Part 29 (2/2)

Yet in Lettice's case also the mischief had been done already. All who made a point of hearing and remembering the ill that is spoken of their fellow-creatures, knew what had been said of her, and retailed it in private for the amus.e.m.e.nt of their friends. The taint had spread from Alan to her, and her character suffered before the world for absolutely no fault of hers, but solely because she had the misfortune to know him.

That was Sydney's way of putting it--and, indeed, it was Alan's way also, for there was no other conclusion at which it was possible to arrive.

It was a great consolation for both these men that Lettice was out of the country at this time. Sydney wrote to her, hinting as delicately as he could that it was essential to her interests and to his own that she should remain abroad for at least two or three months longer. Alan wrote about the same time to Mrs. Hartley, telling her in detail what had happened, and entreating her to put off her return to London as late as she could. It was not a time, he thought, to hesitate as to whether anything could justify him in making such a request.

Mrs. Hartley was treating Lettice very well at Florence, and had no intention of letting her come back in a hurry. She did not see fit to tell her of Alan's letter, for her recovery had been very slow, and fresh mental worry appeared to be the last thing to which she ought to be subjected. Nor was Lettice made aware of anything connected with Alan and his troubles, although her companion heard yet more startling news within the next few weeks. Mrs. Hartley had come to be very fond of Lettice, and she guarded her jealously, with all the tyranny of an old woman's love for a young one. The first thing, in her mind, was to get rid of the nervous prostration from which Lettice had been suffering, and to restore her to health and strength.

”We shall not go back to London,” she said, in answer to a mild expostulation from her friend, ”until you are as well as ever you were.

Why should we? You have no ties there, no house, no friends who cannot spare you for a month or two. By and by you can begin to write, if you must write; but we shall quarrel if you insist on going back. What makes you so restless?”

”I am idle; and I hate to have nothing to do. Besides, how can one tell what is going on, so far away from all one's friends and connections? If one of your friends were in difficulties or danger, would you not wish to be near him (or her), and do what you could to help?”

”Of whom are you thinking, dear?” Mrs. Hartley turned round on her quickly as she asked this question.

”I put it generally,” Lettice said, looking frankly at her friend, but feeling hot and troubled at the same time.

”Oh, it was a mere hypothesis?”

”Well, no; it was not.”

”I am not questioning you, my darling. At least, I don't want to. But you can do no good to anybody just now--believe me! You must get quite well and strong, and then perhaps you can fight for yourself or for other people. I don't dispute your t.i.tle to fight, when and where and how you like; and if ever I am in trouble, the Lord send me such a champion! But get strong first. If you went out with your s.h.i.+eld this morning, you would come back upon it to-night.”

So Lettice had to be patient yet awhile.

CHAPTER XXII.

LETTICE TRIUMPHS.

But there was news of another kind which Mrs. Hartley did not conceal from Lettice. Her novel had been published, and it was a great success.

The critics, who already knew something of her literary powers, had with one consent written long and special articles about ”Laurels and Thorns,” hailing it as a veritable triumph. It was original, and philosophic, and irresistibly pathetic; the style sufficed to mark its author as one of the few novelists whose literary form was irreproachable. Perhaps the praise was here and there extravagant, but it was practically universal. And it was not confined to the critics.

The reading world more than endorsed it. Second and third editions of the book were called for within a month. Writers of leading articles and speakers on public platforms began to quote and commend her.

Most remarkable of all, her novel made a conquest of her brother Sydney.

He did not care for novels as a rule, but he read ”Laurels and Thorns,”

and was desperately interested in it. Perhaps the phenomenal success which had crowned it had some effect upon him; and Lady Pynsent wrote him a nice letter of congratulation, expressing a great desire to know his ”_distinguished_ sister.” At all events, the thing was done, and Lettice must now be definitely accepted as a writer of books. What chiefly puzzled him was to think where she had learned her wisdom, how she came to be witty without his knowing it, and whence proceeded that intimate acquaintance with the human heart of which the critics were talking. He had not been accustomed to take much account of his sister, in spite of her knack with the pen; and even now he thought that she must have been exceedingly lucky.

It will readily be supposed that the breath of scandal which had pa.s.sed over Lettice was in no way a drawback to the triumph of her book. The more she was talked about in connection with that sorry business, the more her novel came to be in demand at the libraries, and thus she had some sort of compensation for the gross injustice which had been done to her. One small-minded critic, sitting down to his task with the preconceived idea that she was all that Cora Walcott had declared her to be, and finding in ”Laurels and Thorns” the history of a woman who regarded the essence of virtue as somewhat more important than the outward semblance, attacked her vehemently for a moral obliquity which existed in his own vision alone. This review also stimulated the run upon her book, and carried it into a fourth edition.

Lettice's fortune was made. She had nothing to do for the remainder of her life but to choose where she would live, to take a house, to fill it with furniture, to gratify every reasonable want, on the one condition that she should devote herself to honest hard work, and give to her fellow-creatures the best that she was capable of producing.

It was all that her ambition had ever led her to desire, and it came to her at a time of life when her enjoyment was likely to be most keen and complete. Unless her own hand put aside the cup, it was hers to drink and to be satisfied.

And what did Alan think of it? She wondered dimly now and then if he had read it, and what he thought of the words that she had spoken out of a full heart to him and to him alone. Did he guess it? And would he ever know? She would have been answered if she could have seen him on a certain day in April, when she was in Florence and he in London town.

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