Sisters Three Part 21

"That's my good girl!" said her father warmly; and they kissed each other with sympathetic affection.

Poor Hilary! She had need of all her courage to enable her to go through that morning's work. The servants received her orders with tears of distress and disappointment Norah came stealing out of the room with the news that Lettice had cried all night long, could not be induced to eat, and lay on her bed icy cold and trembling as if with an ague. Miss Carr was too much upset to be able to leave her bed, and Geraldine's straightforward questions were for once agonising to the listeners.

"Has Lettice been naughty?" she inquired. "Has Mr Newcome been naughty? Will she never wear her pretty dresses? Shall I never wear my dress? What shall we do with all the presents? Shall we have to send back the cake?"

"Oh, Mouse, be quiet, for pity's sake!" cried Hilary in desperation.

"If you ask any more questions you must go to bed. It's very naughty and unkind;" at which unexpected reproof Geraldine's eyes filled with tears.

"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, Hilary; I only thought if you didn't want it, perhaps Miss Briggs's sister in Scarborough might like some cake--"

"Come along with me, Mouse, and I'll give you a swing in the garden,"

said Mr Rayner, coming to the rescue for the twentieth time. His presence was a comfort to every member of the household, and Hilary could never think of that dreadful morning without recalling the quiet, un.o.btrusive way in which he watched over her, and shielded her from every possible aggravation. When afternoon came, he insisted upon taking her to a quiet little coppice near the gates, so that she should not be in the house at the time of Arthur Newcome's visit; but from their seat among the trees they heard the sound of wheels as the fly turned down the drive, and knew that the dreaded interview was at hand.

"Lettice begged and prayed not to see him, father says, but he insisted that she should go down. He said it was only due to Arthur. Fancy what it must be to the poor, poor fellow, to lose her at the last moment, and to have to go back to London and explain everything to his friends--when the house is ready, and all preparations made. I feel so angry and humiliated that I can't be sorry for Lettice. She deserves all she suffers!"

Mr Rayner did not answer; and they sat in silence for five or ten minutes, at the expiration of which Hilary stole a glance at his face, and ventured a timid question.

"Are _you_ sorry?"

"Sorry for your sister? Yes--intensely sorry!"

"You think I am hard--unsympathetic?"

"I think you are hardly in a fit state to understand your own feelings to-day. It has been a great strain, and you have kept up bravely and well."

Hilary's lip trembled, and she covered her face with her hands. "Oh, I don't want to be hard, but it does seem so dreadful! She had a whole month to think over it--and then to bring all this misery upon him at the last moment. I feel _ashamed_! Surely, surely, it is easy to know whether one cares or not. If I were engaged--"

"Yes?"

"Oh, I don't know--I should never, never promise to marry anyone unless I loved him with my whole heart; but when I did, I'd stick to him if the whole world were against us."

"I believe you would." Mr Rayner hesitated at the end of these words as if he were about to say something further, but the hesitation ended in silence, and presently Hilary leapt to her feet and began to pace up and down.

"Oh, let us walk about. I can't sit still. I am too nervous. If we go along this path we shall not meet anybody, and it will pa.s.s the time. I can't bear to think of what is going on inside the house." So for the next hour they walked up and down trying in vain to talk upon outside topics, and coming back again and again to the same painful theme. At last the sound of wheels came to their ears again. The fly could be seen wending its way down the country lane, and Hilary lost no time in running home to rejoin her father in his study.

He was standing with his arms resting upon the mantelpiece, his head buried in his hands, and when he turned to meet her, it struck the girl with a stab of pain that for the first time he looked old--an old man, tired and worn with the battle of life.

"Well?" she gasped; and he answered with a long-drawn sigh.

"Well--it is over! The most painful scene I have ever gone through in my life. He wouldn't believe me, poor fellow! Then Lettice came in.

He looked at her, and--the light died out of his face. It was very pitiful. He was brave and manly; would not blame her, or hear her blamed. I admired him more than I could have believed possible. He said very little. Stricken to the heart, poor fellow, and I could do nothing for him! He has gone back to town to stop preparations. I would have given my right hand to help him."

"Father dear! You look so ill! It has been too much strain. What can I do for you now? Let me do something!"

"Send in Rayner to have a smoke with me. How thankful I am that he is here. He is a comfort and strength to us all!"

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

THE SUNNY CLIMES.

The sun was shining over the lake of Thun, and the little steamer was puffing cheerily through the water. Behind lay the picturesque town, with its rushing river, and quaint, old-world buildings; in front lay-- ah! what a scene of beauty and grandeur! Surely, it were worth while to travel from the ends of the earth to see this marvellous sight. The blue waters, fringed with brilliant foliage; the trees in their autumn glory, the rowan-berries making patches of scarlet here and there, the solemn pines capping the mountain height, and at the head of the lake-- beautiful, dazzling, majestic--the snow-clad range of Eiger, Monck, and Jungfrau.

In all the beautiful world there can be few spots so beautiful as the lake of Thun, as seen upon a glorious September afternoon!

The pa.s.sengers on board the steamer displayed a special interest in an English party who walked up and down the deck. A father and three daughters; an elderly lady whose relationship it was difficult to guess, and a young man with a clever, sensitive face, who managed his crutches with marvellous agility, and who was obviously neither husband nor brother. The girls themselves received a full share of admiration from the French and German visitors who are in the majority in Switzerland in autumn. The eldest was so neat and dainty, with her pretty English complexion and trim little figure; the tall, dark girl was _spirituelle_ and uncommon; while the third had an air _tres chic_, and would have been quite _ravissante_ if she had been a trifle less pale and _serieuse_, but even the surprising beauty of the scene seemed powerless to bring a smile to her face.

It was chiefly owing to Mr Rayner's persuasion that Mr Bertrand had left Westmoreland on the very day after that fixed for his daughter's marriage. The painful duty of returning the wedding presents had been accomplished, and it was so distressing to all concerned to remain in a place where they felt themselves to be the subject of continual gossip, that they were thankful to get away to fresh surroundings. They had travelled straight through to Thun, engaging sleeping-carriages in advance, and had been ensconced for over a week in the hotel on the sh.o.r.es of the lake, taking daily excursions, and resting beneath the broad verandah, while, by common consent, no reference was made to the painful events of the past week.

"If we are going away, we must try to get as much good as we can from the change. What is past, is past. There is no use fretting over it any longer," Mr Bertrand had said; and Hilary found so little difficulty in following his advice and being radiantly happy, that she felt a pang of remorse when suddenly confronted by Lettice's pale face, and reminded thereby of her sadness and Arthur Newcome's suffering.

Lettice had ceased to cry, but she was very silent, and her eyes wore a strained, frightened look which it was sad to see in so young a face.

Everyone was studiedly kind to her, but Lettice was sensitive enough to feel the effort which lay behind the kindness. Norah alone was just as loving and whole-hearted as ever. Dear Norah! she had been shocked and distressed beyond measure, but how loyally she had kept her promise to help "every moment of the time"! During those two first awful days, what a comfort it had been to have her near; to clutch that strong, faithful hand when the others came into the room, and looked on from afar with cold, sad eyes! Norah was the same, but all the rest had changed. They had been grieved, shocked, humiliated by her behaviour, and though she was nominally forgiven, the chill ring of disapproval sounded in every word they spoke, and Lettice faded like a flower deprived of light and sunshine. Instead of gaining strength by the change she grew every day paler, thinner, and more ghost-like, until at last her father became alarmed, and questioned her closely as to her health.

"Does your head ache, Lettice?"

"No, father."

"Do you sleep well at night?"

"I think--sometimes I do, father. Pretty well."

"Have you any pain?"

Lettice raised her eyes and looked at him--a look such as a wounded stag might cast at its executioner. She trembled like a leaf, and clasped her hands round his arm in an agony of appeal.

"Oh, father, father! I am _all_ pain. I think of it day and night--it never leaves me. I think I shall see it before me all my life."

"See what, Lettice? What do you mean?"

"_His face_!" quivered Lettice, and was silent. Mr Bertrand knew that she was referring to the stricken look with which Arthur Newcome had left the room where he had received the deathblow to his hopes, and the remembrance brought a cloud across his own face.

"Ay! I don't wonder at that; but it will only add to our trouble, Lettice, if you fell ill--and we have had enough anxiety."

He was conscious of not being very sympathetic, but his feeling was so strong on the subject that he could not control his words, and when Lettice spoke again it was with no reference to herself.

"Father, do you think he will ever--forget?--get over it?"

Mr Bertrand hesitated. "With most young men I should have said unhesitatingly--yes! but I think Arthur Newcome will probably remember longer than most, though I sincerely hope he will recover in time. But at the best, Lettice, you have caused him bitter pain and humiliation, and, what is worse, have shaken his faith in women for the rest of his life."

Lettice gave a little cry of pain. "Oh, father! I want to talk to you.

I want to tell you how I feel, but I can't, while you speak in that hard, dry voice! Don't you see--don't you see that you are all killing me with your coldness? I have made you miserable, and have been weak, and foolish, and vain; but, father, father! I have not base wicked, and I have suffered most of all! Why do you break my heart by treating me like a stranger, and freezing me by your cruel, cruel kindness? You are my father--if I have done wrong, won't you help me to be better in the future? It isn't as if I were careless of what I have done. You see-- you _see_ how I suffer!" And she held out her arms with a gesture so wild and heart-broken that her father was startled, and caught her to him with one of his old, fond gestures.

"My poor child! My little Lettice! Heaven knows I have not intended to be cruel to you, dear, but I have been so worried and distressed that I have hardly known what I was about. You must forgive me, dear, and I will help you in every way I can. I do indeed see that you are miserable, poor child; but that I cannot help. It is only right that you should realise--"

"Father, I don't think you or anyone else can tell how intensely I feel it all. You know I have been a coward all my life--afraid to grieve anyone, always trying to avoid disagreeable things; and now to feel that I have ruined Arthur's life and wrecked his happiness, goes through my heart like a knife. And his poor, poor face! Father, I am too miserable and ashamed to be sure of anything, but I do believe this will be a lesson to me all my life. I can never, never be so cruel again! I will never marry now, but I will try to be a comfort to you, father dear, and do everything I can to make up for the misery I have caused-- only do, do love me a little bit. Don't everybody stop loving me!"