Lettice

by Mrs. Molesworth

“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.