Lettice

Godfrey waited till she was silent, but then, without giving the others time to reply, he went on. “It is premature for you to give any answer as yet. Allow me to go on with what I have to say, without interrupting me, till I have fulfilled my commission. Mr Morison also wished me to say that, if Arthur has any taste for business, he will give him a position in his firm such as he would to a son of his own, if he had one.”

Arthur’s colour rose, and he seemed as if about to say something, but he checked himself. Not so Lettice.

“Arthur is going into the army, like papa. He is going up for Woolwich next Christmas. That has been decided long ago.”

Again with ceremonious politeness Mr Auriol waited till she left off speaking. Then, without taking the slightest notice of what she had said, he proceeded, “Or, if Arthur chooses any other career, he will do his best to help him. I think that is the substance of what I have to say to you from your uncle. You will give me an answer before I leave – some days before, indeed – the day after to-morrow, suppose we say. It will be the greatest possible satisfaction to me if you accept your uncle’s invitation. If not, there is no time to be lost in arranging something else.”

“We are quite ready to tell you what we intend doing – now at once, if you choose,” said Lettice.

“Not now. I wish you to think it over, and consult together,” he replied. “And I must tell you frankly that what you intend doing is not the question. You may tell me what you wish, with all freedom; and if I can, I will help you to carry out your wishes. But if I do not approve of them, I am bound by every consideration to tell you so, and to forbid them. If this sounds very ungracious, I am sorry for it, but I cannot help it. Having undertaken a very,” – here he hesitated, and evidently substituted a milder word for the one that had been on his lips – “onerous task, I will carry it out to the best of my power. But it rests with you three to make it a painful or pleasant one.”

He rose as he spoke. Nina rose, too, and held out her hand.

“Thank you, Cousin Godfrey,” she said simply, “for all your kindness.”

Mr Auriol turned to Lettice.

“Will you, too, not shake hands with me, Lettice?” he said, with a tone in his voice which touched her a little.

“Of course,” she said, rousing herself as it were by an effort. “I can have no possible reason for not shaking hands with you. I am only bitterly, most bitterly grieved that we should be, and have been, the cause of such trouble to you.”

“Do not be bitterly grieved, then,” he said, smiling. “Give me the satisfaction of feeling I have been, and may be, of service to you. I am your kinsman; it is only natural. Be reasonable, and try to trust those who wish to be true friends to you.”

But at these last words he felt the hand, which he had held for a moment or two, struggle in his grasp, and with an almost inaudible sigh he released it.

“Will you give me the names, so far as you know them, of the tradespeople here, and your landlord, and so on?” he said gently. “I must make up as accurate a statement as I can. There is a great deal more to do at such times than you have any idea of;” and then he went on to explain some details – of which till now she had had no idea whatever – to the rather bewildered girl.

She replied meekly enough; and when he had got the required information, he went out with Arthur as his guide.

Chapter Four.

An Old Story and a New Secret

“Good nature and good sense must ever join; To err is human; to forgive, divine.”

    Pope.

It was the last evening of the young Morisons being all together at the Villa Martine, for Arthur was returning to England the following day. And a fortnight or so later, the sisters and little Auriol, under the convoy of old Bertha, were to follow him there. Lettice had gone early to her room. She was worn out, though she would not allow it, with all she had gone through during the last week or two. And since Mr Auriol had left, she had put less constraint on herself; she no longer felt the necessity of calling pride to her aid.

“I am so dreadfully sorry for Lettice,” said Nina, as she and Arthur were sitting together unwilling, though it was already late, to lose any of their few remaining hours.

“So am I,” said Arthur. “But I am sorry for ourselves too, Nina. There is no doubt that all our troubles are very much aggravated by Lettice.”

“Arthur!” exclaimed Nina. “What do you mean? How could we ever get on without her?”

“Oh, I know all that,” said the boy – for boy he still was, though nearly seventeen – weariedly.

“I know she is very good, and devoted, and clever, too; but, Nina, if she were but less obstinate and self-willed, how much happier – at least, how much less unhappy – we should be! If she had taken the advice of Godfrey Auriol, and made friends with our uncle – knowing, too, that mother wished it! Of course, I won’t allow to Godfrey that I disagree with her; at all costs, as you and I determined, we must keep together. But it is a terrible pity.”

“I don’t, however, see that for the present it makes very much difference, and in time Lettice may change.”

“Too late, perhaps,” said Arthur moodily. “It is just now that I think it does make such a miserable difference;” and as Nina looked up, with surprise and some alarm, and was just going to ask him to explain himself, he added hastily, as if eager to change the subject, “Do you know the whole story, Nina – the story of the old quarrel between my father and his family? I have heard it, I suppose; but I have got confused about it, though I didn’t like to let Godfrey see that I was so. Lettice has always been so violent about it, so determined that there was only the one way of looking at it, that it was no use asking her. And just these last days it has dawned upon me that I know very little about it. I have accepted it as a sort of legend that was not to be questioned.”

“I don’t know that there is very much to tell – not of actual facts,” said Nina. “Of course, it was all complicated by personal feeling, as such things always are. Mamma told me all; and lately, as you know, she regretted very much having not tried more to bring papa and his brother together. He, our uncle, was perfectly blameless, he was fifteen years younger than papa. Papa, you know, was grandpapa’s only son by his first marriage. His mother died young, and he, as he often said himself, was dreadfully spoilt. His father married again when he was about twelve; and though his stepmother was very good and nice, he was determined never to like her, and set himself against whatever she said, and fancied she influenced grandpapa very often, when very likely she did not. Grandpapa was in business, as, of course, you know, and very much respected, and very successful. He was of very respectable ancestry. His people had been farmers, but not at all grand. And he was the sort of man to be proud of having made his own way, and to despise those who tried to be above their real position. He had always determined that papa should follow him in his business; but, as might have been expected from a spoilt boy, papa wouldn’t; nothing would please him but going into the army.”

“Yes, I know that part of it,” said Arthur.

“There must have been stormy scenes and most miserable discussions. Any way, it ended in papa’s running away and enlisting, which by people of grandpapa’s class was thought a terrible disgrace. Then grandpapa vowed he would disinherit him, and he made a will, putting his little son Ingram entirely in papa’s place, and giving papa only a very small fortune. And always papa persisted in believing that this was his stepmother’s doing, though mamma has often told me they had no sort of proof, not even probability, that it was so. And the way she acted afterwards certainly did not seem as if she were selfish or scheming.”

“But,” interrupted Arthur, “all this has nothing to do with mamma, and she always said it was about her.”

“Well, listen,” said Nina. “Time went on. Papa behaved splendidly, and as soon as it was possible he got a commission. And a year or two after that, he became engaged to mamma, who was the daughter of a very poor and very proud captain in the regiment. Captain Auriol, our other grandfather, liked papa, but could not bear his being connected with any one in trade; and when he gave his consent to the marriage, he said, I believe, that he would not have done so had papa been in his father’s business, and that he liked him all the better for being no longer his father’s heir. Somehow papa’s stepmother got to hear of this engagement, and, knowing how poor mamma was, and thinking papa would be feeling softened and anxious about his future, she tried to bring about a reconciliation. Mamma, before she died, had come to feel sure the poor woman did her best. She got grandpapa – Grandpapa Morison – to write to papa, recognising his bravery as a soldier, and speaking of his engagement, and offering to reinstate him in his old position if he would now allow that he had had enough of soldiering, and would enter the business. He even said that, if he would not do so, he would still receive him again – him and his wife when he should be married – and make better provision for him if he would express sorrow for the grief and disappointment he had caused him in the past. This part of the letter must have been injudiciously worded. Something was said of mamma’s poverty, which her father and she herself took offence at, when papa showed it them, and consulted them about it – not that he for a moment dreamt of giving up his profession; but he was softened, and would have been glad to be friends again. Only, unfortunately, they took it the other way, and he wrote back a letter, under Grandpapa Auriol’s direction, which offended his father so deeply that things were far worse than before. And it was for this that poor mamma always blamed herself, and this was why she said it was for her sake papa had quarrelled with his family. It came to be true, to some extent; for Grandpapa Morison after that always put all the blame on her, and spoke of her very unkindly, which came to papa’s ears, and made him furious. And when his father died, a few years afterwards, he was surprised to find that even a small portion had still been left to him; and I don’t believe he would ever have taken it, poor as he was, but for a message that was sent him with the news of his father’s death, that poor grandpapa had left him his blessing before he died. I believe that he had to thank his stepmother for this, though she did not appear in it. She must have been frightened, poor thing, and no wonder. So the only communication was through the lawyer. And that, I think,” said Nina, with a sigh, “is about all there is to tell.”

“Thank you,” said Arthur. “Nina,” he went on, after a moment’s consideration, “do you think Lettice knows it all as clearly as you do?”

“It is her own fault if she doesn’t,” said Nina, which for her was an unusually bitter speech.

“She has had just as much opportunity as I have had for hearing the whole, except that, perhaps,” – and she hesitated a moment – “perhaps that from Philip Dexter I have heard more than she about how good Uncle Ingram is, through Uncle Ingram’s having married his aunt, you know. But, Arthur, if people will see things only one way – and Lettice can turn it so, when she talks about it she almost makes me feel as if it would be wrong and mean to look at it any other way.”

“I know,” said Arthur, with a still deeper sigh than Nina’s had been. And, indeed, poor boy, he did know. His next remark surprised his sister. “I wonder,” he said, “I wonder papa disliked the idea of business.”

“Arthur!” she exclaimed.

“I do. I’m in earnest. There is nothing I should like so much. Nina, promise, swear you won’t tell any one,” he went on boyishly but earnestly, “if I tell you the truth. I would have given anything to accept that offer. I have no wish to go into the army. I don’t think I’m a coward, but the life has no attraction for me. I’ve seen so much of the other side of it. I used to think, when papa was alive, I should like it. But now – I’m not clever, Nina. I’m awfully behind-hand in several of the subjects I shall have to be examined in; and oh, Nina, the very thought of an examination makes my blood run cold. I know I shall fail, and – ”

“But why – oh, why, Arthur, did you not say all this before?” cried Nina, pale with distress.

“I dared not, that’s the truth. I’m a moral coward, if you like. I did not realise it so strongly till Godfrey told me of Uncle Ingram’s offer, and then I felt how I should like business. I think I have a sort of cleverness that would suit it. I am what is called practical and methodical, and I should like the intercourse with different countries, and the interest of it. I suppose Grandfather Morison’s tastes have come out in me. And I should like making money for all of you and for Auriol, who is sure to be a soldier. But, Nina, I dare not tell Lettice. Think of all she would say – that I was false to papa, that I was throwing away the expensive education that has been so difficult to manage; all sorts of bitter things. No, I dare not. I have tried, and even at the least hint of misgiving, that I was not fit for the army – oh, Nina, I saw what it would be. No, I must go through with it till the day that I go up for the examination, and am – ”

“What?” said Nina.

“Spun, hopelessly.”

“But you will have other chances?”

“I can’t face them. I feel that I could never face it again. Even now I dream of it with a sort of horror,” said the poor boy, raising his delicate, haggard face. “And if I fail. Oh, Nina, sometimes I think I shall drown myself.”

“Arthur, Arthur, don’t speak like that,” said Nina imploringly. “Shall I tell Lettice? I will if you like – if you are sure, quite sure of what you say.”

Arthur laid his hand on her arm. “No, no, Nina. You must promise to tell no one. I must see. Perhaps I may get on better. Mr Downe thinks I should pass if only I were less nervous. Any way, we must wait a while. If it gets too bad I will tell you first of all, and ask you to tell Lettice.”

“And we shall see you again soon. It is April now. You will be with us all the summer. Oh, Arthur, I do hope things will go on quietly, and that Lettice will not oppose Godfrey any more. They are both so determined.”

“But he has right on his side.”

“Yes, I know. But you know, Arthur, she will be of age in less than a year, and then if she chooses to defy our guardians it may come to our being all separated. For think how many years it will be before the little ones are of age.”

“Lettice would never do that,” said Arthur. “In the bottom of her heart she knows she must give in. And she loves us all too much to go too far.”