Sisters Three Part 15

"No--you say _no_? Lettice, this is a serious matter. Do you mean to tell me that you love Arthur Newcome, and wish to marry him? Think well, my dear. You know what it means--that you are content to spend your life with this man, to give up everything for him, to say good-bye to friends and relations--"

"Father, Miss Carr is here; you are all coming up for the winter; he lives here. I should not have to leave you!"

"You can't count on that, Lettice. Mr Newcome's business arrangements might make it necessary for him to leave London at any time, and it would be your duty to follow. Do you care for him enough to make such a sacrifice? If you love him you will not hesitate; but _do_ you love him? That is what I want to hear! Come, Lettice, speak; I am waiting for your answer."

"I--I--father, I do like him! I promised I would. I think he is very kind!"

The two elders exchanged glances of baffled helplessness. There was silence for a few minutes, then Mr Bertrand seated himself by Lettice's side and took her hand in his.

"My dear little girl, let us understand each other. Of course he is 'kind'; of course you 'like him,' but that is not enough; you must do something more than 'like' the man who is to be your husband. Do you care for him more than for me and Miss Carr, and your sisters and brothers all together? If he were on one side of the scale and we on the other, which would you choose? That is the way to face the question. You must not be satisfied with less. My dear, you are very young yet; I think you had better let me tell Mr Newcome that he is not to mention this matter again for the next two years, until you are twenty-one. By that time you will know your own mind, and, if you still wished it, I should have no more to say. You would be willing to leave it in that way, wouldn't you, dear?"

But Lettice did not look at all willing. She drew her hand away from her father's grasp, and turned her shoulder on him with a pettish gesture which was strangely unlike her usual sweet demeanour.

"Why should I wait? There is nothing to wait for! I thought you would be pleased. It's very unkind to spoil it all! Other girls are happy when they are engaged, and people are kind to them. You might let me be happy too--"

Mr Bertrand sat bolt upright in his seat, staring at his daughter with incredulous eyes. Could it be possible that the girl was in earnest after all, that she was really attached to this most heavy and unattractive young man? He looked appealingly at his old friend, who, so far, had taken no part in the conversation, and she took pity on his embarra.s.sment and came to the rescue. Two years' constant companions.h.i.+p with Lettice had shown her that there was a large amount of obstinacy hidden beneath the sweetness of manner, and for the girl's sake, as well as her father's, she thought the present interview had better come to an end.

"Suppose you go to the library and have a smoke, Austin, while Lettice and I have a quiet talk together," she said soothingly, and Mr Bertrand shrugged his shoulders with a gesture of nervous irritation, and strode from the room.

No sooner had the door closed behind him than Lettice produced a little lace-edged handkerchief from her pocket, and began to sob and cry.

"Father is cruel; why won't he believe me? Why may I not get engaged like other girls? I am nineteen. I was so happy--and now I'm miserable!"

"Come here, Lettice, and for pity's sake, child, stop crying, and behave like a reasonable creature. There are one or two questions I want to ask you. How long have you known that Arthur Newcome was in love with you?"

"I don't know. At least, he was always nice. That summer at Windermere, he always walked with me, and brought me flowers, and--"

"That was three years ago--the summer you came to me. So long as that!

But, Lettice, whatever your feelings may be now, you have certainly not cared for him up to a very recent period. I don't need to remind you of the manner in which you have spoken about him. When you saw that lit; was growing attached to you, did you try to show that you did not appreciate his attentions?"

Lettice bent her head and grew crimson over cheek and neck.

"I was obliged to be polite! He was always with Madge, and I did like--"

Miss Carr shut her lips in tight displeasure.

"Yes, my dear, you 'liked' his attentions, and you were too vain and selfish to put an end to them, though you did not care for the man himself. Oh, Lettice, this is what I have feared! this is what I have tried to prevent! My poor, foolish child, what trouble you have brought upon us all! Arthur Newcome will have every reason to consider himself badly treated; his people will take his part; you will have alienated your best friends."

"I am not going to treat him badly. You are very unkind. _He_ would not be unkind to me. I wish he were here, I do! He would not let you be so cruel." And Lettice went off into a paroxysm of sobbing, while Miss Carr realised sorrowfully that she had made a false move.

"My dear child, you know very well I don't mean to be cruel. I am too anxious for your happiness. Lettice, Mr Newcome is very much in love just now, and is excited and moved out of himself; but though he may not be less devoted to you, in the course of time he will naturally fall back into his old quiet ways. When you think of a life with him, you must not imagine him as he was yesterday, but as you have seen him at home any time during the last three years. You have mimicked him to me many times over, my dear. Can you now feel content to spend your life in his company?"

It was of no use. Lettice would do nothing but sob and cry, reiterate that everyone was unkind, that she was miserable, that it was a shame that she could not be happy like other girls, until at last Miss Carr, in despair, sent her upstairs to her bedroom, and went to rejoin Mr Bertrand.

"Well?" he said, stopping short in his pacings up and down, and regarding her with an anxious gaze, "what luck?"

Miss Carr gave a gesture of impatience.

"Oh, none--none at all! She will do nothing but cry and make a martyr of herself. She will not acknowledge that she has made a mistake, and yet I know, I feel, it is not the right thing! You must speak to Arthur Newcome yourself to-morrow, and try to make him consent to a few months'

delay."

"I was thinking of that myself. I'll try for six, but he won't consent.

I can't say I should myself under the circ.u.mstances. When Lettice has accepted him and cries her eyes out at the idea of giving him up, you can hardly expect the young fellow to be patient. Heigho, these daughters! A nice time of it I have before me, with four of them on my hands."

Punctually at eleven o'clock next morning Arthur Newcome arrived for his interview with Mr Bertrand. They were shut up together for over half- an-hour, then Mr Bertrand burst open the door of the room where Miss Carr and his daughter were seated, and addressed the latter in tones of irritation such as she had seldom heard from those kindly lips.

"Lettice, go to the drawing-room and see Mr Newcome. He will tell you what we have arranged. In ten minutes from now, come back to me here."

Lettice dropped her work and glided out of the room, white and noiseless as a ghost, and her father clapped his hands together in impatience.

"Bah, what a man! He drives me distracted! To think that fate should have been so perverse as to saddle me with a fellow like that for a son- in-law! Oh dear, yes, perfectly polite, and all that was proper and well-conducted, but I have no chance against him--none! I lose my head and get excited, and he is so abominably cool. He will wait a month as a concession to my wishes before making the engagement public, and during that time she is to be left alone. He is neither to come here, nor to write to her, and we will say nothing about it at home, so that there may be as little unpleasantness as possible if it ends as we hope it may. I had really no decent objection to make when he questioned me on the subject. He is in a good position; his people are all we could wish; his character irreproachable. He wishes to be married in the autumn, and if he persists I shall have to give in; I know I shall--you might as well try to fight with a stone wall."

"Autumn!" echoed Miss Carr in dismay. "Autumn! Oh, my poor Lettice! my poor, dear child! But we have a month, you say; a great deal may be done in a month. Ah, well, Austin, we must just hope for the best, and do everything in our power to prevent an engagement."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

LETTICE DECIDES.

For the next month, Lettice saw nothing of Arthur Newcome. He had packed up his traps and gone to spend the weeks of probation in Norway, where he would be out of the way of temptation, and have his mind distracted by novel surroundings.

No such change, however, fell to Lettice's share. Mr Bertrand would not allow the ordinary summer visit to Clearwater to be antic.i.p.ated. He had forbidden Lettice to mention the proposed engagement to her sisters as he was sanguine that a month's reflection would be more than enough to convince the girl of her mistake, when the less that was known about the matter the better for all concerned. As Arthur Newcome was out of town he could see no objection to Lettice remaining where she was, and Miss Carr agreed the more readily in this decision as she had made a number of engagements which it would have been difficult to forego.

Both were thinking only of the girl's welfare; but alas! the best- meaning people make mistakes at times, and this arrangement was the most unfortunate which could have been made, considering the object which they had in view. Lettice had nothing to distract her mind from the past, no novelty of any kind to keep her from dwelling on the gratifying remembrance of Arthur Newcome's devotion. On the contrary, her life was less bright than usual, for the Newcomes were naturally displeased at Mr Bertrand's objections to the engagement, and would not hold any communication with Miss Carr's household until the matter was decided.

Thus Lettice was deprived of the society of her best friend, and was forbidden the house in which she had been accustomed to spend her happiest hours.

Miss Carr did her best to provide interest and amus.e.m.e.nt, but there was a constraint between the old lady and her ward, which was as new as it was painful. Lettice was conscious that she was in disgrace. When her father fumed and fidgeted about the room, she guessed, without being told, that he was thinking of the proposed engagement; when Miss Carr sighed, and screwed up her face until it looked nothing but a network of wrinkles, she knew that the old lady was blaming herself for negligence in the past, and pondering what could still be done to avert the marriage, and a most unpleasant knowledge it was. Lettice had lived all her life in the suns.h.i.+ne of approval. As a little child everyone had petted and praised her because of her charming looks; as a schoolgirl she had reigned supreme among her fellows; her short experience of society had shown that she had no less power in the new sphere. Cold looks and reproachful glances were a new experience, and instead of moving her to repentance, they had the effect of making her think constantly of her lover, and long more and more for his return. Miss Carr thought she was vain and selfish--Arthur said she was the best and sweetest of women; her father called her a "foolish little girl"--Arthur called her his queen and G.o.ddess; Miss Carr sat silent the whole of the afternoon, sighing as if her heart was broken--Arthur had walked across London many times over for the chance of a pa.s.sing word. Other people were disappointed in her, but Arthur declared that she was perfect, without possibility of improvement! Lettice would take refuge in the solitude of her bedroom, cry to herself, and look out of the window wondering in which direction Norway lay, what Arthur was doing, and if he were half as miserable at being separated from her as she was at being left alone in London. Then she would recall the afternoon on the river, when he had asked her to be his wife. How terribly in earnest he had seemed. She had tried to say no, because, though she enjoyed his attentions, she had never really intended to marry him; but the sight of his face had frightened her, and when he had said in that awful voice, "Lettice, do you mean it? Is there no hope? Have you been making a fool of me for all these years?"--she had been ready to promise anything and everything in the world if he would only smile again. And he had been very "kind." It was "nice" being engaged. She had been quite happy until her father came, and was so cross.

If Miss Carr could have been her own cheery, loving self, and talked to the girl in a natural, kindly manner, still better, if she could have had half-an-hour's conversation with outspoken Norah, all might have been well; but Miss Carr was under the mistaken impression that it was her duty to show her disapproval by every act and look, and the result was disastrous. Every morning Lettice awoke with the doleful question, "How am I to get through the day?" Every night she went to bed hugging the thought that another milestone had been pa.s.sed, and that the probation was nearer to its end. By the end of the month her friends'

efforts had so nearly succeeded in making her honestly in love with Arthur Newcome, that they marked the girl's bright eyes and happy smiles, and told each other sadly that it was no use standing out further.

Arthur Newcome wrote to Mr Bertrand announcing his arrival in London, and asking permission to call and receive his answer from Lettice's lips, and there was nothing to do but to consent forthwith. An hour was appointed for the next afternoon, and Lettice spent an unconscionable time in her bedroom preparing for the great occasion, and trying to decide in which of her dainty garments Arthur would like her best. Her father had taken himself into the City after a conversation in which he had come perilously near losing his temper, and when Lettice floated into the drawing-room, all pale green muslin and valenciennes insertion, looking more like an exquisite wood nymph than a creature of common flesh and blood, there sat Miss Carr crying her eyes out on a corner of the ottoman.

"Oh, Lettice, Lettice! is it too late? Won't you listen to reason even at the eleventh hour? It is the greatest folly to enter into this engagement. Never were two people more unsuited to each other! You will regret it all your life. My poor, dear child, you are wrecking your own happiness..."

It was too bad! For almost the first time in her life Lettice felt a throb of actual anger. She had been docile and obedient, had consented to be separated from Arthur for a whole month, and done all in her power to satisfy these exacting people, and even now they would not believe her--they would not allow her to be happy. She stood staring at Miss Carr in silence, until the servant threw open the door and announced her lover's arrival.

"Mr Newcome, ma'am. I have shown him into the morning-room as you desired."

Lettice turned without a word and ran swiftly downstairs to the room where Arthur Newcome was waiting for her in painful anxiety. For three long years he had tried to win the girl's heart, and had failed to gain a sign of affection. Her acceptance had been won after a struggle, and he was racked with suspense as to the effect of this month's separation.

When the door opened, Lettice saw him standing opposite, his tall figure drawn up to its full height, his handsome face pale with the intensity of his emotion.

She gave a quick glance, then rushed forward and nestled into his arms with a little cry of joy.

"Oh, Arthur, Arthur! you have come back! Take care of me! Take care of me! I have been so miserable!"