“You funny old Lettice! Kind! of course he is kind!” cried Norah laughing, and kissing the soft, fair cheek. The flush of excitement had faded by this time, and the girl’s face looked pale and wan, while the blue shadows beneath her eyes gave a pathetic expression to the sweet face. “Lettice,” cried Norah anxiously, “how ill you look! You were excited before, and I didn’t notice it, but you are as white as a ghost, and so thin! Aren’t you well, dear? Have you a head-ache? Can I do anything: for you?”
“Oh, no, no!” Lettice stretched out her arms over her head with a long, weary sigh. “I shall be quite well now that I am at home, and with you, Norah. I have been tired to death in London lately. You have no idea how tiring it is to be engaged. I have stood such hours and hours at the dressmaker’s being tried on, and Arthur and I were always going to the house. The workmen are so stupid; they have no idea of colourings. The drawing-room was painted three times over before Arthur was satisfied. I was so tired that I would have left it as it was, but he is so obs—, he likes to have things done exactly in his own way, and worries on and on until he gets it. I thought it would be fun furnishing a house, but it gets a little tiresome when people are so very, very particular. We will have a nice lazy time, won’t we, Norah? Arthur is not coming up for three weeks, so we shall be alone and have no one to bother us.”
“Ye–es!” stammered Norah confusedly.
This novel way of regarding the presence of a lover was so amazing that it took away her breath, and before she recovered, Miss Briggs entered the room, and there was no more chance of private conversation for the present.
Nothing could have been sweeter or more amiable than Lettice’s demeanour during the first week at home. She seemed to revel in the simple country life, and to cling to every member of the household with pathetic affection. She went into the kitchen and sat on the fender stool, talking to the cook and inquiring for “your aunt at Preston,” “the little niece Pollie,” “your nephew at sea,” with a kindly remembrance which drew tears from the old soul’s eyes. She made dresses for Geraldine’s dolls, trimmed Miss Briggs’ caps, and hovered about her father and sisters on the watch for an opportunity to serve them. Everyone was charmed to have her at home once more, and fussed over her in a manner which should have satisfied the most exacting of mortals; but sweet and loving as she was, Lettice did not look satisfied. The grey eyes seemed to grow larger and larger until her face appeared all eyes, and her cheeks showed a faint hollow where the dimples used to play. One miserable night, too, Norah woke to find Lettice sobbing with her head buried in the pillow, and heard a pitiful repetition of the words, “What shall I do? What shall I do?” But when she inquired what was wrong, Lettice declared that a tooth was aching, and sat up in the bed and rubbed her gums obediently with a lotion brought from the medicine cupboard. Norah blamed herself for doubting her sisters word, but she could not help noticing that the toothache yielded very rapidly to the remedy, and the incident left a painful impression on her mind.
Norah was not the only member of the household who was anxious about Lettice’s happiness. Mr Bertrand had a serious conversation on the subject with his eldest daughter one morning when Lettice’s pallor and subdued voice had been more marked than usual.
“I can’t stand seeing the child going about like this. She looks the ghost of what she was five or six months back, and seems to have no spirit left. I shall have to speak to her. It is most painful and awkward on the very eve of the marriage, but if she is not happy—”
“Perhaps it is only that she is tired, and feels the prospect of leaving home,” said Hilary; and at that very moment the door was burst open and in rushed Lettice herself, cheeks flushed, hair loose, eyes dancing with merriment. She and Raymond had just played a trick upon unsuspecting Miss Briggs with magnificent success. She was breathless with delight, could hardly speak for bursts of laughter, and danced up and down the room, looking so gay and blithe and like the Lettice of old, that her father wont off to his study with a heartfelt sigh of relief. Hilary was right. The child was happy enough. If she were a little quieter than usual it was only natural and fitting under the circumstances. He dismissed the subject from his mind, and settled contentedly to work.
One thing was certain: Arthur Newcome was a most attentive lover. Lettice contented herself with scribbling two or three short notes a week, but every afternoon the postman brought a bulky envelope addressed to her in the small neat handwriting which was getting familiar to every member of the household. Norah had an insatiable passion for receiving letters, and was inclined to envy her sister this part of her engagement.
“It must be so lovely to get long epistles everyday. Lettice, I don’t want to see them, of course, but what sort of letters does he write? What does he talk about? Is it all affection, or does he tell you interesting pieces of news?”