The question came acutely, bringing a shadow with it. For no brightness lay in the thought. Neither by bringing-up nor by after-conviction was Cecilia in any sense a religious woman. She had a philosophical way of viewing troubles, and a spirited fashion of making the best of things: and what was inevitable she would accept courageously. But death for her meant simply being cut off from her dearest ones—above and beyond all, from Felix! The land on the other side of the grave was, for her, not a Paradise of joy and reunion, but a blank existence of absence and forgetfulness. All her energies had been expended on this life: all her treasure was lodged in this world. She had only a faint confidence in a vague "Providence" to help her through the last straggle, when it should come.
It was not exactly fear that she felt, looking forward. On the whole, she counted that she had done her duty, and that things would not go hardly with her. She had kept up a respectable show of religion, going pretty often to church on Sunday morning, if wet weather did not offer an excuse for staying at home—though no rain kept her in on other days. She had a Bible in her room: not often opened. She had been scrupulously honourable as to her father's debts; strictly true in all her dealings: a hard-working, careful, and self-denying sister. Could more be required? She dreaded having to leave all whom she loved: otherwise she was prepared—or she thought so—to meet the last enemy bravely, as she had met many lesser enemies.
"I wish you would get me another shawl, Lettice. I am so chilly."
Lettice sprang up eagerly: rather too eagerly. A certain impulsiveness and rapidity of movement were natural to her; unlike the dignified ease which had always characterised Cecilia, and unlike the confident composure of Felix. The impulsiveness worried Cecilia, who had done her best to engraft her own manner upon the young girl, hitherto without success. They had never "suited one another," so completely as Cecilia and Felix "suited," but Lettice was scarcely aware of this fact. She was of a happy disposition, humble as to her own merits, passionately fond of Cecilia, and always sure that Cecilia was in the right.
It had become a received fact in the little circle, that Lettice, though well-meaning and affectionate, was hopelessly awkward and dull—a mere foil to her handsome and clever brother. Lettice acquiesced in this version of affairs as fully as any one. She never expected to be anything else than dull; and that her occasional gaucheries should arouse Cecilia's vexation was a matter of course. Lettice was always more annoyed with herself than Cecilia could be with her.
The hurried start to obey was a mistake. As she sprang up, she caught her foot in the rug, and stumbled against the couch—then, in her desperate effort to avoid coming down upon the invalid, she fell sideways towards the fireplace, striking her head sharply against the corner of the marble mantelpiece.
"Lettice!" Cecilia said reproachfully—aware only of the unpleasant jar she had herself received.
"You stupid child!" exclaimed Felix, with brotherly frankness.
Lettice pulled herself up slowly, and laughed—keeping her face turned away. "I'm sorry," she said, in a lively voice. "I didn't mean—I'll get the shawl—"
"Don't knock anything down by the way," said Cecilia, with some sharpness.