miss Branksome.

It is an ill wind that blows nobody any good. Perhaps, had he known it, Godfrey did not lose in the good graces of his cousins during these rather dull and monotonous weeks. Nina, for more reasons than one, longed to see him, and would have made him most heartily welcome had he appeared. And even Lettice, though she had sturdily refused all offers of introductions to any families in the neighbourhood, would in her heart have been glad of some break in the tranquil round of their daily life.

She was disappointed, too, that Godfrey did not seem more eager to see Nina again, and there were times when Nina’s rather troubled and anxious expression made her tremble for the success of her scheme.

“If that Philip Dexter were to appear just now, there is no saying what influence he might again acquire over her,” she said to herself. “It is very stupid of Godfrey.”

But he came at last, though not till Arthur’s holidays were more than half over, and the lanes were no longer without their summer coating of dust, for it was an unusually dry season. The rain could not be far off, however, for the law of average required that the drought should be compensated for.

“There must be a break in the weather soon,” said Mr Auriol, the evening of his arrival, “and I suppose rain will be welcome when it comes. But, if it is not too selfish, I hope it will hold off for two days. I have never felt so tired of London in my life as during the last three weeks; and I do want to enjoy my breath of country air.”

“I am afraid you won’t get much air even here,” remarked Arthur cheerfully. “It has been stifling these two or three days.”

Something in the tone of his voice struck his cousin, and he glanced up at him.

“You don’t look very bright yourself, my boy,” he said. “You’ve not been working too hard, I hope?”

“He has been working rather hard even during the holidays,” said Lettice, though not without a certain complacence in her tone. “You know, Arthur is not merely to get through, cousin Godfrey, he is to come off with flying colours.”

“But in the meantime the colour is all flying out of his face,” said Godfrey kindly, and with concern. “That won’t do;” and Nina, whose own face had grown paler during this conversation, was startled on looking at her brother to see how white, almost ghastly he had grown. She was helping Lettice with afternoon tea, which in these fine days they were fond of having under a big tree on the little lawn, and she made some excuse for sending Arthur to the house on an errand.

“They will all think there is something the matter,” she whispered to him, “if you look like that;” though in her heart she would scarcely have regretted anything which would have brought to an end the unhappiness which she felt convinced Arthur was enduring, though she had not succeeded in getting him again to confide in her as he had done that last evening at Esparto.

“Arthur is really looking ill,” Godfrey went on. “And he seems so dull and quiet. Of course I have seen too little of him to judge, and the last time there was every reason for his looking very depressed – but even then he had not the same dull, hopeless look. He must either be ill, or – But that is impossible!”

“What?” said Lettice coldly.

“I was going to say he looks as if he had something on his mind.”

Lettice smiled with a sort of contemptuous superiority. “He has something on his mind,” she said, “as every one might understand. He is exceedingly anxious to do more than well at his examination, and he is perhaps working a little too hard.”

Mr Auriol was silent for a moment. When he spoke again he did not seem to be addressing any one in particular.

“I don’t feel satisfied about him,” he said shortly.

Lettice’s face flushed.

“I do not see, Mr Auriol, that you need feel uneasy about him if we do not,” she said. “It is impossible to judge of any one you know so little. Of course, naturally, Arthur is unusually anxious to do well. He knows it would half break my heart if he failed. He knows, what matters far more, that it would have been a most bitter disappointment to my father and mother. It is enough to make him serious.”

Mr Auriol glanced up quickly.

“Were they – were your father and mother so very desirous that he should go into the army?” he said. “I should rather have thought – ”