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Title: Gwendoline
Author: Agnes Giberne
Illustrator: Joseph Finnemore
Release date: November 27, 2025 [eBook #77349]
Language: English
Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1905
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GWENDOLINE ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: GWENDOLINE WAS THE FIRST TO LIFT HER HEAD.]
GWENDOLINE
BY
AGNES GIBERNE
AUTHOR OF
"ANTHONY CRAGG'S TENANT," "STORIES OF THE ABBEY PRECINCTS,"
"THROUGH THE LINN," "NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOURS."
_With Three Illustrations by J. Finnemore_
LONDON
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
4 Bouverie Street and 65 St. Paul's Churchyard E.C.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
[Illustration]
Anthony Cragg's Tenant.
Illustrated. Crown 8vo,
2s. 6d.
Next-Door Neighbours.
Illustrated. Crown 8vo,
1s.
Stories of the Abbey Precincts.
Illustrated. Large crown 8vo,
2s. 6d.
Through the Linn; or, Miss Temple's Wards.
Illustrated. Crown 8vo,
1s. 6d.
Easy Lessons on Things around us.
Illustrated. Crown 8vo,
1s. 6d.
CONTENTS
[Illustration]
CHAP.
I. LONDON FOG
II. LADY HALCOT
III. GLADIOLUS COTTAGE
IV. THE ROCKS
V. AFTERWARDS
VI. GWEN'S HOME
VII. MR. FOSBROOK'S STORY
VIII. A CALLER
IX. AN UNEXPECTED PROPOSAL
X. WHAT HAD TO BE
XI. AMID NEW SCENES
XII. GWEN'S POSSESSIONS
XIII. TO AND ABOUT HONORA
XIV. AN ENCOUNTER
XV. CLOUDS
XVI. THE CODICIL
XVII. RICH TOWARD GOD
XVIII. LONELINESS
XIX. TO A POINT
XX. LINGERING ON
XXI. PARTING WORDS
XXII. COMING
XXIII. LADY HALCOT'S WILL
XXIV. THE OLD HOME
XXV. WINDINGS-UP
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
[Illustration]
GWENDOLINE WAS THE FIRST TO LIFT HER HEAD _Frontispiece_
SHE LEAPED BOLDLY IN, STRIKING THE RIGHT SPOT
LADY HALCOT'S KEEN BLACK EYES RAN SWIFTLY OVER GWENDOLINE
GWENDOLINE
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
LONDON FOG.
"YOU won't go into the city to-day of course, Stuart?"
The voice betrayed anxiety. It was breakfast-time, but gaslights shone
overhead, glittering on chased silver and on broad blue borders of
delicate china. Beyond the panes of the two windows only a dense yellow
haze was visible.
Mr. Selwyn looked up from a deluge of morning correspondence, following
his wife's glance. "It will lessen," he said tranquilly.
"Just this once," she pleaded. "Such a day! Could you not be content to
spend one day at home?"
"How about appointments, my love?"
"I daresay you have none of any importance."
"Gwendoline Halcombe, at twelve,—for instance."
"The pretty girl that we met in the Academy with her father? But that
need not take you out. You don't seriously suppose any lady would keep
an appointment in this fog."
The lawyer's grey eyes laughed pleasantly beneath their broad brows. He
was unlawyer-like in aspect, according to conventional notions, being
strong and upright in build, with ruddy colouring and particularly
straightforward expression.
"I don't for a moment suppose so of 'any' lady," he said. "I suppose it
to be not improbable in the case of Miss Halcombe."
"I do not like young women to be too independent,—very young and pretty
ones especially."
"Perhaps Miss Halcombe does not like it either. Independence becomes a
matter of necessity in certain instances,—with the eldest of ten, for
example."
"Is she that?"
"Ten is the number, I believe—ranging from nineteen to three in age."
"What made her fix on to-day?"
"She wrote and asked if she might have a few words with me. I named the
day and hour."
"Why not telegraph to put her off?"
"That is far from being my only engagement. Also, I could not reach
her. She will be at her painting in the Academy or Kensington, I don't
know which."
"Painting! Yes, you promised to take me some day to see her drawings.
She is clever, is she not?"
The lawyer was becoming absorbed in another letter. His wife surveyed
the window afresh, trying to glean encouragement thence. Failing to do
so, the conclusion at which she arrived was uttered aloud, with a sigh
of despair.
"It is perfectly awful."
"Eh?" said Mr. Selwyn.
"The fog! It is awful, Stuart."
"It is rather thick, but I have seen worse," mildly admitted Mr. Selwyn.
"If this is only 'rather,' I don't know what 'very' thick may be. You
will never get back from the city alive."
"That will scarcely be the fate of every city man. I hope I shall be
among the survivors."
"Oh, Stuart, don't joke about it. Suppose something really did happen."
She had been married only nine months, and was as yet unaccustomed to
the vicissitudes of the London atmosphere, after twenty-six years in
the clear air of a country village. There was something country-like
still about her soft plumpness and rosy cheeks. She was rather a pretty
little woman, over twenty years her husband's junior. Mr. Selwyn had
been married once before for a brief space, and had spent a long
widowhood before finding a second wife to his mind. He was still in the
prime of life, a lawyer in good practice, a man of considerable private
means, and a general favourite, greatly esteemed by all who knew him
for his unswerving rectitude and for his kindliness of heart. He had
one son, Mortimer by name, four or five and twenty in age.
"Never expect evils, Isobel. I am an old hand at fogs. But, as you say,
no need to jest. I have a note from Miss Withers. Lady Halcot desires
an interview."
"Halcot! Isn't she the old lady at Riversmouth, who gives you so much
trouble?"
"I should not like that description to reach Lady Halcot."
"Not very likely. I don't know any one belonging to her. And Miss
Withers is the lady-companion, is she not? I remember. What do they
want you to do?"
"I shall have to run down to Riversmouth to-morrow."
"So soon?"
"Lady Halcot expects me to-day. Impossible, unfortunately."
"I am sure I would rather have you go into the country than into the
city. There would be some likelihood of your leaving this horrible fog
behind you."
"Yes, but I am tied to city work to-day,—no help for it. I think the
fog shows signs of lifting."
"I wish I could see them," sighed his wife.
Mr. Selwyn went to his office as usual, only not so quickly as usual,
for traffic was under serious difficulties, and the promised "lifting"
of the fog took place but slowly. If other people kept to their
appointments that day, however, Gwendoline Halcombe unexpectedly failed
in hers.
Riversmouth was a seaside place within tolerably easy distance of
London, but it was by no means a seaside place of the fashionable
description. No railway station existed within four miles of the
village—called flatteringly by some of its inhabitants a "town." No
trim parade was laid down above or below the beetling low cliffs which
overhung the shingly beach, parted by only one sharp and narrow cut,
through which trickled a tiny brooklet beside a rough pathway. Houses
stood irregularly above, tier above tier, and two or three of the
oldest buildings jutted almost over the edges of the cliffs.
Lady Halcot, the aged owner of the land in and about Riversmouth,
strenuously resisted every attempt at improvement or "innovation;" her
one aim being to keep the place precisely in the same condition as she
had known it sixty or seventy years earlier. The traditions of her
family sternly prescribed "selectness," forbade admission of strangers,
discouraged popularity, abhorred excursionists, fought against social
and religious changes of any kind or description. The old lady strove
to carry out these traditions to the letter, and where she failed, she
lamented sorely.
That the place had so far increased as to possess two churches in lieu
of one was a distress to her, and no one yet ventured to suggest in her
presence the growing need for a third. She was regularly to be seen
each Sunday, once, if not twice, in the cushioned square pew of the
parish church, where her ancestors had sat from time immemorial; but
she had little to say to the Riversmouth clergy. The Rev. Charles Jay,
of the chapel of ease, she had always disliked and ignored, simply from
the fact that he belonged to a building the very existence of which she
deprecated. The Rev. William Rossiter, of the parish church, appointed
to it by herself some twelve years earlier, had long been honoured with
her friendship and confidence.
But three or four years ago a change had crept quietly over the dream
of peaceful parish slumbrousness, wherein the old lady delighted.
Nobody knew exactly when or how it began. Only, somehow, Mr. Rossiter's
placid moral essays grew into earnest expositions of Bible truth and
vigorous appeals to his congregation to repent and be saved; also
an active young curate came upon the scene, and Bible-classes were
started, and cottage-lectures sprang into being.
"Such things as were never even mentioned in my grandfather's days,"
Lady Halcot said in her disgust.
She remonstrated with Mr. Rossiter, but was met by a gentle resistance,
on which she had not calculated. Mr. Rossiter had reached that point
where the question becomes one of obedience to God rather than man. He
would have spoken of a change in himself, and in his views of work to
be done for his Lord and Master, but she would not listen. If he did
not choose to conform to her will, she had nothing more to say to the
matter—or to him. Mr. Rossiter was permitted only to bow and withdraw,
and from that day he was admitted no more at the Leys. He went quietly
on with what he believed to be his duty, scattering the Word of Life to
right and left, as he found opportunity, and meeting with much happy
encouragement at times. But he saw no more of Lady Halcot, except in
her pew and her pony-carriage. She vouchsafed him occasionally an icy
bow in passing; and she studiously placed every possible obstacle in
the way of his labours. It never occurred to her that she was thus
actually hindering work for God. The idea might have startled her, had
she looked it in the face.
No London fog had found its way to Riversmouth next day, when Mr.
Selwyn stood upon the eastern cliff, enjoying the strong sea-breeze. He
unbuttoned his greatcoat, threw back his shoulders, and drank in large
gulps of salt air, with a Londoner's appreciation of the same. Waves
below were tumbling in, one upon another, with reckless haste, as the
breeze helped onward the rapid spring-tide. There was not a gale, but
the wind possessed sufficient force to whisk off the white wave-crests,
scattering them in small spray around, and to wail weirdly among roofs
and chimney-pots. Rock-boulders lay upon the beach, where at intervals
in the past they had fallen from the cliffs above, and amongst them the
waves splashed roughly, swirling round, and drawing back, and leaving
trails of white foam to die upon the stones.
A zig-zag flight of narrow steps, guarded by a stout hand-rail, led
down the face of the cliff. Mr. Selwyn, standing at the top, had made
up his mind not to descend, when his eye was caught by a figure below.
"If it is not!" he ejaculated.
He paused for another look. The figure was that of a girl, standing
upon a low boulder near the margin of the water. Her ungloved hands
were clasped lightly together, and a grey closely-fitting ulster,
swaying in the breeze, encased the slim figure from head to foot. The
neat little feet showed below, and the little head wore a cap of the
same material as the ulster, from beneath which peeped short curly
brown hair.
"What is she after here?" asked Mr. Selwyn half-aloud.
He made his way down the steps with no further hesitation, strode over
the crunching shingles, and drew near. She glanced round at the sound
of footsteps, and turned to meet him with a gesture of surprise.
"Mr. Selwyn!"
It was a lovely face, oval and delicate, with large brown eyes like
those of a deer, liquid and wistful. The boyish shortness of the hair,
and the severe simplicity of the grey suit, rather enhanced than
detracted from the general effect.
"You here!" the lawyer said, in accents of unmitigated astonishment.
"I couldn't help it. I had the chance, and—I came. Was it wrong?"
"What chance?"
"Honora Dewhurst offered to bring me for two nights. It is just a
reviving breath. We work together at our painting, and she is my
friend. Mother said I ought to use the opportunity, but I could not
feel sure about the 'ought.' Still—a third-class return doesn't come to
so very much."
"No, no," Mr. Selwyn assented.
"Of course we can't really afford it," she remarked ingenuously.
"But then it is a question what one ever can afford. There is always
something else wanted which seems just as needful. If it comes to a
question of necessaries, I suppose one could 'do' in a hovel, with
dry bread and water. But, on the other hand, I can't afford another
illness, and I have felt like that lately."
"Time you had a change, then. How has the work gone on?"
"Which work? The 'stitch, stitch' never does go well. Mother and Ruth
have done my share as well as their own the last week, for I just
'couldn't.' And then my painting began to fail, and life was looking
awry, and I began to see it was time for a change, as you say; yet I
could not feel sure. Perhaps I ought to have fought on without it. How
is one to know which is the right thing to do, Mr. Selwyn?"
She looked at him questioningly.
"Generally by the exercise of common sense," he said.
"Is that always enough? Common sense sometimes points in two directions
equally. Mother would tell me to pray to be shown the right way."
He did not exactly smile. His was not a cynical face by any means; but
his expression for a moment was curious.
Gwendoline's brown eyes had a sudden flash in them.
"And mother is right," she said. "For what we want to do is God's
will—of course; and how are we to know what His will is, unless
He shows us? So it 'is' the exercise of common sense to ask Him!"
Gwendoline's bright eyes met Mr. Selwyn's steadily again, seeking to
discover whether he agreed.
Mr. Selwyn contrived to banish from his face any manner of decisive
expression. He did not wish to enter into a discussion upon this
question. "So you settled to come," he said.
"Yes, they all said I ought. And, besides, I had another reason—" She
stopped, and coloured brilliantly.
"Your journey prevented your coming to me yesterday, I suppose?"
"No; we did not start till the afternoon. I was near your office at
twelve; but I changed my mind."
Mr. Selwyn showed surprise.
"I changed my mind," she repeated, looking down. "It was only something
I wanted to consult you about, and just at last I decided not to ask
you. I thought you would discourage me, and I wanted to be free."
"You would rather not tell me what the 'thing' is?"
"I'll think about it. Not now, please," she said sedately. Then, with a
sudden change of manner, turning towards the sea, "Oh, that wave!"
She wrung her hands with delight, as a massive billow rolled in upon
its predecessor, rising in a broad green wall of water, and curling
over to fall with booming crash and hissing swirl.
Mr. Selwyn uttered a word of warning and stepped back.
Gwendoline did not move, and the foam rushed in a flood round her feet
and ankles. She said only, "There!"
CHAPTER II.
LADY HALCOT.
"WHAT are you going to do now?"
"I have only this pair of boots with me. It does not matter. Nobody
ever takes cold with salt water."
"You have shoes, I suppose?"
"Yes, but I couldn't stay indoors to-day."
"Where does your friend live?"
"Honora? She does not live here at all. We are visiting her uncle and
aunt—dear kind little old people, Mr. Selwyn, but not the very least
bit in any august circle of 'society.' It is a mite of a house, some
way from the beach. Honor is coming to me presently. I could not bear
to lose a moment of the sea."
"But you will go back now, and look to your wet boots," he said, with
polite persuasiveness.
She gave an impatient gasp, then said, "If I 'must—'" and turned to
spring lightly up the steps.
At the top they paused. "I wish I could go farther with you," Mr.
Selwyn said. "But I am due at the Leys."
"I wondered what you were here for. Oh, what a delicious little
carriage!"
The carriage, low and open, drawn by two exuberant ponies, went past
rapidly. An old lady sat beside the drab-liveried young driver,—small
and shrunken in figure, muffled well in ermine wraps, with thin snowy
hair, bushy grey eyebrows, and two bright black eyes, which scanned Mr.
Selwyn and his companion sharply.
Mr. Selwyn lifted his hat with an air of profound politeness, and the
old lady's head made a slight movement in acknowledgment of the same.
"Who is that?" asked the girl.
"Lady Halcot."
"It is! Mother wondered if I should see her. She looks—severe."
"She is severe."
"She has a splendid Roman nose,—if only she were a taller woman to
match it."
"When you are a famous artist, you may offer to take her likeness."
"Ah,—when!" she said, sighing deeply. "The poor old lady will scarcely
live so long. But I really am taking a likeness now—of Mrs. Hobbs, our
grocer's wife. She hasn't exactly classical features, and she wears an
astonishing cap. I am to have a guinea for it, however." Gwendoline
looked up laughingly.
"Most of us have to begin on the lowest rung of the ladder," said Mr.
Selwyn, liking her courage.
"I think I am glad to have seen Lady Halcot," she said abruptly. "I
understand better now."
Mr. Selwyn looked for more.
"About the state of things. You know I am a believer in physiognomy,
though not always in my own reading of it. But Lady Halcot has a face
easy to make out. If she made up her mind to any one course of action,
she would not soon swerve from it."
"Your knowledge of the past gives you fair reason for supposing so."
"I was not sure till I saw her face. But I am now. I am afraid I should
meet with a cold reception, if I ventured to call on her."
"I fear so, indeed. I could not recommend the step."
"Good-bye," said Gwendoline.
He shook hands and passed on.
Gwendoline stood still, sighing deeply once more.
"It will not do," she said. "No, it will not do. I have been indulging
in day-dreams. I am glad I did not mention my idea to any one. Things
looked different from a distance, but now I am here, I see it will not
do! I just 'couldn't' take any such step. Mother says one's way always
becomes clear, if one prays and waits. I suppose this is the becoming
clear of my way. It isn't what I wished and dreamed. But to go to the
Leys uninvited!—Oh, no! What was I about, to think of such a thing?
And yet—oh, mother, if I could but bring you ease somehow—anyhow! What
could I not bear for your sake, if only it were God's will!"
Half an hour later, Lady Halcot, having reached home, was seated in her
favourite arm-chair,—a large chair for so small a woman. The greater
portion of her time was spent in this plainly furnished morning-room
or boudoir, more correctly a study, since it contained two handsome
writing-tables, besides a davenport, and was almost lined with books.
The study proper, usually called "the library," was seldom used by her.
Divested of fur wraps, Lady Halcot might be found slightly deformed as
well as small. One shoulder was a little raised, and the shape of her
hands was singular, the knuckles being exaggerated in size. She sat
upright, making no use of her chair-back. The davenport, close beside
her, was covered with correspondence; and one of the said bony hands
wielded a pen rapidly, filling page after page with bold handwriting.
Opposite the old lady, at the largest writing-table, sat a light-haired
young man, of depressed look and generally timid aspect.
"You may address these for me," Lady Halcot said suddenly, tossing some
note-sheets towards him.
The young man's depressed look deepened into positive unhappiness. He
took the letters slowly, examining one after another in a hesitating
manner.
Lady Halcot surveyed him with her bright cynical eyes, and finally
broke into a—"Well?"
"I—I—am not quite sure—that is to say—I—"
"Ring the bell," said Lady Halcot impatiently.
The young man obeyed with a nervous start of response, and a
man-servant appeared.
"Call Miss Withers."
The servant disappeared, and presently came back with a deprecating
air. Miss Withers was out, and had not yet returned.
"Where is she gone?"
The man-servant was not aware. Lady Halcot looked at the young man for
information, and with a second start, he immediately turned over a
small inkstand, deluging two of the notes. He stared at the results of
his own awkwardness in blank despair.
"That will do for to-day," Lady Halcot remarked frigidly. "Give those
papers to me, Bryce. Take care, here is a sheet of blotting-paper. I
shall not require any further assistance this morning, Mr. Withers. You
had better remove the cloth, Bryce, immediately, or the table will be
ruined. Dear me, it is one o'clock. Mr. Selwyn will be here soon."
"Mr. Selwyn has just arrived, your ladyship," Bryce said, as he
gathered up the ink-bedewed table-cloth.
"Bring him here to me, at once. You may go, Mr. Withers," for the young
man seemed at a loss what to do. "Cannot you understand? I wish to see
Mr. Selwyn alone."
Mr. Withers in alarm bowed, and precipitately retreated. Outside the
room, his face assumed a boyish expression of relief, and he sped at
a headlong pace along the broad corridor. Passing below the draped
curtains which divided it from the entrance hall, he nearly ran down
a slim and quiet lady, over thirty, perhaps even over thirty-five, in
age, dressed with unexceptionable neatness, having calm light blue eyes
and smooth washed-out fair hair.
"Really, Conrad!" she said.
"I beg your pardon, aunt—didn't mean to hurt you. I'm sure I'm very
sorry," said the dismayed Conrad, staggering back from the collision.
"Where are you going?"
"I turned over an inkstand, and Lady Halcot ordered me off."
"You never get through a day without a blunder of some sort," the lady
said in hushed tones, moving with him towards the ponderous front door.
"Lady Halcot will grow tired of it soon, and dismiss you altogether."
Mr. Withers looked as if a worse event might happen, in his own
opinion, than such dismissal.
"Yes, that is all very well," she said. "But think what the
disappointment would be to me—and to your sisters. Remember, Conrad,
you have had difficulty enough before this in finding any work for
which you were fitted."
"I don't really think I am fitted for this," said disconsolate Conrad.
"Yes, you are, quite sufficiently, if you would determine to do your
best. You are not brilliant, but you have sense enough for all that
Lady Halcot requires," she said, lowering her voice to almost a
whisper. "What you have to do is to make yourself 'necessary' to her,
Conrad. You understand? Make yourself necessary in her every-day life.
You should be incessantly on the watch to forestall her slightest wish;
yet you must take care never to seem obtrusive. It is far more a matter
of tact and attention than of cleverness. If you let this opportunity
slip, you will never in life have such another."
Conrad Withers' expression was not responsive, but he said meekly,
"I'll try, aunt; I'm sure I mean to do my best." Whereupon Miss Withers
released him.
CHAPTER III.
GLADIOLUS COTTAGE.
MR. SELWYN went through a certain stage of perplexity in Lady Halcot's
presence, as to the immediate cause of his summons to Riversmouth.
Usually her plan was to plunge headlong into business, allowing scant
space for polite greetings beforehand. Now, for once, she seemed
disinclined to speak plainly, and showed an unwonted disposition to
"beat about the bush." Some minor questions were brought up, relative
to the management of her property, but these were questions which might
have been quite as easily discussed by post. Mr. Selwyn was perfectly
well aware that they had not yet come to the point. He began to doubt
whether after all he would get away by the early afternoon train, which
he had set down in his mental plan.
"You have Miss Withers still with you," he remarked, when a pause
occurred in the conversation.
"Yes, I have," responded Lady Halcot. "With me, and likely to remain.
She is an invaluable person. I can rely entirely upon her memory, and
my own plays me false occasionally. I suppose I must expect as much at
my age."
"You are to be congratulated, Lady Halcot, if it never played you false
until now."
"I do not say that, but my memory has been remarkably good. Time
was when I could read a stanza once through which I had never seen
before,—not a short one, either,—and repeat it afterwards without a
mistake. I cannot do so now."
"And Miss Withers' memory serves to fill up gaps?"
"Precisely so." She looked at him keenly. "You do not like Miss
Withers."
The lawyer made a slight deprecating bow. "Pardon me! Miss Withers and
I can boast but the barest possible e acquaintance with one another.
You appear to find her well suited to her post."
"She is exactly that—quiet and ladylike, always helpful, and never in
the way. I wish Mr. Withers were her equal."
"Your secretary?"
"He calls himself so. I allow him to hinder me in my work for two or
three hours every day, by way of giving satisfaction to Miss Withers.
She foretells that the hindering is soon to develop into helping. I
have my doubts, but I am willing to give him a fair trial."
"Miss Withers is a near relative of Mr. Withers?" the lawyer said
inquiringly.
"His aunt. He has two sisters, I believe, but no parents living.
Miss Withers seems to have acted a motherly part to the three. Very
praiseworthy, of course. Mr. Selwyn—"
Now it was coming! The lawyer looked expectant.
"Who was that charming girl upon the cliff yesterday—speaking to you? I
was not aware that you had friends in the place."
"She 'is' a charming girl—a London acquaintance, down here for two
days. We met accidentally on the shore," Mr. Selwyn said slowly, his
mind taking a rapid survey of the situation.
"I was struck with her appearance. A clever girl, I should imagine."
"Yes—in many respects, no doubt, and she certainly has marked artistic
talent."
Lady Halcot's withered face brightened with a look of interest.
"Talent?" she repeated. "Not genius?"
"Perhaps I should rather have said genius,—but really I do not know. I
imagine that she has power to originate, though at present she chiefly
copies. It is uphill work, and she is the eldest of a large family."
"What is her father?"
"A clerk, Lady Halcot."
"In your office?"
"No,—in a house of business. I have only seen him once. He is much
occupied, and has very poor health. I do not know what would become of
them all if he broke down."
"Then they are poor. What is their name?"
"They are poor unquestionably. If this young lady succeeds by and by—"
"As an artist!" Lady Halcot shook her head. "How old is the girl?"
"Not twenty yet, I believe."
"She may get butter to her bread by picture-making ten years hence,—and
possibly a competence twenty years later. That is all you can hope from
even first-rate talent. Possibly a competence."
"Some do better."
"Some have genius. Has she it, or not? That is the question. You do
not know,—no, but I could soon judge. How long does she remain? Only
till the day after to-morrow? And of course she has no pictures here.
I might be able to give her a helping hand, if there is genuine power.
I never lend my aid to passing off mediocrity for genius. We must
consider what to do. Meanwhile,—if you think it would be acceptable,—I
have no objection to sending a five-pound note to the parents."
Mr. Selwyn decided on his line of action. "I think, your ladyship, that
it would unquestionably be acceptable if sent direct from yourself,
with a few kind words accompanying."
"Very well. The name and address, if you please."
She passed a slip of paper and a pen. Mr. Selwyn wrote slowly and
handed it back.
"James Halcombe, Esq."
Lady Halcot read so far aloud, stopped, and lifted her black eyes to
Mr. Selwyn's face. Inwardly he was just a little nervous. Gwendoline
Halcombe interested him, and he was anxious to do his best for her; but
naturally he did not wish to offend his wealthy client.
"James Halcombe," repeated Lady Halcot.
"Gwendoline Halcombe's mother, and James Halcombe's wife, 'was' Eleanor
Halcot."
The old lady's start was irrepressible, and her hand shook, but she
said in a stern and unfaltering voice, "Then Eleanor Halcombe is dead?"
"No—she is living. I meant 'was' only in the sense of before her
marriage."
Lady Halcot folded the paper, and slipped it into a drawer, with hands
that trembled still. She was evidently vexed with herself for the
display of weakness.
"You may send the five-pound note for me, if you choose," she said.
"But it must be a strictly anonymous gift. I was not aware that you
knew these people, Mr. Selwyn."
"Mr. Halcombe called on me once to consult me upon a difficulty, and
his daughter has been two or three times since. Also, I have met her in
the Royal Academy and elsewhere. One is naturally drawn to a struggling
young artist."
Lady Halcot offered no reply. The luncheon-bell rang, and she rose
to lead the way out of the room. The express object of Mr. Selwyn's
journey had not yet been broached.
Gwendoline had truly described Gladiolus Cottage as "a mite of a
house." It had one tiny parlour in front with a single window, and a
tinier kitchen on the same level behind, and two bedrooms above, and
two sloping-roofed garrets at the top, one of which was the servant's
domicile, and the other a receptacle for lumber. Of the two best
bedrooms, one was tenanted by Mr. and Mrs. Widrington; the other was
reserved for guests.
Mr. and Mrs. Widrington had no children of their own. One little
baby had come and had vanished, in days long gone by, leaving tender
memories behind it. Mr. Widrington, after fifty or sixty years of
steady work, had made his little competence, and had retired into an
easy life, his chief trouble thenceforward being to know what to do
with himself. He had many a longing for his old city home and old
interests. The sleepy quiet of Riversmouth palled upon him, and the
rumble of carts and omnibuses would have been as music to his city-bred
ears. But the step, once taken, could not easily be reversed, even so
far as a home was concerned, and could not be reversed at all so far as
business was concerned.
Thus, Mr. Widrington found himself in for the somewhat tiresome leisure
of a healthy and objectless old age. Literally and actually objectless.
His leading aim through long years past had been to make enough money
for present needs, and to secure a sufficiency for comfort in declining
years. He had made enough; he had secured the sufficiency; and
declining years were coming upon him gently. What next?
That was the question. Mr. Widrington had no "next." He had attained
to his life-goal, and no loftier goal lay beyond. He was conscious of
this, and he was dissatisfied in the consciousness. Hitherto a pleasant
prospect had always lain ahead, in the shape of this same "comfortable
old age," spurring him on to exertion. He had lost the spur now, and
he missed the stimulus. The happiest old age cannot last for ever, and
Mr. Widrington began to dislike the thought of being an "old man," to
object to the term being used in respect of himself.
For there lay now no pleasant prospect ahead. Mr. Widrington was not
exactly troubled by fears as to his future. He counted himself to have
done his duty, on the whole, towards himself, towards his family,
towards his neighbours; and—towards God? Mr. Widrington did not care
to look very closely into that last question, but he hoped things were
all right, and he hoped to get to heaven somehow, a vague and shadowy
heaven, not particularly attractive to his imagination, only, of
course, desirable.
Thus, Mr. Widrington's hopes, as well as his heaven, were vague. He had
also a vague knowledge of his Bible, which he seldom read, and a vague
belief that Christ had died for men generally. But in all this he found
no real comfort for the future or joy for the present. How should he?
So Mr. Widrington, though to superficial observers seemingly a chatty
and contented old man, was in fact by no means a happy one.
The change of life to Mrs. Widrington was less severe. A stout little
old lady, good-humoured and kind, often ailing as to health, but always
even in spirits, she could be well satisfied with the mild excitements
incidental to "pottering" about the house all the morning, taking a
turn out of doors in the afternoon, knitting and sleeping through the
evening. The comforts of husband and household had been her aim during
nearly half a century, and that aim was before her still. She had not
even a wish for anything beyond this tame level of her existence.
A visit from Honora Dewhurst was a great event in their lives, and the
interest of the event was doubled by the presence of Honora's friend,
Gwendoline Halcombe.
"She 'is' a pretty girl, and there's no denying it," Mr. Widrington
said emphatically, as he and his wife awaited the return of the two
walkers to early tea; a primitive tea of bread and butter and cake,
shrimps, and water-cresses. "She's a downright pretty girl, and
uncommon nice too. Now there's Honor, as good and nice a girl as can
be, and clever too, there's no denying, for her pictures are amazing
good. But nobody ever called Honor pretty. The goodness is all of an
inside sort, and not of an outside—though it shows through, and no
mistake. But this young thing has got both, and there's no doubt she's
greatly favoured. For a pleasant outside is by no means a thing to be
despised."
"I wonder if they don't mean to come back soon. The tea will spoil,"
rather irrelevantly observed Mrs. Widrington, who, dressed in her best
black silk, was seated in her easy-chair, with the invariable knitting
in her plump round hands, and the invariable content on her plump round
face. Mrs. Widrington was better born than her husband, and forty-five
years earlier her family had counted the marriage a serious downward
step for her. Perhaps for a while she had felt it so herself. People
grow used to new levels, however, and Mrs. Widrington was most happily
accustomed to the platform upon which she stood. She looked up to
her husband with dutiful wife-like submission; and if in particular
instances she usually counted her own judgment superior to his, this
was not at all because of any original difference in social position,
but simply because she was a woman, and he was, as she would have said,
"only a man."
"There they come,—just in time," Mr. Widrington said, gently striking
his hands together, as he stood at the window. "Just you look, wifie;
now don't you call that a pretty picture?"
Mrs. Widrington moved to his side obediently. "But it's a dreadful
mess," she said.
The two girls were approaching at a quick pace, laden with spoils from
the seashore. Honora Dewhurst, a strongly-built and upright person,
four or five years Gwendoline's senior, walked steadily as well as
swiftly, looking little to right or left. But Gwendoline, dressed still
in her severe grey suit, seemed to be rippling over with frolicsome
enjoyment, and the sound of her clear laugh came through the open
window, and was matched by the half-dancing step. Honora's hands were
full of stones and shells, and Gwendoline bore a big pile of sea-weeds.
One long ribbon spray had been caught by the breeze and twisted round
her head, and the brilliant cheeks and merry eyes looked out from an
unwonted surrounding.
"She's better for the change already," Mr. Widrington said, and he
opened the door.
"We are not fit for the drawing-room," exclaimed Gwendoline. "Our
boots, Honora!"
"Now you are going to have some tea before ever you take one step
up-stairs," said Mr. Widrington decisively, avoiding his wife's eyes,
lest he should read disapproval. "Just you throw all that rubbish down
in the passage, and take off your cloaks."
Neither would consent to this manner of proceeding. Possibly they
saw the disapproval in another quarter, of which he preferred to be
ignorant. They vanished up-stairs, and speedily reappeared, Gwendoline
still in a glow of enjoyment, Honora quiet and staid, with her plain
strong face, and broad forehead.
"And you like the sea, my dear, eh?" Mr. Widrington said to Gwendoline.
"It is lovely, past words," she said. "If I could just live within
sight and hearing of it, I think I should want nothing else in life."
"It's lively, there's no doubt," said Mr. Widrington. "But it isn't a
cheerful sort of liveliness, by any manner of means. Now you'll think
me odd, maybe, but I'd a deal rather have a 'bus going past the door
every five minutes, than I'd look on the finest sea that ever was,—a
deal rather."
Gwendoline refrained from remark.
"Riversmouth is a pretty little place, and it has got capabilities.
Take some cresses? Yes, do, Miss Halcombe, and lay your butter on
thick, and have a little jam a-top; don't you stint yourself. Yes,
Riversmouth's a pretty place. But, dear me, as long as that poor old
lady is alive, the village will never grow to what it should be. Why,
it might become a first-rate watering-place of the fashionable sort in
no time; just lay down a double line of rail, and put up a station, and
have a good band and an excursion train or two in the week. Now that
'would' be lively-like."
The two girls exchanged amused glances. Honora Dewhurst knew of the
relationship between Gwendoline and Lady Halcot, though the Widringtons
did not.
"My dear, you needn't suppose anything of that sort is likely to be,"
Mrs. Widrington said. "There are ever so many things wanted in the
town, and nobody dares name them to Lady Halcot. She has everything her
own way, and not a man ventures to cross her will. She's regular queen
here, and that's what it is."
"I am afraid some of her subjects are in a rebellious state of mind,"
said Honora. "But as for excursionists, the longer the place can escape
that infliction the better. Here comes a visitor to disturb our meal."
"Mr. Selwyn!" exclaimed Gwendoline.
"A friend of yours, Miss Halcombe?" asked Mr. Widrington.
"Yes—at least, I know him. He is a friend really. He is down from
London for a few hours,—Lady Halcot's lawyer."
"My dear, you take an old man's advice, and you beware of lawyers,"
whispered Mr. Widrington very audibly, as the door-handle turned. "You
take my advice, and be warned. There's always a six-and-eightpenny
charge behind, sure as he takes a step in your behalf. And I may say
it, if anybody may, for I know it to my—"
"Mr. Sellon," announced the bewildered maid-servant, unused to so much
company.
And Mr. Selwyn entered, bowing and apologizing for the interruption,
but might he have a few words with Miss Halcombe?
"To be sure, to be sure, as many as ever you please, sir," Mr.
Widrington said eagerly, forgetting that he addressed a lawyer, and
delighted with a fresh addition to the party. "But we are having our
tea, and tea is a beverage that doesn't improve by keeping beyond a
certain stage,—not beyond a certain stage, sir,—and these young ladies
are hungry. So you just sit down, and take a cup of tea with us, and
then we'll all clear out—eh, wifie?—and leave you two in undisputed
possession of the parlour."
Mr. Selwyn was slightly troubled. "The parlour" was evidently the only
parlour, and he did not relish the idea of "turning out" its lawful
inmates, though he would much have preferred a few words alone with
Gwendoline. He sat down, however, and consented to take a cup of tea,
declining substantials. "I dine at half-past seven," he said.
"You will hardly reach home in time for your dinner," suggested
Gwendoline.
"Lady Halcot has persuaded me to remain over the night. I must leave by
the 7.20 train in the morning."
"Mrs. Selwyn will be disappointed."
"I am afraid so. I have just sent her a telegram."
After a few minutes of general conversation, he turned again to
Gwendoline, having decided to forego the private conversation. "I bring
you an invitation, Miss Halcombe. Could you dine at Lady Halcot's this
evening?"
"This evening!" The proposal seemed to take away her breath, and she
turned pale.
"You would dislike it?" asked Mr. Selwyn, while Honora watched her
gravely, and the old people were flustered at the magnitude of the
proposal.
"No—oh, no!—not at all. I am only—surprised," said Gwendoline, hardly
able to speak. She sat quite still for two seconds, putting a strong
restraint upon herself. "I will do exactly what you advise."
"I should recommend you to accept the invitation."
"To-night, at half-past seven?"
"Punctually. Lady Halcot never waits. I think you should arrive ten
minutes earlier."
"But I have no dress, except this."
Mr. Selwyn surveyed the dark tweed, neatly fitting, but almost devoid
of ornament. Heavy trimmings were just then in vogue, and he was dimly
conscious of something unusual.
"It must do, of course," he said. "I suggested that matters might be
so, and Lady Halcot said you could come as you were."
Gwendoline sat lost in thought, and Mr. Selwyn rose, with the air of a
man who has discharged himself of his office.
"Gwen, you had better open the front door for your friend," suggested
Honora, guessing that the two might wish for a few more words; and she
kept her uncle back, and shut the parlour door.
"What does this mean?" asked Gwendoline, laying her hand on the slab,
for she was positively trembling.
"It means simply that Lady Halcot desires to use this opportunity to
form your acquaintance, Miss Halcombe."
"How does she know that I am here?"
"She saw you with me on the cliff this morning, and has since inquired
your name."
"Strange," murmured Gwendoline. "I had a feeling when I came that I
might perhaps see her—might perhaps say a word about—"
"A word about what, if I may ask?"
"My mother, and our circumstances. But I found that it would be
impossible."
"I think you would be wise to count it impossible still," Mr. Selwyn
said with gravity.
"But if an opening came—"
"I think you will, in any case, be wise to avoid a single word which
might leave an impression that you were seeking anything from her.
Pardon my frankness," he said, as the colour rushed again into her
face. "I understand the state of affairs, and your true motive; but she
would not."
"Thank you, I will take care," said Gwendoline in a low voice. "I don't
suppose I should have dared, after all. I am frightened of Lady Halcot."
"Don't be afraid to-night," he said, shaking hands. "She is interested
in art, so you will have one subject in common. The carriage will bring
you home at half-past nine. Lady Halcot keeps early hours—excusable at
seventy-five. Good-bye."
"One word," said Gwendoline hurriedly. "Mr. Selwyn, do you suppose she
means anything by this?—Do you think it hopeful?—Do you think we may
count—for the future—"
"No," Mr. Selwyn said at once. "I should be wrong to encourage hopes.
What may come of it by and by no one can predict. At present I see no
signs whatever of any softening towards your family, though she is
disposed to feel some interest in yourself personally."
Gwendoline sighed. "Thank you—good-bye," she said; and she went back to
the parlour.
"Honor, would it be very rude of me to run away to the shore for half
an hour? I don't want to be nervous and shy at dinner, and a look at
the sea would give me back my balance." Gwendoline spoke beseechingly.
"You silly child," Honor said, smiling. "Yes, go, of course; only come
back in good time. I must find some lace for your throat and wrists."
"You don't mean to say you are a friend of Lady Halcot?" the old people
chimed in, with accents of respect and amazement. "Why, you are quite a
grand young person, my dear. Fancy never saying a word about it!"
Gwendoline laughed and vanished. "Her mother is Lady Halcot's cousin,"
Honora said quietly,—"first cousin once removed, I believe. But it had
better not be talked about in Riversmouth, please, uncle. Lady Halcot
has had nothing to say to Gwen's mother since her marriage with Mr.
Halcombe. I don't know who was most in the right or in the wrong. I
only know that the less said about the matter, the better pleased Lady
Halcot will be—and probably Mrs. Halcombe also."
"Trust a city man to keep a secret, Honor," said Mr. Widrington,
nodding his head energetically.
CHAPTER IV.
THE ROCKS.
HONORA came into the back bedroom ten minutes later, to find her
friend, attired in ulster and cap, gazing out of the window into a
little back yard.
"Dreaming, Gwen?" she asked.
"Yes," Gwendoline said, turning, with something like tears in her eyes.
"Doesn't it sometimes feel to you as if life itself were more than half
a dream?"
"No," Honora answered. "It seems to me altogether a tremendous reality."
"I know it is so. But sometimes I feel as if we were just leaves tossed
to and fro on irresistible waves of circumstances—straws carried away
on a strong current."
"Is Lady Halcot's invitation an irresistible wave?" asked Honora drily.
"Why not say no at once?"
"Say no! I am only too eager to go, only too frightened lest I should
make a mistake, and undo possible good for my mother and father by some
silly blunder. I can't guess what Lady Halcot wants or expects in me.
If I get a self-conscious fit, it will take away all ease; and if I
talk too much she will count me forward; and if I talk too little she
will find me dull."
"And if she does, what then?"
"You don't know how much may depend upon this evening, Honor," said
Gwendoline deprecatingly.
"You mean—"
Gwendoline's cheeks were burning again. "She ought to be kind to my
mother. She ought to be willing to help. I would not say this to
anybody except you, but mother was her adopted child for twenty years,
and everybody thought she would be heiress to some of the property. I
suppose she would have been, but for—but for—her marriage. Can it be
right for Lady Halcot to cast her utterly off?"
"I suppose your mother took her choice, Gwen," said Honora gently and
gravely.
"Yes, and it was not Lady Halcot's choice. But Lady Halcot allowed the
engagement for a time, and then refused permission, and turned against
my father. That is where the wrong lay. It was tyranny, Honor. Could
mother have forsaken him? Could you have given him up in her place?"
Honora moved her head negatively. "Had Lady Halcot a reason?" she asked.
"She had not known before that my father's family were so poor, and she
disliked some of his connections, I believe. It was nothing in himself.
She ought to have inquired more fully before giving permission. Once
given, she had no right to withdraw it,—for such a reason, at any rate."
"And she has held no intercourse with your mother since?"
"None; not a word or a message. She told mother that it would be so,
that if the marriage took place she would never see her or speak to
her again. Mother has not the faintest hope that she ever will. She
says she never knew Lady Halcot change in her purpose, or forgive an
offence. But sometimes I have thought that if I could see Lady Halcot,
I might persuade her to feel differently."
"She might be willing to help, even if she would not be on former
terms," said Honora. "This looks like a possible step in that
direction."
"If it only were—if it might be!" said Gwendoline, in a low voice.
"I have such a craving sometimes just to see a possible way out of
our difficulties. I feel like the man who was shut up in a room, and
saw the walls drawing slowly nearer and nearer, day by day, till at
last they crushed him to death between them. That story always had a
dreadful sort of fascination for me, and now I seem to see the walls
closing and closing in. And we cannot escape; and I can do nothing.
Lady Halcot could help so easily; it would be nothing to her. If I
stood alone, I could fight my way, and I would scorn to wish for one
farthing of her money. But the pressure is terrible now, and it gets
worse and worse. Mother is wearing out under it; and father—Honor, I
don't think he ever forgets that he is the cause of my mother being cut
off from ease and luxury."
"And you are looking to yourself to bring about a reconciliation? Gwen,
if I were you I would 'lift up mine eyes' higher."
Gwendoline was silent.
"The thing is not in your hands at all. It is in God's hands. The chasm
may be bridged over any day, if He so will. And He may will to use you
for the purpose. If not—"
"Ah!" sighed Gwendoline. "That 'if not' is my difficulty."
"Because you are bent upon having it your own way. But you cannot
choose. It must be His doing; and it must be done, inch by inch, as He
wills. Better be content to have it thus, Gwennie dear,—to rest quietly
under the shadow of His hand, and to let Him order things for you as
He sees best. The walls will not close in and crush you, if you are
waiting on Him to know the way out, but they may be allowed to come a
little nearer. And the way of escape may be other than this."
Honora spoke in an earnest manner, and she laid a hand lovingly on
Gwendoline's arm. It was a true and close friendship between the two,
and Honora had not only a warm affection for this fair young creature,
but a strong desire to shelter and protect her. Practically she could
do little, however. She was a portionless orphan herself, and had to
make her own way in the world.
"I ought to be able to trust," said Gwendoline. "We have always been
helped so far,—only when I look forward, and see things growing worse,
I am afraid."
And Honora said softly, "'Be not afraid;' 'Let not your heart be
troubled.' 'Trust in Him at all times.'"
She added, after a pause, "I suppose we are so changeable ourselves
by nature, that we really cannot imagine what absolute changelessness
means. Gwen, your Master will not love and care for you one whit less
to-morrow than He did yesterday. Only be willing to have things brought
about as He chooses, and then follow carefully each indication of His
guidance. The quieter you can be in heart, the less likely you are to
undo His will for you by rash action. He knows what is best."
"It does seem as if it would be so very much best for Lady Halcot to
forgive mother," said Gwendoline sadly. "Not that I like the word
'forgive.' I cannot think my mother was wrong."
"It might or might not be best. You and I don't know. Now you are
going to have your little run, and you will come back the better for
it. I wish I could go too, but I must not leave my uncle and aunt.
By-the-bye, I thought it best to speak plainly of your relationship to
Lady Halcot, that I might warn them not to talk. I know you do not wish
your affairs to be made the subject of Riversmouth gossip."
Gwendoline went off somewhat soberly, taking her course down the
crooked principal street, through the cliff-opening, and over the beach.
The tide was at its full height, and, indeed, was already on the turn,
and the breeze had somewhat increased in strength since the morning.
Waves of considerable size rolled in, to break upon the shore in
a succession of crashes, grinding the rounded pebbles. Three poor
children, neatly dressed, a boy and two girls, were playing near the
margin of the water, and two fishermen were loitering on the top of the
cliff; otherwise, the shore appeared to be deserted. Gwendoline, fresh
from city crowds, revelled in the sense of stillness, and delighted in
the freedom of being thus practically alone.
Somewhat to the right of the cliff-opening, a long line of jagged
rocks ran straight out into the sea. Gwendoline could not resist the
temptation to climb along them. She did not find the task quite easy;
for, though at low-water they lay high and dry, they were now a very
focus for splashing waves. Albeit a Londoner, she had a sure foot and
steady brain, and she feared no slips. A dash of fine salt spray now
and then was exhilarating; but she managed to keep her feet dry. At
the further extremity of the chain a huge square boulder rose well
out of the water, and here Gwendoline found for herself a comfortable
seat. One or two passers-by, noting her from the cliffs, counted her
rather an adventurous young woman, and were relieved to see her reach
a place of safety. A false step half-way might have entailed serious
consequences.
Gwendoline gave herself up to enjoyment—not exactly to thinking. Trains
of clear thought, definitely carried on, are not often induced by the
presence of Nature in her fairest moods. The mind is at such a time
rather receiving new impressions than working out old impressions.
Gwendoline was content to sit with clasped hands, thinking definitely
about nothing, but drinking in with her lips the sweet fresh air, and
drinking in with her eyes the varying blue tints of sea and sky, and
drinking in with her ears the grand bass chords and softer treble
accompaniments of the musical symphony played upon the pebbles by
breaking waves and splashing waters; while vague musings crept unbidden
through her mind. And the sense of restful trust in a Father's love,
which she had not quite felt while Honora was speaking, seemed now to
fill her heart.
"For He made all this," murmured Gwendoline. "How easy for Him to do
just what He wills!"
Gwendoline's dreamy happiness was suddenly broken in upon by a sharp
shriek. The little children on the beach, observing the movements
of the young lady, had apparently been fired thereby to follow her
example. Two of them were perched timidly on a rock at the beginning
of the range, and showed small inclination to proceed farther; but the
third, a boy of about seven, had succeeded in reaching nearly half-way
towards the end boulder. There his footing slipped, or his presence of
mind failed; for, with the scream which disturbed Gwendoline, he fell
over, still grasping a point of rock with both hands.
The children wailed piteously, and Gwendoline sprang up. "Hold
tight—hold on—I'm coming!" she cried, though doubtful whether her voice
would reach him through the ceaseless splashing of the water. And even
as she spoke, a large white-crested billow swept past, and the boy was
torn away.
The accident had been seen from the top of the cliff, and men were
hurrying down the steps, but Gwendoline knew there was no time to be
lost. She stood perfectly still, considering what to do. Would the
child be flung on the beach? For a moment she thought so, and then gave
up the hope—if hope it were, since such a manner of landing must have
been perilous to life and limb. The tide had by this time thoroughly
turned, and the flow of the stream was seaward. As the wave passed on,
to boom upon the shingles, the child was left behind, and the next
instant, in the strong return-rush of water, he was borne farther back,
to give a moment's sport to the following wave. Then he disappeared, to
rise again near the boulder on which Gwendoline stood.
She had not been idle. In that brief space of time, while her eyes were
strained in watching, she had flung off gloves, boots, and ulster, and
had even dropped the skirt of her dress. She knew well that her only
hope of keeping afloat, if the attempt proved needful, would be to find
herself as far as possible unencumbered. She could swim, having learnt
as a child, but she was entirely out of practice.
Would the little figure come within reach? Gwendoline gave a glance at
the shore, and saw help still distant. Then she knelt down at the edge
of the boulder; but that would not do. She flung herself flat, and hung
over, with outstretched arms, striving to grasp him, but in vain. The
waves, tossing him to and fro, seemed to mock at her efforts.
Down again into the green water the little form was helplessly sinking,
and another broad billow was rolling up. Gwendoline felt that one hope
only remained. She sprang to her feet, took one steady look, and leaped
boldly in, striking the right spot, and seizing the child. The two went
down together, and rose again, just as the big wave came up to catch
them in its grasp, rolling them over, bearing them on, then leaving
them in its rear.
Beaten and breathless, Gwendoline found her unpractised swimming powers
of small avail. She could just keep herself afloat, and that was all.
Even that could not be for long. Her best efforts were directed towards
holding the mouth of the unconscious child above the waves; but water
dashed over her own face, blinding and choking her. Would help never
come? Was this to be the end? Gwendoline thought of her mother, and
dimly pictured the coming sorrow in her home. Then she remembered Lady
Halcot, and even wondered what the old lady would think, not to see her
at dinner that evening. A vision of her last unfinished painting rose
next, surrounded by a halo of girlish aspirations, perhaps never to be
fulfilled. Again she found herself in the grasp of a powerful wave, and
she knew her strength was gone. All around grew dark, and she felt that
she and the child were sinking together. Yet in the deadly struggle for
breath there came sweetly the thought of One who had died on the cross
for her; for Gwendoline knew and loved and trusted Him, and He never
fails His own.
Then something grasped and drew her out of the water; and someone took
from her the little body to which she had so resolutely clung; and
somebody else wrapped a cloak round her, and laid her at the bottom of
the boat. Gwendoline was conscious of so much; and she even opened her
eyes, and saw the weather-beaten faces of three fishermen, and also a
grave face of a different stamp, bending over her. But after that, she
knew no more.
CHAPTER V.
AFTERWARDS.
"HONOR! Is the child safe? Oh, Honor!"
Gwendoline started up in bed to a sitting posture, suddenly awake to
the situation. She had been dimly conscious of her whereabouts for an
hour past, conscious of very sick and weary sensations, and of moving
figures around her; conscious also of an indefinite sense of fear from
time to time, which made her cling to her friend's hand for protection.
She had not, in her exhaustion, yet remembered what had occurred, or
thought of asking about the child. But as she lay half sleeping, with
the pleasant protectiveness of Honora's cool hand clasping hers, clear
recollection flashed all at once into her mind.
"Honor! What am I about? I had quite forgotten. Is the boy safe?"
"Keep quiet, Gwennie. You are under doctor's orders," said Honora.
"What doctor? Why, I am not ill."
"Mr. Fosbrook. You have been quite well the last hour, haven't you,
Gwen?"
Gwendoline's mind travelled back. "I had forgotten. But I am all right
now. How about the boy?"
"Mr. Fosbrook is with him. They are doing all they can," said Honora
gently.
"Then he has not come to yet? I did my best, my very best," said
Gwendoline sorrowfully. "I could not manage to hold the poor little
head higher; and that last wave nearly did for both of us, I think. He
was longer in the water than I. Is there no hope for him?"
"They do not give up hope. He may revive even now. If not, you will
still know that you did your utmost. The men cannot say enough about
your courage."
"Courage! That is nothing. I couldn't have stood by to see him drown.
Oh, Honor, if it has been useless after all! I do wish I had tried a
little harder."
"It was not possible. Don't take a morbid view of the matter, Gwen. You
endangered your own life for his, and you could not have done more. The
result must be in God's hands."
"Poor little fellow! I wonder if he has a mother," Gwendoline said.
Tears were dropping—a rare event with her; but she had been unnerved.
"Not a mother, I believe—only a sister who takes the place of a mother.
I have been too busy with you to learn particulars. I will go now, and
see how he is, if you can promise to keep yourself quiet meantime."
She found efforts being still carried on, with unremitting vigour,
as yet unsuccessfully. Mr. Fosbrook, a man of about forty, thin,
but well-knit, with sallow complexion and observant eyes, was alike
directing operations and taking an abundant share in them himself. His
assistants were Mr. Widrington and the three sailors. Mrs. Widrington
flustered hither and thither, procuring whatever was asked for, and
making numberless suggestions which nobody heeded.
No time had been lost, for Mr. Fosbrook had happened to pass at the
very moment of the accident, and he was himself the fourth man in the
boat which put off to the rescue. But the small figure lay still to all
appearance lifeless, and one and another was silently giving up hope.
Honora stood unnoticed for a few seconds near the door.
"I'm afeared it's all up with him, poor little chap," one of the men
said. "I don't see as it's much use keeping on."
"Nor I," said Mr. Widrington, though he did not venture to stop
rubbing. "I could tell from the first it wouldn't be no good. Trust me
to know! He's dead, wifie."
Mrs. Widrington put her handkerchief to her eyes. Mr. Fosbrook had
stooped low, to place his ear over the child's heart, and he stood up
now, with a sharp glance round.
"Keep on. Don't slacken for an instant. Heat more flannels! It is 'not'
all up with him."
"Do you mean to say he is alive, doctor?" exclaimed Mrs. Widrington. "I
shouldn't have thought it, now. Poor dear little man."
Mr. Fosbrook held again to the parted lips a tiny feather, brought
to him by Honora. "See," he said; and there was indeed a faint stir
visible.
"Why, so he is! Why, he isn't dead after all!" exclaimed Mrs.
Widrington. "Now I am glad. And that brave girl won't have risked
drowning for nothing. Do you think we may say he is out of danger,
doctor? I should like to send word to his sister, poor thing! And
wouldn't you like me to get some beef-tea or something ready? I
shouldn't wonder if the butcher's shop was open still, and Mary Jane
could run for a pound of beef. He'll want something when he comes to.
What do you think, Honor?"
Mrs. Widrington's excited little patter of talk seemed to be unheard by
Mr. Fosbrook, but at the last word he turned himself about.
"Miss Halcombe doing well?" he asked, looking at Honora.
"She is quite herself, and very anxious about the child."
"Tell her there are signs of life. I hope we shall bring him round yet."
Honora went swiftly back to bear the message, and to spend another
hour of suspense by Gwendoline's side. Gwendoline said little, only
lay with eager eyes and tremulous lips, watching for tidings. Once or
twice Mrs. Widrington fluttered in, carrying a gentle bustle with her,
and assuring them that the little boy was getting on beautifully; a
statement somewhat modified by a very audible whisper to Honora, that
"she didn't believe he would ever get over it, and she could see the
doctor thought so too."
"And he's a clever man, is Mr. Fosbrook," she added aloud for the
benefit of both; "and a kind one, though he is rather positive, and
says a sharp word sometimes. But I'm sure he'd do anything for anybody,
if he thought it right. I wonder he don't marry, for he's getting on
in life, and he looks sickly, as if he wanted somebody to take care of
him. Only think, Honor, the poor little boy hasn't any mother living,
and his father was drowned at sea only last year; wouldn't it have
been strange if he had been drowned too?—And he would have been if it
wasn't for this brave girl. And there's a sister who takes care of the
three children, and she is lame or something, and can't come to him.
They say she is half-frantic, poor creature, she cares so much for this
boy. He's a pretty little fellow, and I don't wonder. She must be a
great deal older than these younger children. I wonder if she's only a
half-sister. Now don't you make yourself unhappy, Miss Halcombe. I'll
soon come back with more news."
But Mr. Fosbrook himself came next. His first move was to take
Gwendoline's hand, and to shake it gently.
"I congratulate you with all my heart on having saved a life," he said.
"You have acted nobly."
Gwendoline's lips twitched, and she laughed in a nervous manner. "If I
saved one, you helped to save two," she said.
"Ay, but not at the risk of my own. There is a slight difference, Miss
Halcombe. You ought to have a Humane Society's medal."
"Oh, no, no, thank you! I should not like any fuss," said Gwendoline.
"Nothing of that sort. But I am so glad. Poor little boy."
"Is he quite out of danger?" asked Honora.
"Quite out of immediate danger. I cannot answer for after consequences."
"Honor," Gwendoline said softly, a little later, when they were again
alone, "I did not know that the purpose of my coming to Riversmouth was
to be this. I expected something quite different."
"I suppose there is always a purpose in each step of our way," said
Honora. "But God's purpose for us and our own purpose for ourselves are
often not identical."
Gwendoline smiled assent, and seemed indisposed to carry on the
conversation. Honora was glad to see her growing sleepy; but suddenly
the sleepiness vanished, and she started up.
"Honor!"
"What is the matter?"
"Dinner at Lady Halcot's."
"Past eleven o'clock, Gwen, so I am afraid you can't go now."
"No, but seriously—was no excuse sent?"
"I am sorry to say I forgot all about it till an hour ago, and then it
was too late. Besides, we really had no one to spare for a messenger
earlier in the evening. We must despatch a note of explanation in the
morning."
"I am not going to have any stir made," said Gwendoline resolutely.
"My part of the affair was only just doing what I had to do, and what
anybody else must have done in my place. I shall tell Lady Halcot that
I had an accidental wetting, and that I was very sorry not to go to
her."
To this plan she adhered when morning came. Honora would have preferred
a little more explicitness, but Gwendoline shrank from any appearance
of boasting, and the note was despatched as she wrote it.
"I don't see as the thing matters either way," Mr. Widrington said to
his niece. "News travels apace, and her ladyship is sure to hear the
story before many hours are over,—take my word for it."
Mr. Widrington was mistaken, so far as hours were concerned.
Riversmouth news did not always reach Lady Halcot quickly. She fenced
herself round with an enclosure of distant reserve, and few ventured
to address her uninvited. Miss Withers heard the tale, of course, but
Miss Withers did not repeat it, and for many days Lady Halcot believed
that Gwendoline had made use of a trivial excuse to set aside her
engagement. Such a belief implied displeasure on the part of Lady
Halcot.
So also thought Mr. Selwyn. He returned by an early train, having
not even seen the note which Gwendoline sent. He ascribed her
non-appearance at dinner to a fit of girlish shyness or pride, and
was alike vexed for her and disappointed in her. He had counted Miss
Halcombe to be rather superior to some feminine weaknesses.
Gwendoline's return home suffered only a day's postponement. She was
somewhat shaken by her adventure, and the doctor counselled longer
delay; but Honora could not remain, and Gwendoline would not consent
to be left behind. She wrote home lightly of what had occurred, making
little of the matter, and Honora, by her request, did not write at all.
CHAPTER VI.
GWEN'S HOME.
"I DON'T see that your Riversmouth trip has done much for you. If it
was a pleasure, you seem disposed to keep the enjoyment to yourself.
Certainly you are not looking any the better for it."
Ruth Halcombe, the speaker, was a blunt-mannered girl of seventeen,
two years Gwendoline's junior, and in most respects a contrast to her
elder sister. She was the useful and practical member of the household,
and she prided herself on so being. Everybody in the house depended
more or less on Ruth, yet none looked to her for sympathy. The boys
went to Ruth for buttons and strings, but they carried all their little
confidences to Gwendoline. There was a touch of hardness about Ruth
which repelled people. She was affectionate below the surface, but she
had no tenderness of manner; and she had not yet learnt that usefulness
may co-exist with beauty, and practicalness with poetry. Gwendoline's
restless pantings and aspirations were "sentiment," in Ruth's opinion.
Gwendoline had returned two or three hours earlier to find herself
suddenly plunged into the little whirl of home cares and the big swirl
of London life.
The low roar of the latter struck her forcibly, after the quiet of
Riversmouth. Londoner that she was, she never grew reconciled to
perpetual sound, never attained to Ruth's happy condition of not
hearing it, never ceased to feel oppressed by the great city and its
unceasing tumult. She had such a thirst for stillness, and there was no
stillness in her life. Out of doors and indoors, Gwendoline could never
be alone. To her finely-strung nature, solitude at times was more than
a pleasure—it was a positive necessity; yet it was almost unattainable.
For Mr. Halcombe's income was very narrow, and his house was very
small; and he had a wife, three daughters, and seven sons, not to
speak of a little maid-servant. Lady Halcot possessed her abundance of
large rooms absolutely unused; but in this narrow dwelling with its
dingy outside closed in by other houses to right and left and front
and rear, there was not a corner where one might be secure against
interruption. The elder boys were away all day, it is true: Victor in a
counting-house; Jem, Edmund, and Fred at school; but so was Gwendoline
away most days at her painting, and when she came back, they came back
also. And the four youngest children, Artie, Willie, Bob, and Nell,
were always at home, Ruth being their teacher. So Gwendoline spent her
time in a crowd.
The sense of overcrowding, and the pressure of home cares, had come
upon her heavily that afternoon, as she found herself once more within
the hall door.
Gwendoline knew that some fresh trouble was brewing. She knew it before
she had been five minutes at home. Not a word was said which might
suggest the idea, but she read it in her mother's burdened look, and in
the extra sharpness of Ruth's tones. She saw that they wanted to spare
her a little while, and she heard her mother whisper softly, "After
tea, Ruthie." There was no leisure as yet for any quiet conversation,
and Gwendoline wisely asked no questions.
The narrow dining-room, with its worn-out chairs and its carpet of
undistinguishable pattern, had a crowded appearance at meal times. The
boys were healthy and merry enough, and chatter flowed on unceasingly,
but life's cares seemed to have pressed hard upon the father and
mother. Mr. Halcombe was a frail man, thin and stooping, with a shadowy
likeness to Gwendoline, almost lost in the anxious wrinkles which
furrowed his brow and drew down his mouth-corners. Mrs. Halcombe was
a little slight woman, exceedingly worn, yet with a kind of habitual
cheeriness about her; never perhaps pretty even in the past, but always
refined and sweet-mannered.
Mr. Halcombe and Victor had a mutton-chop each, in consideration of
their day's work, and Mr. Halcombe ate his slowly, with an abstracted
and mournful air, while Victor, a tall lad of sixteen, talked and
laughed over his in untiring fashion. Ruth stood at the foot of the
table, dispensing hunches of bread from the huge quartern loaf,
and generally overlooking the other six boys, varying in ages from
thirteen-years-old Jem to six-years-old Bob. The fairy-maiden, Nell,
with her sweet eyes and sunny hair, sat in her three-years-old
queenship close beside the tea-making mother, idolized by all.
"Gwen is tired," Mrs. Halcombe said, in response to Ruth. "It has been
such a bustle ever since she came in. I wish we could have arranged
differently."
"It has been the same as usual, I suppose," said Ruth. "Gwen must take
home as she finds it—like other people."
"Ruth always has an appropriate moral ready for every occasion," said
Victor. "I say, Gwen, did you see anything of the old lady down there?"
Mrs. Halcombe had not asked the question, but Gwendoline saw the quick
quiver of her eyelids. "I saw Lady Halcot pass in her pony-carriage,
Victor."
"Did she speak to you?"
"No,—she looked—"
"And that was all?"
Gwendoline had not meant to give particulars just then, but she could
not answer in the affirmative.
"Lady Halcot saw me standing with Mr. Selwyn," she said. "He was down
for the day, and we had met. She asked him afterwards who I was, and
she sent an invitation through him, asking me to dinner. That was all.
I meant to tell mother presently."
"A weighty 'all,' too, in my opinion," said Victor.
Mrs. Halcombe could not trust her voice.
Mr. Halcombe looked up slowly, and asked, "What did it mean?"
"I am afraid it did not mean much, father. Mr. Selwyn told me not to
count upon it—at least, I think he meant that. Still, it was very
disappointing that I could not go. I sent a note next morning, with an
explanation; but I had no answer."
"You don't mean to say you allowed a paltry wetting in the sea to keep
you away?" exclaimed Ruth, in a tone of strong disapproval.
"I could not help it, Ruth."
"I would have helped it in your place. How you 'could,' Gwen! When you
knew how much might depend on your pleasing her! If your dress was not
fit to go in, surely Miss Dewhurst would have lent you another. Why, it
seems like insanity!—Such a chance thrown away!"
"I was very sorry, but it was impossible," repeated Gwendoline,
flushing. "I was in bed all the evening."
"I would not have been there, I can tell you. And not even an excuse
sent till next morning."
"No, it was forgotten. I didn't think about Lady Halcot when I first
came to myself,—and the rest were all too busy with the child and me—"
Gwendoline's agitation under Ruth's reproaches betrayed her into saying
so much, and then she paused. For a moment nobody seemed quite to take
in the meaning of her words. Mr. Halcombe was the first to speak. He
had been looking at her steadily, and he now put aside the little boy
between him and Gwendoline, and moved to her side.
"Gwen, my child," he said in his depressed manner, "this has been more
of an affair than we know. You are quite unnerved and poorly. What is
it, my dear?"
Gwendoline's face went down on his shoulder, and she clung to him,
trembling.
"I saw that she was not herself, directly I came in," he said. "Ruth,
you must not be so hard upon your sister. She would not have stayed
away without good reason, I am sure. What is this about 'coming to
yourself,' Gwennie? You don't mean that you were long enough in the
water to lose consciousness."
"It couldn't be helped, father," said Gwendoline, lifting her face, and
speaking hurriedly. "I did not want to make a fuss about the thing. It
was only that a little boy fell in, and I had to go after him. There
was nobody else near enough, and he would have been drowned. They got
out a boat as quickly as possible, and came after us, just in time. I'm
not a good enough swimmer for such waves, and I couldn't have held out
any longer. I don't think I was long insensible, and it was more of a
faint than anything else, but the poor little boy was very long coming
round, and somehow nobody remembered Lady Halcot. I never thought about
her at all until eleven o'clock at night. The doctor would not let
me get up next day until the afternoon—not that I was ill, only weak
and shaky. He was very kind, and so was everybody. But I really don't
think I could have gone to see Lady Halcot even yesterday, and I had no
answer at all to my note."
"My own brave girl," said Mr. Halcombe; and he folded her in his arms.
"Thank God for it—and for His bringing you through. Yes, there are
worse troubles than even money troubles,—you spoke truth, Nellie." This
was to his wife. "If our Gwen had been taken from us! Thank God for His
mercy."
"Why, Gwen's a heroine!" Victor exclaimed. "Well done, Gwen! We shall
all be proud of you."
"There's no need. It was just the natural thing to do," Gwendoline said
shamefacedly.
"You never told us you had been in danger, Gwen," her mother said, with
full eyes.
"I didn't see the need to write, mother—more than just a few words.
And the danger was soon over. Honor said she meant to call soon and
tell you everything. But don't feel as if I could bear to talk about it
yet," Gwendoline added, with whitening lips. "The very thought of the
sea brings it all back, and turns me dizzy. Can't we speak of something
else?"
"Gwen had much better go into the next room and be quiet," Ruth
said, with a touch of apology for her own harshness. "Why don't you,
Gwen?—and mother too. You will like a chat, and I'll look after
everything."
Gwendoline did not protest. She gave Ruth a grateful look, and went,
followed by Mrs. Halcombe. It was not the household custom to dispute
Ruth's mandate in lesser matters.
"Mother," Gwendoline said, making early use of her opportunity, "what
has happened since I went away?"
"A good many things have happened, Gwen."
"Yes; but you can't take me in," Gwendoline said, looking stedfastly
into Mrs. Halcombe's faded eyes. "Something particular has
come—something that troubles you and father very much. I see it
plainly. You can't take me in, mother darling. I must know, or I shall
lie awake all night, wondering. It is easier to bear the truth than
one's own fancies."
"Not always, Gwen," her mother said.
"Almost always, I think. Is it a money trouble, mother?"
Mrs. Halcombe tried to answer, and her voice failed. She could only
press Gwendoline's hand.
"It must be something very bad indeed, for you to feel it so much,"
said Gwendoline gravely. "Tell me all, please. It is worse to wait."
"I wish I could make you wait," Mrs. Halcombe said with a sob. "Oh,
Gwen, it is hard to bear up. God will surely provide for us. I have
told myself so again and again, the last day or two, and I have tried
hard to be brave—to trust. But it is a sore trial of faith. I cannot
see what we can do. I cannot see any way out."
"What is it, mother? Don't mind crying, but just tell me."
That Mrs. Halcombe should fail in her cheery self-command, at
least before others, was an event rare indeed, and Gwendoline was
proportionately dismayed, yet proportionately anxious not to be herself
betrayed into tears.
She repeated earnestly, "Don't be afraid, mother. We shall be
helped—surely—somehow. Only please tell me what is wrong."
"It is at the bank. They have told your father that they will not want
him any more—any more—after Midsummer."
"Mother!"
Gwendoline could say no more. She was absolutely paralyzed. Her first
sensation was as if she had been sinking again among ocean waves, as
if literal billows were rising around her and taking away her breath.
But she only uttered the one faint word, and then sat, white and still,
till power of breath and speech came back. Mrs. Halcombe's face was
hidden in her hands.
"Father dismissed! But what for? What has he done?" asked Gwendoline,
in distress.
"Nothing. It is not anything that he has done. They spoke kindly—said
they would give the highest testimonials. But they are making some
changes, and they want a younger man in his place. Your father says
it is natural. He says he has grown old and slow lately, and has been
forgetful and made mistakes. He is wearing out. But oh, Gwen, it is
very very terrible! What shall we do? How shall we live?"
"If I had seen Lady Halcot!" muttered Gwendoline's quivering lips. "If
I had not tried to save the child's life! Mother, it couldn't be wrong
to do that!" she broke out passionately. "It couldn't be wrong! I would
do it again, no matter what might come after. But why didn't I go to
Lady Halcot next day? If only I had not been so shy, so foolish."
"It might have made no difference. I do not suppose she would help us,
Gwen."
"Honor would tell us to look higher—to trust. Mother, God won't forsake
us. He will bring us through somehow. There may be better days ahead.
But it is terrible. Poor poor father!"
CHAPTER VII.
MR. FOSBROOK'S STORY.
LADY HALCOT sat in her favourite room, beside her davenport, writing
letters—an occupation which filled many hours of each day. She was an
active old lady, mentally as well as bodily, and took a keen personal
interest in everything which concerned her estate and her tenants.
The letter-writing did not advance so well as usual this morning. Lady
Halcot looked more than wontedly pale, and her bony hand trembled
visibly. She laid down her pen and took it up again several times, as
if struggling against the weakness.
The placid fair-haired Miss Withers sat in the bow-window, over a small
work frame, and her eyes travelled repeatedly towards the old lady. She
said at length, "Would you like me to send for Conrad?"
"What for?" asked Lady Halcot.
"I thought he might be a help; you seem scarcely equal to your work
this morning."
"If I am not equal to the task of managing my own brains, Miss Withers,
I certainly am not equal to the task of managing Mr. Withers' brains."
Miss Withers bore the remark meekly. After a pause she gave utterance
to a low sigh, and a gentle, "Poor Conrad."
"He does his best. I am quite aware of that," said Lady Halcot, in a
manner half satirical, half conciliatory. "He may improve in time. At
all events, we can hope so a little longer. When did Mr. Fosbrook say
he would be here?"
"At about eleven."
"Half-past eleven now. I shall not wait in for him much longer."
The pen was laid down again, and Lady Halcot leant back with a tired
look.
"I think you have done too much lately," said Miss Withers.
"It is not 'doing.' Work never hurts me. I have a difficulty in making
up my mind—"
Miss Withers said, "Yes?"
"I shall have to send for Mr. Selwyn again. His last visit was thrown
away. I could come to no conclusion."
"About—?" said Miss Withers.
"Certain alterations which I desire to have made in my will. What else
should I mean?"
Lady Halcot was, as a rule, reserved to a fault about her own affairs;
but occasional little fits of unpremeditated frankness were among the
signs of old age creeping over her. Miss Withers showed no excitement,
but her pale blue eyes watched the face of Lady Halcot intently as a
cat watches a bird.
"I supposed it was a question of some distant heir-at-law with you,"
she said slowly, and with seeming indifference.
"You supposed rightly, as regards the title and the landed estate. But
I have also property at my own disposal. However, there is no need to
carry on the subject. It concerns myself alone—only sometimes I have a
wish to get things settled and off my mind. I am not so young as I was,
and responsibilities weigh more upon me than they once did. Be so good
as to order the pony-carriage to be ready for me in half an hour, Miss
Withers. I shall not wait any longer for Mr. Fosbrook."
Miss Withers moved in her soft and gliding fashion to obey. She was
absent about ten minutes, and on coming back the sound of voices told
her of the doctor's arrival meantime. Miss Withers waited outside a
little longer, and then re-entered the boudoir.
"Mr. Fosbrook does not think there is much the matter with me," Lady
Halcot said, turning her head. "Not a break-up yet, by any means—eh,
doctor? I am to take a tonic for a week or two. Not that I believe in
tonics at my age. But it will do no harm. Mr. Fosbrook is giving me
quite a glowing description, Miss Withers, of a young lady rescuing a
little boy from drowning last week in Riversmouth. I cannot imagine how
I have escaped hearing of it sooner. Did no report of the adventure
reach your ears?"
"A mere report,—nothing of consequence," Miss Withers said
hesitatingly, with a faint blush. "I imagined it to be an exaggerated
story."
"The courage and self-devotion of the young lady were hardly capable of
exaggeration," Mr. Fosbrook said.
"Mr. Fosbrook is quite carried away by his admiration," said Lady
Halcot. "But we may depend upon the correctness of an eye-witness.
Go on, doctor, if you please; or stay—begin again, for Miss Withers'
benefit."
Mr. Fosbrook obeyed without reluctance. He spoke quietly, and with
no superabundance of adjectives; but as he described Gwendoline's
position, and her brave plunge into deep water, his sallow cheek
glowed, and a curious light shone in the old lady's black eyes.
Yet Lady Halcot's first remark at the close of the tale was cynical.
"So you were the rescuer, after all! Quite a poetical finale, Mr.
Fosbrook. I suppose we may expect a third volume to the novel."
Mr. Fosbrook suddenly resumed his cool professional manner. "You were
not present, Lady Halcot. If you had been—but time is getting on."
"Not twelve yet. Wait a minute," said Lady Halcot. "That girl ought to
have a medal, Mr. Fosbrook."
"So I said; but she would not hear of its being made known."
"She can't help it. Such a deed must become known. I will take action
in the matter myself. What is her name, and where does she live? 'A
young lady' you call her."
"She was down in Riversmouth merely for a day or two,—quite a stranger
to the place. Her name is Halcombe—Gwendoline Halcombe."
Mr. Fosbrook was, of course, aware of the relationship between
Gwendoline Halcombe and Lady Halcot; doctors usually hear the little
ins and outs of such matters. It was hardly likely that he should have
practised sixteen years in Riversmouth, though originally not a native
of the place, without knowing the tale of Lady Halcot's displeasure
towards her niece. But he betrayed no consciousness in word or manner;
and whether or no Lady Halcot believed in his unconsciousness, she did
not betray herself either.
"Gwendoline Halcombe," she repeated.
"A young artist from London, whom I believe you kindly purposed taking
some notice of, Lady Halcot."
"Mr. Selwyn had mentioned her to me. Yes, I invited her to dinner,
and she did not come. There was a note next morning, which spoke of
an 'accidental wetting' in the sea as the cause. I confess I was
displeased."
"The 'accidental wetting' was of a serious nature," said Mr. Fosbrook.
Lady Halcot sat considering, some strong feeling visible through the
quick motions of her eyebrows.
"A pretty girl," she said at length, half to herself.
"Very pretty and ladylike," assented Mr. Fosbrook.
"Yes—ladylike. One could see that at a glance. The story interests me a
good deal, Mr. Fosbrook, I like heroism, and I like to see it rewarded.
Gwendoline Halcombe interests me also. Perhaps I may get her down here
some day on a visit. She must be a girl of character. Yes—I should not
mind seeing something more of her. What do you say to the idea, Miss
Withers?"
"I have not the pleasure of Miss Halcombe's acquaintance," said Miss
Withers, trying to cover an unhappy expression with a smile. "She may
no doubt be the kind of young person who would suit your ladyship."
"Young person!" said Lady Halcot, with an astonished air.
And, when Mr. Fosbrook was gone, she added, "You seem to forget that
Gwendoline Halcombe is my relative."
"I did not know your ladyship wished the fact to be remembered,"
faltered Miss Withers.
CHAPTER VIII.
A CALLER.
DINNER was just over at Mr. Selwyn's,—a well-appointed and well-ordered
meal, always. Mr. Selwyn liked to have things "nice" about him, and he
could afford to have them as he wished. He was tired with his day's
work, not knocked up and exhausted, but just comfortably tired, able
to enjoy the thought of a reposeful evening. Mrs. Selwyn, in a happy
flutter of silk and lace, had made her way into the drawing-room, and
thither the two gentlemen, father and son, had speedily followed her.
The son was very little younger than his step-mother, and he and
she appeared to be on extremely pleasant terms. It would have been
difficult to be on any other terms with Mortimer Selwyn. He was a
thorough gentleman, sweet-tempered almost to a fault, fastidious on
certain points, but never exacting. Many counted Mortimer a singular
man. He was slightly lame, and had passed a sickly boyhood. Strange
to say, he had never been put into any profession. Mr. Selwyn through
many widowed years had shrunk morbidly from parting with his only
son. Mortimer was long counted unfit for hard work, and, his mother's
property being settled upon him, his future was amply provided for. So
he had lived on at home, year after year, with no definite work in life.
No definite work, that is to say, provided for him by others. A plan
which would have been utterly detrimental to ninety-nine young men in
a hundred had had no ill results with Mortimer. For he was by nature
a man of thoughtful purpose and of literary tastes; and he was, "not"
by nature, a man of high Christian principle. To fritter away his
time in self-pleasing was not a possibility with Mortimer Selwyn. The
work which had not been provided for him, he provided for himself.
The life-aims which had not been set before him, he sought out and
found. Strong as was the affection which existed between father and
son, it was by no means the affection of unity in tastes, or likeness
in manner of thought. Mortimer cared not a whit for the law, and
Mr. Selwyn had small interest in his son's pursuits. Truth to tell,
the latter were legion in number, and leisure was necessary for the
appreciation of them. Mr. Selwyn was a man of no leisure, and a man of
one primary pursuit, Mortimer was a man of boundless leisure, which
yet never implied idleness, and of multitudinous pursuits; among which
literature, science, and philanthropy held no doubt the foremost places.
Also, on religious points the two did not agree. Mr. Selwyn was not
without a certain amount of religion, professed, and perhaps, so far
as it went, genuine. He was very reserved on such topics, and possibly
felt more deeply than he allowed to appear. But he counted office-work
and religion to be matters necessarily kept apart, to be in their
nature "wide as the poles asunder;" the inevitable consequence of which
view was that religion found itself in a small corner, the chief space
in his time and thoughts being monopolized by "work."
Mortimer, on the contrary, was one whose very life was impregnated with
religion, whose every word and action were as in the presence of the
living God. He lost nothing in manliness by this; rather, he gained by
it. But for this high consciousness, but for his vivid realization of
the great realities of life and death and the future beyond, he might
have sunk into a mere self-indulgent invalid, or, as health came to him
in an unemployed youth, have rushed into a career of self-indulgent
evil.
He was not much of a religious talker. He "could" speak, of course,
and with glowing earnestness, on the things which most occupied his
mind, but he rarely spoke uninvited, and never thrust his opinions
upon unwilling hearers. There was no need. Mortimer's manly pleasant
face spoke for itself; and the manner of his daily life had a clearer
utterance for the honour of his Master's Name than any mere words could
have had. Neither did he say much at any time about at least one chief
part of his work in life. People heard of his coming and going, and saw
his interest in science and literature. But of the many poor whom he
visited, the sufferers lifted out of want by his hand, the struggling
toilers helped onward, the gifts silently given where needed,—of these
the world in general knew nothing at all, or heard only a whisper here
and there by accident.
A fire had been lighted, more for cheerfulness than from necessity,
since it was a warm spring day; and Mrs. Selwyn sat near it, making
believe to get through a little fancywork, in reality hoping for
conversation. She hoped for some time in vain. Mortimer was deep in a
periodical; and Mr. Selwyn apparently was deep in thought. He broke out
suddenly, after a long pause,—
"You women are the most irrational beings—sometimes."
"Thanks!" Isobel said drily.
"Especially for the last qualifying word," added Mortimer, lifting a
pair of amused eyes. "What unfortunate female has aroused your ire
to-day, father?"
"I was merely thinking of my trip to Riversmouth last week, and of Miss
Halcombe's extraordinary conduct."
"Miss Halcombe does not give one the impression that she is an
irrational being exactly."
"I should have supposed her to be a young woman of remarkable sense,"
said Mr. Selwyn. "But to throw away such an opportunity! However, it is
done now, and cannot be undone. She will never have another."
"Is the old lady so vindictive?" asked Isobel.
Mr. Selwyn moved his shoulders. "Lady Halcot counted herself slighted.
That was all."
"Miss Halcombe couldn't possibly have gone to the Leys in a
draggle-tailed condition," said Isobel.
"Miss Halcombe had no business to become draggle-tailed," said Mr.
Selwyn.
"Why, Stuart, I shall be quite frightened of you. I did not know you
could be so severe."
The lawyer's face relaxed into a smile. "Was I severe? My regrets
are all for Gwendoline Halcombe's own sake. She is a charming girl,
and might have won the old lady over,—a most desirable thing for her
parents. I fear there is no hope now of such a consummation."
The man-servant entered. "If you please, sir, Miss Halcombe desires a
few words with you, if possible."
"Certainly," said Mr. Selwyn, though not quite pleased. He liked to
keep business for business quarters, and to have his home inviolable.
"Show her into my study."
"Stuart, do bring her here," interposed Isobel. "How odd that she
should come just when we were speaking about her! But I really am
curious to see this little paragon of yours."
"Stay," Mr. Selwyn said to the man. "Will you have her in at once,
Isobel?"
"To be sure,—I should like it immensely. If she wants a private
interview, you can take her to your study afterwards."
The man vanished, and Mortimer said quietly, "You will admire her."
"How do you know? Have you seen Miss Halcombe?"
"Yes,—more than once."
"But I may not think her pretty."
"I think you will. You are not one of those women who cannot admire
another pretty woman."
Isobel looked pleased. She liked words of appreciation from her
step-son. There was no time for more, however. Gwendoline was already
in the doorway.
There she paused. She had on her ulster, and her little cap with the
wavy short hair showing below, as Mr. Selwyn had seen her on the shore;
but no geranium-tint was in her pale cheeks, and the large brown eyes
were opened with a startled and dazzled expression.
"I beg your pardon," she said, drawing back. "There is some mistake. I
only wanted a few words with Mr. Selwyn alone."
"You shall have them, Miss Halcombe," said the lawyer. "But my wife
wishes for the pleasure of your acquaintance, and she asked to make
use of this opportunity. Come in and sit down. Isobel, this is Miss
Halcombe."
"I have heard my husband speak of you," Isobel said kindly, leading
Gwendoline to a chair, and giving Mortimer a glance expressive of
admiration.
He came forward, with his slight limp and his courteous manner, and as
they shook hands a faint colour rose for an instant to her cheeks. The
paleness following was so marked that Mortimer said gravely, "You are
not well, I am afraid."
"Thank you—I—" Gwendoline hesitated, as if trying to collect her
thoughts. "I am only—a little—"
"Have you been wandering about London without food for hours?" he
suggested, with a touch of reproach.
"I had dinner at one, only I could not eat," said Gwendoline, with
difficulty. "It does not matter, thank you."
"My dear, you will be fainting away if you don't take something," said
Isobel, laying her plump little hand, with its diamond rings, upon
Gwendoline's slender fingers. "Pray don't do that, for I have the
greatest horror of seeing anybody faint. Here comes the coffee, just in
time. Or would you rather have a glass of wine?"
"Oh no, coffee, please," said Gwendoline; and she was speedily served.
A minute or two later she could look up, with a sweet, though, Isobel
thought, touchingly sad smile, to say, "Thank you very much. I didn't
quite know how much I wanted something."
"Have you had a very busy day?" asked Isobel kindly.
"Yes. I was sorry I could not get to Mr. Selwyn's office in time; but
indeed I could not."
"Are you in a hurry now?" asked Isobel, noticing a furtive glance at
the clock.
"I am afraid I ought not to wait. It is getting late, and I have so far
to go."
"You ought not to go about like this, my dear, unprotected," said
Isobel.
Gwendoline's lip quivered. She said only, "I must."
"How do you get home?"
"I shall walk part of the way, and catch an omnibus somewhere."
"It is not right," said Isobel.
Mr. Selwyn thought the same, but he did not say so. "We must not delay
you," he said; and he rose to lead the way into his study, followed by
Gwendoline.
"I shall see you again some day," Isobel said cordially, pressing her
hand.
And Mr. Selwyn was some time closeted with the young girl. Coming out,
Gwendoline was met in the hall by Mortimer.
"Pardon me," he said. "There is a cab at the door, waiting for you.
Mrs. Selwyn and I could not be content to let you go any other way."
Gwendoline did not know what to say, and allowed herself to be handed
in.
Mr. Selwyn presently found his way from the study to the drawing-room.
"I suppose I must not ask what the interview was about?" his wife said.
"It is easily told. Her father is to lose his situation at Midsummer;
and—unless by a miracle—he and they will then be almost penniless."
Mr. Selwyn spoke in a moved tone. "That poor child! If ever I saw
heart-break in a girl's face—yet all the while so collected and
womanly. Poor little Gwendoline!"
"But can nothing be done?"
"I have promised to inquire elsewhere for him—after other work. The
matter does not look hopeful. Something may be found, no doubt. The
difficulty is to find any opening for a man of his age which will bring
in enough to support such a family."
"Can't you give them some money?"
"A fifty-pound cheque would not go far towards keeping twelve people in
comfort for a quarter of a year."
Isobel thought of her last dressmaker's bill with a twinge of
conscience.
"Fifty pounds!" she repeated. "It is perfectly appalling."
The man-servant reappeared, and gave Mr. Selwyn a telegram. "Do you
know where Mr. Mortimer is?" Mr. Selwyn asked, opening it.
"Yes, sir. Mr. Mortimer went upon the coach-box, to see the young lady
safe home. He also said he had some one to call upon in that direction."
Mr. Selwyn's face wore a dubious expression. "Humph!" he muttered, when
the man was gone. "Rather unnecessary philanthropy."
"Who is that from?"
"Lady Halcot again. She desires an interview immediately. I can't
possibly go for three or four days."
"Lady Halcot seems to think you have nothing to do but to wait upon
her," said Isobel.
Meanwhile Gwendoline, driving homewards alone in her cab, had time for
the indulgence of sad thoughts and weariness. She was heavy at heart,
and her interview with Mr. Selwyn had scarcely lightened the weight.
He had not spoken in a sanguine tone about finding employment for her
father, and the future looked very dark.
At the end of the street where she lived the cab halted. Certain
road-repairs made it impossible to proceed farther.
Gwendoline was astonished to see a cloaked figure alight and come with
limping step to the window.
"Miss Halcombe, shall we drive to the other end of the road—I suppose
that will be open—or will you alight here?"
"Here, if you please; it is not far," she answered; and then she said,
"Mr. Selwyn!"
"Excuse the liberty I have taken. There is a sick person in this
neighbourhood whom I wish to see, and I thought I might venture to
utilize your coach-box."
Gwendoline descended and paused. "A sick person—at this time of night?"
"An old man, past eighty. He is bedridden, and suffers much from
sleeplessness, and likes late visitors."
"But were you really going to-night? Is that your reason?"
"No," he said, smiling. "I was not going, but I have come—and it is
true that I wished to see the old man. Also, I wished to see you safely
home."
"The cabman?" said Gwendoline, turning.
"I have not done with him yet. It will be all right."
"Don't come any farther, please. Good-night," said Gwendoline.
"I should like to see you to your door,—but I can walk behind, if you
like."
"Oh no, no!—Nonsense!" said Gwendoline hurriedly, breaking into a
laugh, which was almost a sob. "You are very kind—only I don't think it
is right that you should have the trouble."
Mortimer made no answer to this. They crossed the road together, and he
said quietly, after a slight break, "There are some days in which it is
difficult to see the light behind the cloud."
"I can't see any light at all to-day," said Gwendoline sadly.
"And yet it is there."
"I can't see it," repeated Gwendoline.
"I saw from your face that you were in trouble,—'walking in darkness,'
perhaps, and 'having no light.' Then, Miss Halcombe, 'let him trust in
the name of the Lord, and stay upon his God.'"
"Could you do that if everything were being taken away from you?" asked
Gwendoline bitterly.
Mortimer's manner changed, and his voice grew strangely humble. "I dare
not say," he answered. "If God gave me grace—yes—not otherwise. It has
not been God's will to try me thus. How easy for me in my circumstances
to look on and tell another to trust! And yet—I too have known times
of darkness and pain, and I have proved the loving faithfulness of my
God. Surely I have a right to speak without presumption. Miss Halcombe,
His fatherly care will not come to an end. 'He will not fail thee nor
forsake thee.'"
Gwendoline lifted her face, wet with tears, as they paused at the door
of the house. "Thank you," she said tremulously. "Oh, thank you! I
think I was forgetting. Honor has so often said the same. I know it is
so, really. But it isn't easy always to feel sure. Good-bye."
[Illustration: SHE LEAPED BOLDLY IN, STRIKING THE RIGHT SPOT.]
She gave him her hand, and he bent his head, with a murmur which
sounded like, "God bless you." Then he was gone, and she stood dreamily
listening to the sound of his unequal steps passing into the distance.
Mr. Halcombe answered the bell.
"Gwen, my child, you are late," he said. "We were growing anxious."
"I could not help it, father. I could not get to Mr. Selwyn's in time,
and I have been all the way to his own home. He was very kind, and Mr.
Mortimer Selwyn called a cab, and saw me home, and would not let me
pay. I don't know whether I ought to have allowed it."
They moved slowly into the deserted dining-room, where the boys had
been doing lessons all the evening, and where a tumbler of milk and
some bread and butter waited on the table.
"Ruth left these for you. She had to go up-stairs to do some mending
for the children; and your mother was knocked up, so we persuaded her
to go to bed early. You must want food, Gwen."
"No, I had something. I can't eat, father."
She drank the milk; then put her two arms round him, as he stood beside
the mantelpiece, and rested her head on his shoulder.
"Poor worn-out child, always toiling for others," he said sadly. "It
grieves me that the burdens of life should come upon you so early. You
are not fitted for them yet,—under twenty, my Gwennie. Ten years later
I should not mind. I wish I could shelter my darling a little longer."
"It will all come right by and by," murmured Gwen.
"I ought to have gone to Mr. Selwyn's, and not you, my dear."
"Oh no, father; I am glad I went. I know Mr. Selwyn best, and he is
always kind to me. But he did not seem very—hopeful."
"He would not wish to pledge himself to anything, of course. And he is
a busy man. I hardly see what we can expect from him."
A cold shiver ran through Mr. Halcombe's whole frame, communicating
itself to the slight figure which rested against him. The prospect
ahead seemed to him so utterly chill and dark. He had almost no private
means. Victor received a small salary, and Gwendoline could make a few
pounds here or there by painting little pictures; but with the loss of
his situation in the bank, all other means of livelihood were swept
away.
"Father, something will turn up. We shall be cared for," said
Gwendoline.
"I am trying to think so, Gwen, but it is a hard trial of my faith."
"God will not fail us," said Gwendoline, half-unconsciously echoing
Mortimer's words.
"He has never failed me yet, but I never came before to such a strait
as this. It is utter darkness—utter destitution."
"But God can help us. It isn't too hard for Him," whispered Gwendoline.
Then the poor tired girl burst into tears. "Oh, father, if only I had
seen Lady Halcot—if only that had not been prevented! Ruth wouldn't
have been so easily hindered in my place. Why did I not go to her the
next day? It does seem so terrible that I may have stopped help from
coming to you and mother. I don't know how to bear the thought."
"You acted for the best. It is of God's ordering, Gwen."
"Father, why don't you write to Lady Halcot and ask help?"
He shook his head. "No use. I have tried that plan before."
"Then let me write. May I do it? I think my note of excuse was too
short. I didn't want to make a fuss, and perhaps I went too far the
other way. Honor thought so. May I write, father?"
She grew eager over the idea, and her cheeks flushed. "I know what to
say," she went on. "It all seems coming to me, like daylight. Shall I
show you the letter, or shall I tell her that no one has seen it."
"I think that would be best," said Mr. Halcombe slowly. "I do not wish
to prevent your making the attempt, my dear, as a satisfaction to
yourself. But nothing will come of it. I know Lady Halcot better than
you, and I have no hope whatever of any favourable result. Better say
nothing to your mother or Ruth. It will probably end in disappointment."
"I am not so sure," said Gwendoline softly. "It might be the way God
would help us, father. I think I am right just to try. But I will not
say a word to anybody. I'll write the letter now, before I go to bed."
CHAPTER IX.
AN UNEXPECTED PROPOSAL.
THREE days passed, and an answer came from Lady Halcot, addressed to
Gwendoline, in her ladyship's bold handwriting. Gwendoline did not
know the writing, but crest and postmark told their tale. Tea and
mutton-chops were in full swing when the letter arrived, and under
cover of the boys' chatter, Gwendoline was able to peruse it almost
unnoticed.
"DEAR GWENDOLINE HALCOMBE,—Your letter has reached me, and I have also
heard in other quarters of your late courageous conduct with respect to
a drowning child. I like bravery in a woman, and I congratulate you.
"Your father's present position is only what was to be expected sooner
or later, under the circumstances.
"I am not unwilling to help, but it must be in my own manner, and on my
own terms.
"These terms are as follows:
"I wish you, Gwendoline Halcombe, to leave your present home, and to
reside entirely with me at the Leys. You will then be under my control,
occupying the position of my adopted child; and, so long as you submit
to my will, I undertake to provide handsomely for your future.
"At the same time, and as a corollary to this state of things, I
consent to settle the sum of £500 per annum upon your father and
mother, for the term of their natural lives, the survivor continuing to
receive the same until his or her death, after which the annuity will
revert to me or my heirs, as I shall appoint.
"I do not wish to cut you off entirely from your family, but you must
understand that I have personally no interest in your relatives. You
may keep up a moderate correspondence with your home-circle, and once
in two years I shall permit you to go home for a month.
"I state the matter thus clearly at the beginning, that there may be no
mistakes. This is a purely business letter. I may add, however, that if
you decide to accept this proposal, my wish will be to make your life a
happy one. I like your face, and I believe you would suit me well.
"You may consider the matter at your leisure, and, if you will, consult
my lawyer, Mr. Selwyn. I am informing him of what I propose to do, and
I believe him to be an acquaintance of yours.
"I do not press for a hasty decision, but I do desire you, Gwendoline
Halcombe, to understand that your decision either way is to be a
permanent decision. You do not come to the Leys on trial for a few
months, to grow tired of the plan and throw it up. If you come, you
remain.
"Also you must please to understand that on these terms only will I
assist your parents. If you decline my offer for yourself, my offer of
aid to them falls to the ground.—I remain, yours truly,—
"H. HALCOT."
"Who is your letter from, Gwen?" asked Victor. "It doesn't look like
the handwriting of a young lady friend."
Gwendoline heard the words, but did not gather their meaning. A
sensation of being suffocated came over her, and voices buzzed loudly
in her ears. She stood up panting.
"Gwen!" said Mrs. Halcombe, while her father watched her anxiously. "My
dear, are you ill?"
"Oh, mother, mother!" cried Gwendoline, in an agony, which yet was not
all pain. Perplexity and bewilderment had a share in her distress.
"Gwen, don't frighten us all," said Ruth roughly. "What is the matter?"
Gwendoline grew suddenly calm, awaking to the fact that she might
not explain hastily before the children. None but Ruth and Victor,
beside herself, knew of the impending trouble. She sat down, and spoke
quietly, "Never mind just now, Ruth. It is only—something that I must
tell mother and father presently."
"Delightfully vague, now you have put us all on the rack of curiosity,"
said Victor.
"Would you rather come and tell me now, Gwen?" asked her father.
Gwendoline saw that waiting was no easy matter to him. She rose and put
the letter into his hands, and, instead of returning to her seat, left
the room.
"Gwen is altogether upset by her Riversmouth trip," said Ruth, in
a tone of some sharpness. "I don't know what has come over her. Is
anything wrong, father?"
Mr. Halcombe made no reply, and Ruth knew better than to ask again. He
perused the letter slowly, and at length looked up to meet his wife's
eyes.
"Nellie, you had better take this, and give it back to Gwen yourself,
after reading it," he said; and he came round the table to her side.
"Tell her there is no need for any haste as to a decision." Mr.
Halcombe spoke low, as if not intending others to hear, and as if
scarcely conscious that the children's voices had dropped into silence.
"Gwen wrote to Lady Halcot, and this is her reply. We thought it best
not to trouble you about the matter sooner."
Ruth's face showed pique at not having been taken into confidence.
Mrs. Halcombe was not given to feeling pique at imaginary slights; but
the sight of the familiar handwriting evidently stirred her keenly.
She began to read, sitting still at the head of the table, which was
not what her husband had intended. He had wished her to leave the room
first.
"Don't you think you had better go to Gwen, dear?" he asked.
She answered dreamily, "Yes, directly," and read on, not slowly, as he
had done, but glancing more and more rapidly from sentence to sentence,
while a look of dismay gathered over her face.
"Oh no, no, no!—Impossible!" she said at the end, standing up, and
fixing a startled gaze on her husband. "Quite impossible! Oh no, we
could never consent to it."
Mr. Halcombe did not enter upon the question there and then. He put a
hand upon her arm, and only said gently, "Go and tell Gwen what you
think about it."
"It could never never be, James. Impossible!"
Mrs. Halcombe went hurriedly away, and Mr. Halcombe returned to his
seat. But the last half of his mutton-chop remained uneaten, and his
cup of tea stood till it was cold.
Ruth asked at length, "Father, has anything fresh happened?"
Mr. Halcombe said gravely, "You will know in good time, Ruth;" and then
his face was hidden in his hands.
Ruth's voice grew somewhat querulous, but a certain awe-struck silence
remained upon all the others till the meal was over.
Mrs. Halcombe did not find her daughter in the drawing-room, so she
went straight up-stairs to the little bedroom overhead occupied by the
three sisters.
"Gwen, may I come in?" she asked; and the door was immediately unlocked.
"Gwennie, it can never never be," said Mrs. Halcombe tremblingly. "It
can never be, my child."
That was all that either of them said at first. Gwendoline shut the
door again, and went back to the window where she had been standing.
Mrs. Halcombe followed her, and for a minute or more they remained
silently side by side, looking out into the quiet dingy street, with
the dull row of houses opposite. Quiet, dingy, dull—the surroundings
were such, undoubtedly. Yet this was Gwendoline's home. It had been
her home from infancy. Never till this hour had she known how much she
loved it.
But presently the two faces turned as if instinctively away from
the street to meet each the other. Mrs. Halcombe was agitated and
tearful still. Gwendoline was very quiet and pale, with a certain
grave resoluteness in her liquid brown eyes. Mrs. Halcombe saw and was
alarmed.
"Gwennie, it can never be," she said again, and she took Gwendoline's
hands between her own. "Never, my darling. How could we give you up? Oh
no, it is quite impossible! Anything rather than to lose our Gwen. It
would break my heart. I could not bear it, darling."
"Anything, mother!"
"I do not say it unsubmissively, Gwen. 'Anything' as a matter of
choice, I mean. If it were God's will to take you from us, I could
submit—I hope—without murmuring. He would give me power. It would
be very terrible, but it would be His will. But to send you away
ourselves—for our own personal gain—oh no, no, no—it is out of the
question!"
Gwendoline's little hands seemed to turn to ice in Mrs. Halcombe's
grasp, yet there was about her no other sign of strong emotion.
"Mother, suppose it is not a question of your doing at all? Suppose it
is God's will for me? Suppose He is taking me from you just as plainly
as if He did it through death? After all, mother dear, this would not
be so bad as that."
"Oh, Gwen—hush!"
"But I don't think I must hush. The matter has to be looked in the
face. I felt all in a whirl at the first moment, but since I came up
here I have been trying to weigh it quietly."
"Your father told me to say that there must be no hasty decision," said
Mrs. Halcombe, in a tone of keen suffering.
"No hasty decision either way. That is what he means. You want to say
at once that it cannot be, but I want you to look at both sides of the
question. Mother, suppose we turn from this—suppose we say 'No' to Lady
Halcot's offer, and refuse her help. What is to become of us all?"
"God will take care of us," faltered Mrs. Halcombe.
"Yes, in His own way. But how if this is His way? If we refuse it,
because it is not exactly according to our mind, have we any right to
expect more—any right to think He will work a miracle to support us?
Think, mother, there will be absolutely almost nothing to live upon.
Suppose father finds a clerkship of one or two hundred a year! It would
hardly put bread into our mouths—yet he is not likely to do better. It
has been hard work enough to drag along upon three hundred and eighty.
But fancy what it would be with less than half that—and we don't even
know that father would have so much as half. If no alternative had
come, I would say with you to the last, that we must trust on, and that
God would help us. I know He would, mother. But if the help comes, and
we fling it away, how can we still look up, and believe that He will
arrange for our needs?"
"It cannot be right to give you up—it cannot be, Gwen!" Mrs. Halcombe
murmured in answer.
"If it were a question of my being married, you would not feel so. You
would give me up quite happily then. This isn't so very different,
after all;" and Gwendoline tried to smile. "You will know that I am
well cared for, and that I have a comfortable home. And I shall have
the great joy of feeling that you are all getting along in comfort,
without the terrible pull that it has been of late. Five hundred a year
isn't wealth for a family of twelve, but it is more than we have ever
had yet; and you will be one less in number; and Victor will soon be
earning more; and father will try to get some work. Only think how well
off you will all be. Why, you will grow positively luxurious!—Only not
so luxurious as I shall be at the Leys. I Wonder if Lady Halcot will
give me a lady's maid all to myself. You see, I am to be her adopted
child, not her lady-companion, mother. I shall not know myself, in such
a grand position."
Gwendoline's bright manner almost deceived her mother, despite her
extreme paleness.
"Gwen, do you really wish to go? I was forgetting that part of the
matter. You would have every comfort and luxury, as you say. It may be
selfishness on my part to wish to keep you from such a life."
Gwendoline made no answer to this, but her mother, watching steadily
the quivering white lips, knew what the silence meant.
"Forgive me, Gwen," she whispered. "I understand now."
"Oh, mother, don't—we must be brave!" half-sobbed Gwendoline. "It has
to be—it must be."
"I do not feel so, Gwennie. If you wished to go, I could not wish to
keep you back. But I know Lady Halcot, and I cannot believe you would
be happy with her; and to send you there merely for our gain is out of
the question. Don't be afraid, my darling. We will live on dry bread,
and work our fingers to the bone, sooner than part with our Gwen."
Gwendoline allowed herself to be kissed and comforted, and did not
attempt immediately to controvert her mother's words. But when her
tears were dried the look of resolution had not passed from her eyes.
CHAPTER X.
WHAT HAD TO BE.
RUTH took a different view of the matter, as was perhaps to be expected
from her sensible and matter-of-fact nature.
"Of course I have nothing to do with deciding," she said, when
called into consultation that same evening by her father and mother
and sister; "but if I am to give my opinion honestly, I certainly
do think that to throw aside such an opening would be the height of
absurdity—almost a sort of madness. It is not as if we should lose
Gwendoline. Mother talks about 'giving her up,' but there is no 'giving
up' in the question, that I can see. She will belong to us still, just
as much as ever, and we shall see her now and then."
"Once in two years, Ruth," Mrs. Halcombe said mournfully.
"Of course that is rather seldom," admitted Ruth. "But very likely
Lady Halcot will make it once a year, as soon as she sees that we do
not pester her in any way. Meantime we shall know that Gwen has every
imaginable comfort and pleasure, and Gwen will know that we are all
getting along, with enough to eat and to wear. Surely that is better
than our all being reduced to a miserable struggle for bread. Mother
talks about our working our fingers to the bone for the sake of keeping
Gwen with us. I am willing enough to do my share, but Gwen would be the
last to like to do her share."
"Ruth!" her father said reproachfully. He had said little yet,
apparently preferring to hear others' opinions before giving his own.
"I mean her share of needlework, father. Gwen has certainly no gift
in that direction, and she detests it with all her heart. Besides,
to think of supporting a family of twelve by needlework is absurd.
And as for keeping Gwen with us by any amount of work, it is just an
impossibility. If she does not go to Lady Halcot's, we shall both have
to go out as governesses. I had quite made up my mind to that, before
Lady Halcot's letter came. But if the offer had come to me, I would
very much rather live at the Leys than be a governess, even though I
might not be free to come home quite so often."
Ruth's severe common sense was taking effect, and she saw this in the
expression of her mother's face.
"Besides," she added, after a little pause, "I do think that poor old
lady must be dreadfully lonely in her big house, with nobody belonging
to her. It is her own fault, of course. Still, if mother is as fond of
Lady Halcot as we have always thought, I should think she would like
Gwen to be there particularly."
Mrs. Halcombe received this little fling meekly. "Yes, Ruthie," she
said; "for Lady Halcot's own sake I could like nothing better. But I
must think about Gwen first. I do not know whether Gwen could be happy
there. Lady Halcot is very stern and sharp—and the matter, once done,
cannot be undone."
"Mother, I think one may be happy anywhere, if God has put one there,"
Gwendoline said softly. "And I think I should make Lady Halcot fond of
me."
"As to happiness," quoth Ruth, "isn't it the very kind of life that
Gwen has often wished for—away from London crowds, and near sea and
country, with plenty of money and leisure, and no children?"
Gwendoline's eyes were blinded with tears. "Oh, Ruth, you need not have
thrown that at me just now."
"Why? I don't mean anything unkind," said Ruth, her rather obtuse
sensibilities stirred by Gwendoline's look of pain. "I am sure you have
often said you wished it."
Mr. Halcombe drew his chair a little nearer, and leant forward gravely.
"Ruth has had her say. Now listen to me," he said. "I have tried from
the first to take a dispassionate view of the question, praying to be
guided into a right decision. We must not be swayed by mere feelings.
The thought of parting with our Gwen is a very painful one, but, as
Ruth truly says, the parting probably must take place, one way or
another. My first impulse was like yours, Nellie, that we could not
send our child away for our own advantage. But remember two things.
First, it is not for our advantage only. Gwen is one of ten, and the
good of the other nine has to be considered. Would it be lawful to
sacrifice the prospects of those nine for our own selfish gratification
in keeping Gwen, even if we could hope to keep her ultimately?
Secondly, we have to think of Gwen herself. This is an opening which
probably means a life of ease and of comparative wealth, in place of
long years of struggling in poverty as an artist. Putting altogether
on one side other questions involved, could we rightly refuse this for
her? Gwen may shrink from leaving us; but I, her father, should shrink
yet more from keeping her, under the circumstances."
Gwendoline broke into his words suddenly. "Father, it isn't for my own
sake that I want to go."
"I know it, dear; but my thought has been for you at least as much
as for the others. There is yet another view of the matter, which I
believe Gwen has already considered. Nellie, we have had for days past
a heavy trouble impending—a very terrible perplexity as to our future.
We have pleaded in prayer with our God that He would show us where to
walk—would supply us with some means of livelihood. Here is, or here
seems to be, the response. A way is plainly opened. Shall we dare to
refuse it?"
Mrs. Halcombe was weeping quietly, but she shook her head; and all knew
that the matter was decided.
"Still," Mr. Halcombe said, after a pause, as if with a sudden sense
of reluctance, "still—if Gwennie were doubtful or unwilling, we would
hesitate—would consult others. Mr. Selwyn, for instance."
But Gwendoline lifted her head, and looked straight at him with bright
clear eyes.
"I am not doubtful, and I am quite willing," she said. "I have known
from the first moment that it must be—'must' be, father. How could we
decide otherwise? I don't think it is for my own sake that I wish to
go, though of course I know it will be a life of ease. I know I have
complained sometimes—at least, I suppose I have,—but indeed my choice
could never be to live away from you all—and from mother." Gwendoline's
voice grew husky. "But this is not choice. I don't see that any choice
at all is left me. Nothing short of your positive command could make
it right for me to refuse to go. How could I deliberately drag you all
down to such miserable poverty?"
There was no more discussion about the manner of answer to be sent to
Lady Halcot, though by common consent the letter itself was deferred
till the next day. "I am not sure that it would not be wise for you to
have a few words with Mr. Selwyn before writing," Mr. Halcombe said.
Half an hour later the "few words" became unexpectedly an immediate
possibility. A caller's knock was followed by the entrance of Mr.
Selwyn himself, in so hearty a mood of pleasure and satisfaction, that
Mr. and Mrs. Halcombe began to wake up to the fact of something good
having really happened. He had received a letter from Lady Halcot that
afternoon, stating her intentions with respect to Gwendoline.
"I could not have wished anything better," the kindhearted lawyer
said. "My wife is delighted, and she would let me have no peace till
I came off to congratulate you all. It is rather late for a call, but
to-morrow I shall not have a spare moment. Of course there can be no
question about acceptance of the offer. It does away with all your most
pressing anxieties, and places Gwendoline at once in a position of
positive affluence."
He quite forgot at the moment that he always called her "Miss Halcombe"
to her face. "As for the future, though Lady Halcot will not exactly
pledge herself to anything, she evidently wishes it to be understood
that Gwendoline will be well provided for."
"'Handsomely,' she says," observed Mr. Halcombe.
And Gwendoline gave her letter to Mr. Selwyn. He read it deliberately.
"Ah yes—just so. Better keep that letter, Mr. Halcombe. Yes—just
so—exactly. There is merely the little condition of implicit obedience."
"I shall always do what Lady Halcot tells me, if it is not wrong," said
Gwendoline.
"Precisely so," repeated the lawyer, with a slightly dubious
expression. "That is all that you can say—of course. Your mother has no
doubt told you that Lady Halcot is an old lady of peculiar temperament.
It is well to avoid little differences."
"Gwen is not argumentative," said Mr. Halcombe, with a fond look at her.
CHAPTER XI.
AMID NEW SCENES.
"THE sore part of the matter is that it seems to be sent upon me as a
sort of judgment, Honor."
"What can you possibly mean, Gwen?" Honora Dewhurst asked, with an
accent of astonishment.
The two stood side by side upon a broad platform, near the train which
was soon to bear Gwendoline Halcombe to her new home. They were early,
for Mr. Halcombe was a nervous man as to journeys, and he always
insisted on a start being made about twenty minutes sooner than was
necessary. Neither he nor Victor were free to accompany Gwendoline
to the station, and Ruth had a cold, and Gwendoline had implored her
mother not to come. She could not bear the thought of "that" parting
being in public. So Honora Dewhurst undertook to see her off.
The leave-takings were thus over, and Gwendoline had borne herself
bravely through them. Now she only looked white and quiet, with a
glitter of unshed tears in her brown eyes, which had a fixed look, as
if hardly seeing anything around. She had stood about absently, while
Honora saw to her luggage.
"You will not care to take your seat yet," Honora said, when the little
business was done. "Shall we go into the waiting-room, or stay here?"
And Gwendoline, instead of answering, broke out with her remark about
"the sore part of the matter."
"What can you possibly mean, Gwen?"
"I mean just what I say. It is like a sort of judgment upon me. I don't
know whether I have complained in words often,—I think not,—but in my
heart I have often wanted to have things different. I have been so
tired of the crowd and the noise and the worry, and sometimes I have so
longed to be quiet, and to have freedom of leisure and thought for my
painting—not to be incessantly driven along to do my utmost, and still
to feel that our heads were really never quite above water. Sometimes
out of doors I have looked at others driving past, in their comfort
and ease, and wondered over the difference between their lives and
mine. Not enviously, exactly—for I have never really wished to choose
for myself, or to have what was not God's will for me. But it has been
cloudiness and murmuring. It hasn't been a spirit of perfect content."
"I wonder how many of us have attained to 'perfect content,' my dear
child," Honora said.
"You have, for one. But don't you see what I mean? I 'have' murmured,
Honor. It is of no use to deny the fact. I have not loved God's will
for me. And now it seems so terribly as if He had taken me at my word,
and had given me what I craved—in displeasure. I can't talk about this
to anybody except you; but it presses on me constantly."
[Illustration: LADY HALCOT'S KEEN BLACK EYES RAN SWIFTLY OVER
GWENDOLINE.]
"A child can't always read his father's motives. Don't be too sure as
to the 'displeasure.'"
"But if it were—"
"If it were,—plead at His feet for more grace for the future, and cling
the closer to Christ. Don't echo Peter's cry of 'Depart from me.' The
more sinful we are, the more we need Him."
"But if He should have sent this in anger, without His blessing!"
Honora slipped an arm through her friend's, and spoke slowly—"Gwen, you
are overwrought and upset to-day, and this is temptation to unworthy
thoughts of your loving God. Suppose it were sent in displeasure for
the past,—what does it mean but that He wills to draw you through
chastening nearer to Himself? But I don't feel at all sure that it
is so. You have been overworked and tried, and trouble has pressed
heavily, and you have all prayed that help might come, and here is the
answer. Surely it is not all chastening, Gwen. You are to have a happy
home, and the joy of knowing that those dearest to you will be living a
life of comparative ease,—through your going away. Some pain comes with
the joy, of course, but isn't that what one always has to expect?"
"Yes,—if I have not brought it on myself," murmured Gwendoline.
"Suppose you have,—since you are bent upon that view of the
matter,—what then? If you have yielded to temptation, He will
forgive you for the past, and will strengthen you for the future.
I can't understand that sort of suspicious spirit in one of His
children,—always fancying that He is acting in displeasure. Of course
there are times when He must do so, and I don't deny it; but I do say
we don't know one-hundredth part of His pitying tenderness towards us.
David's way of looking at things was very different: 'He will not be
always chiding,'—that is the Prayer-Book version, and I love it, Gwen.
'He crowneth thee with lovingkindness and tender mercies.' 'The Lord is
gracious and full of compassion; slow to anger, and of great mercy.'
Try for more of that trusting spirit."
Gwendoline's face changed, and two large tears fell heavily.
"Yes—now you will feel better. It is of no use trying to persuade
yourself that pain is not pain. You cannot but feel the parting."
"It is my mother—chiefly," said Gwendoline sorrowfully. "If Ruth were
different! Mother and I have always been one. Ruth is very good, and
she will do anything for anybody, but she does not understand. Honor,
you will go in sometimes, to cheer my mother."
"By talking about you. Yes, certainly. I must say a word to you now
about something else. Our time is nearly up. You know I generally run
down to Riversmouth for a night or more, at least once or twice a year."
"Oh, Honor, when you do, be sure to let me know beforehand."
"I'll see. But one word, Gwen. Remember, you will be Lady Halcot's
adopted child, a very 'grand young person' indeed, as my good old
uncle would say; and I shall only be a poor artist, niece of a retired
tradesman."
"Honor! As if that could make any difference in my love for you," cried
Gwendoline indignantly.
"My dear child, I quite understand. It will make no difference in your
love. But you will not be your own mistress, and it may not be in your
power to see anything of me. For it will be your plain duty to obey
Lady Halcot in everything—short of what is wrong."
Gwendoline's cheeks were burning. "That would be wrong—to forsake a
friend, my best and dearest friend."
"You will not forsake me. You and I are friends for life—for more than
merely this lower life, I hope. We will love and trust one another to
the last. That is just what I want you to understand. If you never come
near me, never write to me, and pass me in the street without a smile
or bow, I shall not be pained, for I shall trust you still. I shall
know you are not acting by your own choice, but only in obedience to
Lady Halcot. Mind, darling, I mean it. Now don't!"
For Gwendoline, brave through all the partings, burst into a passion of
tears.
"Gwennie, don't break your heart over so small a matter. I tell you
I shall not be even pained. If ever you come and say to me with your
own lips that you have changed, and that you love me no longer, then I
shall be bitterly grieved. Short of that, I will never fail to trust
you. Remember, you owe Lady Halcot a great deal. And, apart from
gratitude, you have to keep things smooth for your mother's sake.
You may or may not be allowed to keep up a correspondence with me. I
am pretty sure you will not be allowed to call upon me at Gladiolus
Cottage. But I shall hear all about you from your mother, and that will
content me."
"Oh, Honor! Honor!"
"Hush, hush!" Honor said, as to a troubled child. "I am only
anticipating what will be perfectly natural on her ladyship's part. Now
you have to be good and cheery. Don't let me have to take back a tale
of tears at the last, and don't arrive at the Leys with red eyes on any
account. Come—there is the bell, and you must get in. First class!—you
'grand young person.' Good-bye, my own Gwen."
Others were pressing into the same compartment, and Honora had to step
back. Further conversation was impossible. Gwendoline gazed and kissed
her hand to the last, and Honora walked rapidly away, drawing down her
veil to conceal something which till that moment she had resolutely
restrained. For Honora's was a lonely life. She had no near relatives,
and few friends; and Gwendoline had been her one sunbeam of earthly
delight.
Gwendoline shed no more tears. It was by no means her usual fashion to
yield to strong feeling in public. She sat quietly in her corner, pale
and sad, looking out upon the rushing landscape, thinking much upon
the faces she had left, and speculating somewhat on the new phase of
existence which lay before her.
"I shall need to live very near to God, if I am to keep straight at
Riversmouth," was the conclusion to which she came. "I think there must
be great danger in ease and wealth—especially for me. I shall want so
much 'keeping,' not to grow cold or careless. But mother and father and
Honor will pray for me."
With this thought in her mind, she reached the station nearest to
Riversmouth. Her first instinctive move, as she descended, was to
seek her luggage; but a drab-liveried footman of deferential manners
presented himself, in readiness to take all trouble off her hands.
"Miss Halcombe?" he said inquiringly; and then, "Her ladyship is
waiting. How many boxes, if you please?"
Gwendoline began to wake up to the change in her manner of life. She
was vaguely conscious that her single trunk, even with the addition of
a small packing-case containing her paintings, appeared to the tall
footman a most moderate amount of luggage; but he was far too well-bred
to show his thoughts, and Gwendoline had little of the shallow pride
which troubles itself unnecessarily about appearances. She was quite
aware also, and equally without distress, that her scanty wardrobe
would prove by no means in keeping with her new position. But Lady
Halcot, when sending money for her journey, had written,—
"You need not mind about dress. I will see to that. Come just as you
are."
And Gwendoline had obeyed this injunction literally. She only had
two dresses, and she wore the best of the two, a simple costume of
navy-blue serge, together with what was really a very neat and quite
attractive hat.
The handsome landau, with two thoroughbred bays, stood outside the
station; and Lady Halcot sat alone in it, muffled up in furs still,
despite the mild spring weather, and seeming half-buried beneath the
piles of the ponderous scarlet-lined rug. She scanned the station-door
persistently, till a girlish figure came quietly out and stood beside
the carriage, waiting, as if for a welcome. Lady Halcot's keen black
eyes ran swiftly over Gwendoline from head to foot, and Gwendoline's
pale face flushed brightly, as she lifted her eyes with a look of
wistful anxiety.
Those who knew her ladyship's turns of expression would have judged her
to be well satisfied with the brief inspection. But it was not Lady
Halcot's way to show her feelings. She merely said, "How do you do?"
putting out two fingers of a kid-clothed bony hand. "I hope you have
had a comfortable journey."
The footman held open the carriage-door, and, in obedience to a slight
gesture from Lady Halcot, Gwendoline stepped in.
"You have given orders about Miss Halcombe's luggage?" Lady Halcot said.
"I have, my lady. It will be sent immediately."
"That will do."
And they were off, passing first a few streets of the little country
town, then bowling with smooth rapidity through high roads and narrow
lanes, between green hedgerows. Gwendoline leant back against the soft
cushions—with the heavy rug over her knees, and the upright drab backs
of coachman and footman rising, square and motionless, in front, and
the little old lady, with Roman nose and severe lips, seated silently
by her side.
"What would mother feel to see me now?" she thought. "This is
very comfortable. How lazy I shall grow!" And a half-smile broke
unconsciously over her face.
"Are you always called Gwendoline at home?" asked Lady Halcot suddenly.
The smile faded. "No,—'Gwen' generally," was the answer.
"You will be Gwendoline in future. I object to abbreviations."
Gwendoline wondered what would come next.
"Whom are you supposed to resemble among your relatives?" Lady Halcot
inquired after a pause, in the same abrupt fashion.
"My father," Gwendoline said at once.
"Quite a mistake. You are not in the least like him—like what he was as
a young man."
Gwendoline was surprised, for she had never before heard the fact of
this resemblance questioned.
"My mother always seems to think so," she said.
"Entirely a mistake," repeated Lady Halcot; and there was another break.
"However, it does not signify. Likeness is very often a matter of
expression, sometimes a matter of fancy. You are a very pretty girl,
Gwendoline. Of course you know this, so I shall not make you vain by
telling you so."
The old lady looked hard at Gwendoline to see the effect of her words.
She could not understand the expression that came over those brown
eyes, an expression certainly more sorrowful than gratified.
Gwendoline said gently, after a moment's thought, "I suppose I am, Lady
Halcot; but sometimes I wish people would not tell me so."
"Why not?"
"It would be better for me. I don't want to be made to think about
myself."
For full five minutes Lady Halcot was dumb. Then the silence was broken
by the two simultaneously, a remark breaking from each at exactly the
same instant. Lady Halcot had been turning over Gwendoline's words in
her mind; and Gwendoline's gaze had been roving about the landscape.
"Gwendoline, are you a very religious person?"
"The sea! Oh, Lady Halcot,—the sea!"
Lady Halcot's expression relaxed, and she put aside her own question,
following it up by another in a different tone: "You admire the sea?"
"I love it dearly. For years I have had a dream of living near the sea.
It always looked like perfect happiness."
Lady Halcot was certainly pleased. She said with positive cordiality,
"I hope you will be happy;" and began pointing out whatever was worth
noting in the views.
Her question remained unanswered, and at the time Gwendoline scarcely
took in the meaning of it; yet the words afterwards haunted her a good
deal.
CHAPTER XII.
GWEN'S POSSESSIONS.
"NONE of these are fit to wear. They can be given away at once," said
Lady Halcot decisively.
Gwendoline had passed a night in her new home, and had risen refreshed,
despite some wakeful periods of restless thought. It seemed to her
already a very long time since she had come to this place. That less
than twenty hours of her residence at the Leys had yet elapsed was
inconceivable.
She had made acquaintance with the massive building, reared in far
back days by Lady Halcot's forefathers, passing through rooms and
ante-chambers and corridors, till mind and memory became confused.
She had gone the round of the stiff ancestral portraits in the state
dining-room, privately wondering which might be termed the ugliest;
for the Halcots were by no means a handsome race. She had stood in the
library, examining the rows of calf-bound volumes, hoping to be allowed
free access to the same. She had had a glimpse of the wide-spreading
gardens and extensive hothouses, and had paced one of the broad
terraces, in full view of the blue ocean.
Also, Gwendoline had already won the hearts of two or three of the
servants by her gentle manner of speaking, more especially the heart
of Spurrell, the maid appointed to wait upon herself. She had made
acquaintance with the pallid and mild-mannered Miss Withers, and had
taken herself severely to task for an irresistible sense of distrust
and almost aversion towards that placid individual. Miss Withers
treated her with such marked and humble politeness! Why could not
she like Miss Withers better? Moreover, she had seen the unfortunate
Conrad, as usual spending half his day at the Leys, and as usual
in difficulties. Conrad Withers did not live in the house, but he
was expected to occupy a certain room during certain hours, and he
received liberal remuneration for a small amount of toil. Miss Withers
had set her heart on seeing him reside at the Leys, in the capacity
of confidential secretary to her ladyship; but this aim was as yet
far from being attained to. Lady Halcot endured him, and no more.
Gwendoline had exchanged a few sentences with the young man, pitying
his bashfulness, and Conrad's head was already turned.
Breakfast had been long ended, when Gwendoline Was summoned to her own
room, there to find Lady Halcot and Spurrell, the whole of her small
wardrobe having been spread out for inspection.
This room was one of the pleasantest parts of Gwendoline's new life,
being large, yet not too large, with a sunshiny aspect, flowers without
and within, choice engravings upon the walls, and abundant comfort in
furniture and fittings-up. Opening into the bedroom was a small and
pretty boudoir, with a davenport and easy-chair near the fireplace,
and an easel in the bow-window. Gwendoline could not but be delighted
with these surroundings, and grateful for the thoughtful care thus
evidenced. She had passed on the whole a very pleasant morning. But it
was something of a shock to her now to hear the decisive order, "All
these may be given away."
Gwendoline said nothing, but her face protested eloquently. Lady Halcot
gave her a careless glance, and continued, "The dress and bonnet that
Miss Halcombe travelled in will do until she has others. These shoes
can be made presentable with good rosettes, but really there is nothing
else. You have the Halcot foot, I see, Gwendoline,—high-instepped. No
evening dress, is there?"
"Mother said I ought to get one, but you told me to come exactly as I
was," said Gwendoline.
"Quite right," said Lady Halcot. "Spurrell, you may fetch the hats and
bonnets to try on."
Then, when the maid was gone, she repeated, "Quite right. I did not
realize that you would not possess a single evening dress, but you did
as I told you. That is simply what I expect, and what I shall expect."
The tone was not hard, but it lacked tenderness. Lady Halcot stood
near the bed, a little shrunken figure, scarcely up to Gwendoline's
shoulder, yet with an indefinable air of dignity and command about her
small person. Gwendoline debated quickly in her mind what to say, and
ended by saying nothing.
"That is what I expect of you," repeated Lady Halcot gravely.
"Precisely the same implicit obedience that I would expect from a child
of my own."
"I should be very sorry to go against your will in anything,"
Gwendoline said, her voice trembling slightly. "I will try to please
you, indeed."
"Yes. I believe you are a good girl. If I had not thought so, I should
not have been so ready to adopt you."
"A good girl," in Lady Halcot's phraseology, meant "a girl who will do
as she is bidden." Gwendoline understood it so.
Lady Halcot turned as Spurrell re-entered, having an armful of
bonnet-boxes. "I had these sent in readiness," she said. "There is
a chip hat with an ostrich feather, which I believe will become you
very well, Gwendoline. Spurrell will find it immediately. I am not so
sure about the bonnets. You must try them on. The dressmaker will be
here in an hour to take orders. I should wish you to have two evening
dresses, one of a soft blue material, which will suit you nicely,
and another of white, trimmed with pink. The blue will be for home
evening wear, ordinarily. I had some idea of a black velvet and crimson
walking-costume, but it is becoming too warm. I have chosen a pretty
brown stuff for every-day wear, and you must have jacket and hat to
match. The second walking-dress I have not yet decided on, but I am
rather thinking of grey,—silk and other material mixed. When you are
thoroughly well set up, I shall consider about giving you an allowance,
but it is better that you should first learn something of my tastes.
That is the hat, Spurrell. Put it on. Now look at yourself in the
glass, Gwendoline. My foresight has proved true, I think. How do you
like it?"
"It is very pretty, thank you," Gwendoline said.
"We will decide upon that, without hesitation. I don't like these
bonnets, Spurrell. I fancied there were others."
"I may have overlooked a box, my lady. I will go and see."
Lady Halcot moved towards the bed. "Your little writing-case and
work-bag are very shabby, Gwendoline. I will supply you with fresh ones
immediately, and these can be sent away."
Gwendoline was startled. "If you please, may I not keep them?" she
asked. "I have had them so long."
"That is the very thing. They are worn-out."
"But, Lady Halcot, my mother gave me the writing-case, and Ruth made
the bag. May I keep them, please?"
"No," Lady Halcot said quietly; and she took both into her own hands.
"I will put them out of sight," pleaded Gwendoline.
Lady Halcot looked steadily at her, and repeated, "No."
"But they are mine!"
"That may be. And you are mine now."
Gwendoline had a hard struggle. Not sorrow only, but passion too rose
high, for this seemed to her unnecessary and tyrannical. The cry of
"Oh, help me, help me!" went up from her heart, and help came.
Lady Halcot, watching, saw the flush subside, and the face grow calm.
"Well?" she said.
"It must be as you wish," said Gwendoline, in a low voice. "One moment,
please."
Lady Halcot yielded both into Gwendoline's outstretched hands. She
would not have done so ordinarily. Gwendoline held them lovingly,
pressed them to her lips, and then gave them back to Lady Halcot, two
bright drops having fallen on the rubbed leather of the case.
"You are a silly child," Lady Halcot said, not in a tone of displeasure.
She left the room, and returned almost immediately, bearing a
silk-lined work-basket and a beautiful little Russian leather
writing-case, both furnished with silver and polished steel fittings.
"These were already waiting for you," she said.
Gwendoline received them with mingled pain and pleasure, touched, yet
not quite comforted.
CHAPTER XIII.
TO AND ABOUT HONORA.
"THE LEYS, _Thursday._
"MY OWN DEAR HONOR,—Just a week since I came,—and it seems like three
months at least!
"I would not write sooner. It seemed better to wait, and not to give
you mere first impressions too hastily. Mother promised to let you
hear of my safe arrival. Lady Halcot has given me leave to write home
regularly once a week; and I suppose this is as much as I could expect
under the circumstances. Nothing has been said yet about correspondence
with friends. I do not know whether I am to expect restrictions there.
"My new residence—I cannot quite call it 'home' yet—is very beautiful,
Honor. How you would delight in the garden and conservatories!
Sometimes the whole seems like a dream to me, and I find myself
expecting to wake up in the dear old London house, and I do not quite
know how to bear the pain of separation,—and then again it comes over
me with a rush of joy that things will be so different there now. I
had a letter from my mother this morning, and she says they feel quite
rich. Of course my father has his full income until Midsummer; and the
first quarter from Lady Halcot's settlement had just come in; and also,
dear father had heard of something for himself after Midsummer, which
will bring in enough to be a real additional help, though very far from
enough for us all if I had stayed at home. I know all this is safe with
you.
"So I have a great deal to make me happy and thankful, have I not?
"Lady Halcot is very good and kind. She is not loving in manner, like
my own dear mother, and of course I miss that. But she has lavished
gifts upon me,—everything that I can possibly want in the way of
clothes and knickknacks. It seems quite wrong that so much should be
spent on my single self. One of my new hats had a ticket hanging to it,
and I saw £3. 10s. marked. I felt positively guilty, remembering all
the home needs. Yet I dare not protest.
"Sometimes I think Lady Halcot is already growing fond of me. People
show fondness so differently. She never kisses me except once coldly
night and morning, and never puts on an affectionate manner; yet she
shows constant interest in everything that I do, and overlooks me
incessantly. I have to get up exactly at half-past seven, and to be in
bed precisely at half-past ten; and I am made to read one hour, to work
another hour, to walk a third hour, as she thinks desirable; while, if
I am half an hour absent, without being sent away, she always inquires
what I have been doing. She even chooses books for me, and prescribes
the order in which I am to read them.
"This sort of supervision seems of course a little strange, after my
London independence. The eldest of ten naturally learns to stand alone
early; and I seem now to have gone suddenly into leading-strings. But I
know it is all meant kindly; and I shall grow used to it in time.
"I have not seen much of Riversmouth yet. Lady Halcot sends me into
the grounds for an hour every morning; but I do not go beyond them.
She does not like me to walk about alone; and I don't think she quite
understands my love for the shore, or the delight that a wander
there has for a Londoner. In the afternoon we either go out in the
pony-carriage, or else we have a state-drive in the large carriage,
paying calls, and sometimes seeing very pretty gardens and pleasant
people. She introduces me everywhere as 'my young cousin,' occasionally
adding, 'and adopted child;' so I am most kindly received.
"I must confess I do sometimes long to jump out of our stately chariot,
and to have a good scramble up the banks and over the fields! But I try
not to give way to such feelings. Yesterday we passed a lovely bank of
wildflowers, and I could not help exclaiming. Lady Halcot asked if I
wanted some, and she actually had the carriage stopped, and made the
footman gather me a handful. It was nice to have them, only of course
not quite like getting them for myself.
"Is it not strange that I should have so often thirsted for a life of
more freedom, with plenty of room, and plenty of air, and plenty of
money, and absence of noise and crowd, and not to feel always obliged
to toil on, whatever my mood might be; and now these have all come to
me, and yet they are not freedom! My London life was a life of greater
liberty.
"You would not let me say, Honor dear, that God had taken me at my
word, and sent me my will in displeasure. But I do think I must be
meant to learn a lesson from all this,—a lesson against the sin of
murmuring. I have been looking out in my Bible, the last morning
or two, all about the different murmurings and complainings of the
children of Israel; and it does seem to me as if there was almost no
sin of which they were so often guilty, or which had to be more sharply
punished. One is apt to think that grumbling at little things in
every-day life is a small matter, but I am sure it is not a small sin
in God's sight. I am praying hard now for the great gift of a contented
spirit, and you must pray for it with me, Honor,—for myself, I mean.
I know now that God can see exactly what is best for me, and I do not
want to have any longer even a wish to choose for myself. He can tell
exactly the discipline that I need; and I would not, if I could, lift a
finger to keep it off. I have found out more this week of my own pride
and wilfulness than I ever found out before, and yet I have been so
happy the last two or three days, in the thought that He is training
me, and that He loves me too well to let any foolish shrinking on my
part hinder the training. And I want not even to shrink; I want to have
those things sent which will draw me nearer and nearer to Christ.
"Forgive all this talk about self. It is only what I would say if we
were together. I cannot write so freely to anybody else. Mother would
be distressed, fancying me unhappy; but you will understand exactly
what I mean.
"I had a real treat this morning. Lady Halcot took me in the
pony-carriage to the Phillips' cottage, to see little Arthur. He is
looking quite rosy and well, and his sister is such a nice respectable
girl, very lame, but a capital needlewoman. Lady Halcot has promised
to give her some work, and she has given me leave to pay for little
Arthur's schooling. I am to have 'such' an allowance for my clothes,—it
quite frightens me.
"I should have liked to kiss the dear little boy as he came creeping
up close to me,—his sister saying, 'Artie's always talking about you,
miss, and how you saved his life,'—but I did not quite dare, with Lady
Halcot sitting there. She is kind to the poor on her estate, but she
never unbends in manner.
"I must not forget to tell you that I have received a medal from the
Humane Society—partly Mr. Fosbrook's doing, I suspect. He came in
yesterday, and was very pleasant; but he said something to Lady Halcot
about my not looking strong, and directly he was gone, she desired me
to go to my room and lie down for an hour. So you see your Gwen is well
taken care of.
"Not a word so far about Miss Withers, the companion. The truth is,
I am rather at a loss what to say. She is a sort of neutral-tinted
individual, with an air of humble politeness, and an apparent
forgetfulness of her own existence, which, if genuine, would be—perhaps
I ought to be able to say are—positively beautiful. Yet I do not like
her; I cannot tell why. She seems invaluable to Lady Halcot. Sometimes
I wish she would not be quite so invaluable. I should so like to be
useful to Lady Halcot, but not a loophole is left to me. Watch as
may for opportunities, Miss Withers invariably glides in between and
does what is needed. I have an instinct—perhaps only a fancy—that
she dislikes me, notwithstanding her cordiality. Her nephew is Lady
Halcot's secretary—about as fit for the post as our little Bob. I do
pity him.
"Only think; I have not touched my painting all this week. The
packing-case is not even opened. An odd sort of laziness has taken
possession of me, and steady work seems impossible. I must try to get
out of this.
"I am writing to you in my own boudoir, a lovely little room, fit for a
princess. You would not know your Gwen here! Yet I do not feel that I
myself am different. It is only the surroundings that are changed,—the
same stone in a fresh setting. Will it be so when we get to heaven,
Honor? Our very same selves, actually and consciously, only with all
the evil that is in us utterly gone, and with radiant new surroundings!
What a beautiful thought, if one follows it out!"
A slight rustle made Gwendoline raise her eyes, and she involuntarily
stood up. Lady Halcot had entered the room unperceived.
"You seem very much absorbed," her ladyship said.
"I am only writing to a friend," Gwendoline answered, not without an
inward tremor. Would Lady Halcot demand to see the letter? She wished
she had not written so freely.
"To what friend?"
"Honora Dewhurst."
Lady Halcot waited for more, her little crooked figure in black velvet
standing motionless in the middle of the room, and her black eyes
requesting information.
"She was a fellow-student of mine in London,—an artist," said
Gwendoline. "We worked side by side very often. I have known her for
years, and she is my dearest friend. She is an orphan, and quite alone
in the world, and she is—oh, so good! I never knew anybody like Honor!"
The black eyes did not stir from Gwendoline's face. Lady Halcot was
never guilty of staring; but her power of gazing steadily, without a
blink, was remarkable.
"A young person?" she asked, with a stress on the adjective.
"Honor is four or five years older than I am."
"A lady in mind and manners?"
"Oh, quite—quite!" said Gwendoline.
"And in family?"
"I believe her father was of a very good family. I never asked her much
about that. And her mother too—only one of her mother's sisters married
a tradesman." Gwendoline hesitated a moment, flushing brightly. "I
ought to tell you that the aunt lives in Riversmouth, with her husband.
Honor and I came down together to see them."
Lady Halcot's face showed a mixture of gratification and
dissatisfaction. "You are thoroughly honest, I see," she said. "Then
you are acquainted with these people?"
"With Mr. and Mrs. Widrington,—yes."
"The acquaintance cannot be continued, in your present position."
"Honor told me that it would be so," said Gwendoline, in a low voice.
"But may I—please may I write to Honor? She is my oldest and dearest
friend."
The moment's pause was terrible to Gwendoline. Then the answer
came: "Yes—in moderation; if I find no cause later to rescind this
permission."
"Thank you," was all Gwendoline could say. Her limbs shook with
agitation.
"Had you acted towards me with less transparent openness, my decision
might have been different. As it is, you may write occasionally—once a
month or so."
Gwendoline murmured her thanks anew.
"I see you intend to conform to my wishes in these matters," Lady
Halcot continued, in her calmly impassive manner. "This is precisely
what I have desired, and I am extremely pleased with you, Gwendoline.
You are a very pretty girl; your manners are thoroughly ladylike; and
you have thus far shown yourself entirely submissive. Continue as you
have begun, and I shall have no fault to find with you."
Gwendoline broke out suddenly with unpremeditated words. "I can't thank
you for all your kindness, Lady Halcot. I wish I could."
"There is no need. Gratitude is best shown in the conduct."
"If only I could feel that I was of any use!" half-whispered
Gwendoline. "If I could be any help or comfort to you! My mother did so
wish—"
Lady Halcot's glance was checking. "It is a pleasure to me to have you
in the house," she said. "That should be sufficient. I do not forbid
you to speak of your mother, Gwendoline, but the less frequently you do
so the better."
Gwendoline's cheeks were crimson, and her eyes overflowed. "If you did
but know my mother now!" she said almost passionately. "Such a mother
she has been to us! Oh, Lady Halcot, if you could but forgive—could but
feel as you once did!"
"The two things are not synonymous," said Lady Halcot. "I have long
forgiven Eleanor Halcombe; but I certainly do not feel towards her as I
once did. That is enough on the subject. I wish you now to show me your
paintings. You have brought some specimens, I hope, as I desired you to
do."
"The packing-case is down-stairs. It has not been opened yet,"
Gwendoline said huskily.
"We will send for it. Ring the bell."
Gwendoline obeyed, and before long she was kneeling on the ground,
tenderly lifting out one after another of her later studies and
sketches. Memories of the life which lay behind thronged upon her
as she did so, but she would not be again overcome. Lady Halcot
stood near, with an air of keen interest, receiving each in turn
from Gwendoline's hands, placing it in a good position, examining,
criticising minor points, but as yet giving no general verdict.
Gwendoline knew that the verdict would be one of weight when it did
come. Lady Halcot was a connoisseur of no common order.
"These are all I have brought," Gwendoline said at length.
Lady Halcot stood gazing still. "That head is very carefully executed,"
she said. "You are painstaking, I perceive. But there is not a second
study of the kind. You seem to have done most in the way of landscapes."
"I never thought I had any gift for heads."
Lady Halcot went over the whole set again, plainly making up her mind
as to their merits, with an air of quiet competence.
"Stay,—I see one more in the bottom of the box. You have overlooked it.
Yes, that is the best of all,—by far the best. There is a vigour of
outline here, and a force of colouring, which I miss in the rest. It
will be worth your while to continue painting as something more than a
mere pastime. I began to have doubts on that head."
Gwendoline hardly knew whether pleasure or pain weighed heaviest. She
said simply, "That is not mine. It is Honora Dewhurst's."
"Indeed. She has unusual artistic power."
"I always knew her pictures to be better than mine," said Gwendoline.
"It is not merely a question of their being 'better.' That, in a sense,
one would expect, from her age and her longer practice. This picture
bears the stamp of genius—not merely of talent. Your sketches are very
pretty, and they do great credit to your perseverance. Painting will be
a pleasant occupation and a graceful accomplishment, in your present
sphere. But you could never have made your livelihood as an artist."
Possibly Lady Halcot found more satisfaction in this thought than
Gwendoline did.
"And you think Honora may?" asked Gwendoline.
"I do not say she will ever find herself in the first rank of living
artists; time alone can decide that. But undoubtedly she has a gift
worth cultivating to the utmost of her opportunity, a gift by which she
may make her way. Are you disappointed, Gwendoline?"
Gwendoline was looking strangely pale, but she tried to smile. "I ought
to be thankful it is Honor, and not I—"
"Why?"
"She needs it most—now."
"True. But do not misunderstand me. I have no wish to discourage your
efforts. You have a marked talent for painting, and it is a talent
which ought not to be neglected. All I say is that I do not find tokens
of original genius."
"Not in mine, but in Honor's?"
"Yes, there is that difference," said Lady Halcot, looking rather
curiously at Gwendoline. "Would it be a pleasure to you to request Miss
Dewhurst to paint me a picture to order? I am willing to give twenty
guineas for it."
"Oh, thank you! How kind!"
"You may keep your letter open till to-morrow, and I will consider what
subject I should prefer. I think—" Lady Halcot paused, and then asked
again, "Are you very much disappointed?"
"I ought not to be."
"Why 'ought not'?"
"It was conceited of me to expect anything else. And nobody ought to
wish for genius, where God has not given it."
"I am not so sure about that," Lady Halcot said. "I am sorry for your
disappointment, Gwendoline; but you are not one to wish for other than
an honest opinion, even if I were capable of giving any other."
"Oh no, indeed!" said Gwendoline. "It is just what I have wished to
have, for years past, from someone who could really know."
"Have your paintings never been seen by a competent critic?"
Gwendoline moved her head negatively. "I have had a great many kind
things said to me, by fellow-students and others," she said. "I never
knew how much it was all worth."
"Miss Dewhurst's estimate ought to be worth something."
"She is my friend," said Gwendoline simply; and Lady Halcot's face
relaxed into a smile.
"You show some knowledge of human nature," she said. "But that biassing
of one's opinion by one's affection is to me a thing inconceivable—for
myself! My judgment would be altogether the same in the case of friend
or foe. It is a matter apart from personal feeling."
"With you, but not with most people," Gwendoline said.
"I believe you are right. Nearly half-past four. We will go down and
have our tea."
"In a few minutes—if you please—"
"Very well—you will follow me when you are ready."
Lady Halcot disappeared, and Gwendoline went slowly into her bedroom,
feeling strangely weary, as if all life and power had died out of
her. She rejoiced for Honor, and she did not for a moment question
the justness of the sentence passed; but this only made pain the more
acute. It was the fading of many bright girlish dreams. Gwendoline
knelt beside the bed, and hid her face, a cloud of deep depression
weighing her down. She was rather given to such moods, but she had
seldom known a darker hour than this.
Everything seemed going from her,—all the dear old life, with its
trials and hopes, its toils and aspirations. What had she now to
live for? Was it to be with her thenceforward a mere dead level of
self-satisfying, a mere easy existence; without work for others;
without high hopes for the future; without consolation, except in the
knowledge that by her presence at the Leys she was indirectly keeping
the home-circle in comfort?
"What had she now to live for?" Simply, as before, to carry out the
will of her God in whatever sphere she might be placed.
"Without high hopes for the future!" But what of the glorious future
beyond and above the present life, where all her highest hopes were
centred? That remained untouched.
These thoughts came first, followed by a recollection of her late
struggles for submission. Here was a new test. If this were the will
of God, should it not be her will also? Who was Gwendoline Halcombe,
to chafe and fret because He had not seen fit to endow her with great
gifts? Whatever her gifts might be, she had but to lay them at her
Master's feet. Whatever her appointed manner of life, she had still to
honour His Name. What need for other and more selfish aims?
How time passed Gwendoline did not know. She forgot all about Lady
Halcot and afternoon tea. Victory came to her slowly, and calmness
with it; but the battle, following upon sharp disappointment, had
been exhausting. A sense of nerveless languor seemed to enchain her
faculties, and she knelt on still, from sheer lack of energy to rise.
Kneeling thus, she fell heavily asleep.
A hand on her shoulder broke into a dream of old days. Gwendoline
sprang up from her crouching posture with a startled exclamation of
"Mother!"
"Gwendoline!" said Lady Halcot in astonishment.
Gwendoline was for a moment utterly dazed and colourless. She stood
silently, gathering up her scattered recollections.
"What made you go to sleep?" inquired Lady Halcot.
"Was I asleep?" Gwendoline asked in reply.
"Yes. Sit down there," said Lady Halcot, motioning her to the sofa.
"Miss Withers knocked at your door and could obtain no answer."
"I am sorry you have had trouble," murmured Gwendoline, not yet quite
coherently.
Lady Halcot stood looking, with her manner of unimpassioned interest.
"I'll come down now. Please do not let me keep you," said Gwendoline
anxiously.
"No. Stay where you are. Your tea shall be brought to you."
Lady Halcot moved away, and Gwendoline was glad to rest her head among
the cushions.
By the time Spurrell and a little tray appeared, she had regained her
collectedness; but, to Gwendoline's amazement, Spurrell did not appear
alone. Lady Halcot swept in before her.
"Do not talk. Take the tea," said Lady Halcot, when Gwendoline would
have protested. "You may leave the tray, Spurrell."
And presently, as Gwendoline set down the emptied cup, she asked, with
some abruptness, "Do you say your prayers in the middle of the day?"
Gwendoline blushed vividly. "Sometimes," she said, in a low voice.
"Then that is what you were doing?"
Gwendoline's eyes had their pleading look. "I don't think I was exactly
saying any prayers," she answered gently. "I only felt as if I wanted
help."
"Help?" repeated Lady Halcot.
"I could not feel rightly. It was not right to be unhappy because of
what you said. I wanted to be perfectly willing to have whatever God
might will for me."
"I see no particular objection to your manner of expressing yourself,"
said Lady Halcot, after a pause, as if for consideration. "But I have
a very strong dislike to infatuation on religious subjects. I hope you
will keep clear of it."
"I hope so," was the best answer Gwendoline could think of.
"Your tea has done you good, but you are pale still. I should like you
to rest on your sofa for half an hour. Then you may come down."
Gwendoline submitted unquestioningly, and at the end of the half-hour
descended to the drawing-room, white-checked and spiritless still.
She was no better next day. The weariness which had seized upon her
that afternoon continued, and Gwendoline fought with it in vain. There
were no signs of discontent about her; but the brown eyes had grown
languid and the cheeks colourless, and interest in life seemed to have
forsaken her. She was submissive and grateful, but her face rarely
lighted up with its old flashes of brilliancy. Lady Halcot tried to
recall her to painting; and the effort was a failure. If she walked in
the garden, she had to lie down afterwards, and if she attempted to
read, she dropped asleep.
"This cannot be allowed to go on," Lady Halcot said one day to Miss
Withers. "I must consult Mr. Fosbrook, if she does not mend soon."
"I do not imagine there is much amiss," that lady said mildly.
"Except—possibly—a little home-sickness,—quite natural—"
"I do not believe Miss Halcombe is home-sick," said Lady Halcot. But
she did not like the suggestion, and she did not forget it.
CHAPTER XIV.
AN ENCOUNTER.
"I AM not ill, I assure you. There is nothing wrong with me. It is only
a spirit of idleness," Gwendoline said, blushing.
"We must consider how the spirit of idleness can best be met," said
Mr. Fosbrook, in his drily polite manner, glancing from Gwendoline to
Lady Halcot. "I should not imagine idleness to be Miss Halcombe's usual
failing."
"On the contrary, she has an energetic temperament," said Lady Halcot.
"But I do not think she is very strong just now."
"What are Miss Halcombe's favourite occupations, may I ask?" Mr.
Fosbrook addressed the remark generally.
"Painting—has been," Gwendoline answered, as the elder lady remained
silent.
"And is it not now?"
"I can't take it up yet. I am idle," repeated Gwendoline.
"A little reaction, possibly, from too steady application in the past."
"That did not occur to me," said Lady Halcot.
"Don't try the painting at present. You will return to it with more
zest by and by if you give yourself a few weeks of thorough rest first.
Are you fond of riding?"
"I have never been on horseback."
"And how about walks? I do not mean mere garden-strolls, but brisk
country walks and seashore rambles."
Gwendoline coloured brightly, and Lady Halcot did not look quite
pleased. "Miss Halcombe spends at least an hour in the grounds every
morning; but walking seems to fatigue her."
"I would not think too much of that. Let her take a sharp walk, and,
if necessary, go to sleep afterwards for an hour. Perhaps a morning
on the beach would be a pleasant change sometimes. Are you devoted to
sea-anemones, Miss Halcombe?"
"I do not know much about them. I should like—" and she paused.
"I could lend you a little book on the subject." He had noted her
expression of pleasure. "Merely as a guide to your own researches on
the beach."
Lady Halcot counted all this beside the mark, and she intimated with
dignity that Gwendoline's presence was no longer required. Mr. Fosbrook
stood up to shake hands, remarking, "You had better leave art alone for
a while, and take to nature instead."
Gwendoline went away, smiling, and the doctor had a somewhat lengthy
interview with Lady Halcot. After his departure, Gwendoline was
recalled.
"Would you like to go to the shore this morning?"
Gwendoline's face said more than words in response.
"Mr. Fosbrook does not think there is much wrong with you, but he
recommends sea-bathing and as much fresh air and exercise as possible.
It is unfortunate that Miss Withers is such a poor walker. You cannot,
of course, go alone into the country, but Mr. Fosbrook assures me
that you will be perfectly safe upon the beach. He thinks you will
enjoy yourself more alone than if I sent Frith as your attendant. I
am willing to try the experiment, trusting to your discretion. I need
scarcely say that you will, of course, exchange words with no one. I
have a great objection to the making of stray acquaintances."
Gwendoline did her best to put the old lady's mind at rest, and
speedily started upon her solitary ramble, feeling like a caged bird
set free. She had not passed an hour of such enjoyment for many a day.
It was a sunny morning, and the half high tide, as it came in, was
dropping little lines of froth along the pebbles. Small green waves
washed up and broke in quick succession; while the pale blue, farther
out, reflecting the sky, was varied by snatches of grey from passing
clouds. Gwendoline paced to and fro, restlessly happy. The sea never
saddened her, as it saddens some people, but it preached her a sermon
that morning. The great ocean was so hard at work, climbing the little
belt of shore, seeming to expend much energy on a small object, and
gaining that object only to fall back beaten so soon as victory was
obtained. Yet was it thus in reality? If in that hour its appointed
work was done, its Maker's will was accomplished, could the object have
been slight, or the apparent failure real?
"I think not," Gwendoline murmured half-aloud. "I suppose one ought
to be willing and ready for anything, advance or retreat, conquest or
defeat, no matter what, so long as God chooses it for us. I should like
to feel so about my every-day life,—just to have my whole heart set on
the simple doing of His will."
Lady Halcot counted her experiment successful when Gwendoline returned,
fresh and hungry, from her ramble.
"Mr. Fosbrook is right," she said. "We must follow his advice."
And during several successive mornings the same plan was pursued.
Gwendoline had taken with her one day a little volume of poetry, and
was busily reading, seated on a low rock, the first of that same
jutting series where had taken place her adventure with the little boy.
Voices near made her turn her head mechanically.
Gwendoline sprang to her feet, as if from an electric shock. "Honor!"
burst from her lips, and she was in Honora Dewhurst's arms.
The instant's impulse over, Gwendoline woke up to the realities of
her position, and she stepped back, yet not before Honora was gravely
putting her off.
"Oh, Honor, why didn't you tell me you were coming?"
"Why, Honor, if this isn't your pretty young friend, Miss Gwendoline
Halcombe! How do you do, my dear,—how 'do' you do? Allow me to
congratulate you heartily on the rise in your circumstances. I hope her
ladyship, Lady Halcot, is quite well."
Gwendoline stood still in blank dismay. She remembered Lady Halcot's
prohibition,—yet what could she do? Mr. Widrington came near with
outstretched arm and beaming face; and she slowly put her little hand
into his. One shake did not satisfy Mr. Widrington. He moved her hand
up and down energetically, renewing his congratulations with an air of
paternal encouragement.
"Quite a pleasure to see you again, Miss Halcombe,—I do assure you it
is quite a pleasure. We haven't forgotten you in our little home,—no,
no, my old wifie and I we often talk of you, and she used to think at
first you'd maybe drop in some day, and have a cup of tea with us. But
I said to her, 'No, no, wifie,' says I, 'Miss Halcombe's a grand young
woman now, in a sphere above us, and depend on it she's got other fish
to fry, so we needn't look to see her in our humble dwelling!' And sure
enough we didn't. Not as I'm offended, so don't you think it, Miss
Halcombe. But I'm not sorry for this opportunity to congratulate you
on your prospects, and I'm sure you'll accept the congratulations as
meant."
Honora, who had been studying Gwendoline's face, spoke suddenly: "Gwen,
is this permitted?"
Gwendoline's lips scarcely formed the monosyllable, "No."
"Then we will say good-bye at once."
"Oh, Honor, let me have a few words, just a few words with you,"
Gwendoline said pleadingly. "I don't think she would mind that, really."
"I understand." Honora considered for a moment, then turned to her
uncle. "Would you mind leaving us together for two or three minutes?"
she asked. "Miss Halcombe must not stay, and we have not met for so
long."
"To be sure, my dear, to be sure; it's a true saying that three is no
company. I'll make for the cliff, and wait your leisure; and don't you
hurry yourselves on any account. Women always have plenty to say to one
another. I don't mind if I'm an hour waiting."
"Kind old man!" Gwendoline murmured, as after another vigorous
hand-shake, he withdrew.
"Now, Gwen, tell me what is permitted."
"I may correspond with you, and that of course means that you are
acknowledged as my friend. I do not think Lady Halcot would mind my
meeting you, here or elsewhere."
"I see. She would tolerate me as an artist. But you are not to meet my
uncle as an acquaintance."
Another soft "No" was the answer.
"It has been spoken about?"
"I told her all at first. I thought it right. And she said—'that' must
stop."
"The other must stop too," said Honora quietly.
Gwendoline gave only a look.
"I do not mean that the correspondence must stop, or the friendship, my
darling. But when I am staying with my uncle, I cannot have differences
made that would pain him. If you must pass him without notice, you must
pass me too. Your meeting him occasionally is unavoidable, especially
now you are allowed to go about more alone. I shall tell him simply
what he has to expect, and that it is by Lady Halcot's desire; and if
I put myself in the same category with himself, he will not be hurt.
Gwen, don't sob!"
"Oh, Honor!—If I could but go home!"
"Hush, you must not wish that. For your mother's sake, Gwennie dear,
don't wish it. Think how comfortable and easy they all are now, in
comparison with the past. And you are happy at the Leys, are you not?"
"I suppose so," Gwendoline could hardly utter.
"Don't cry, Gwen,—you make me feel myself so cruel. Yet surely you see
with me that I cannot act differently."
"I don't know. I think I only see my own side of the matter," said
Gwendoline, with a tearful smile. "I do try to be brave, but sometimes
I have such a heart-thirst for you and mother. Lady Halcot is very
kind; but nobody loves me here, Honor, and nothing seems really worth
doing. Miss Withers does everything for Lady Halcot, and I never have
a chance of being useful in that direction. Lady Halcot won't hear of
my taking a class in the Sunday school; and if I propose to work for
the poor, she says I may give orders to my maid to do anything I like.
And, though I have a large allowance, she expects me to spend so much
upon myself, and overlooks the spending so closely, that I cannot give
away much. What am I to do, Honor? I know you won't say anything of all
this to mother; but I have been longing to ask somebody, and I have no
friend here. What ought I to do?"
Honora looked very tenderly into the sweet face, with its brimming
sorrowful eyes. "It is not so very hard a question to answer, my
darling," she said. "Just do what your Master gives you to do."
"But, Honor, He gives me nothing."
"Then be content to do that."
"Nothing!"
"Certainly, if such is His will for you just now. A master is entirely
at liberty to bid his servant stand with folded hands for an hour, if
he please."
Gwendoline looked dreamily towards the horizon.
"Yes," she said, "of course he is. And the servant ought to obey
without grumbling."
"Unquestionably."
"But doesn't it seem a waste of time? So much needs to be done."
"The seeming is not reality. God knows the need better than you or I
can do. Perhaps you are being prepared for some work, which you would
never be able to undertake without some such previous testing of your
will as this."
"But if it lasts a long time?"
"It will not last longer than is good for you."
There was a brief pause, and Honora said gently, "Gwen, we must part."
"Just five minutes more."
Honora yielded, and the five minutes grew into ten of low-voiced
conversation. After that she would consent to no longer delay.
Gwendoline stood like a statue, watching her friend rejoin Mr.
Widrington on the cliff, watching still until the two disappeared.
Then with a full heart, yet cheered and comforted, she made her way
homewards.
Leisure for thought came now, and a sense of fear crept over her. What
would Lady Halcot say? Had she acted wrongly?
One thing was clear. The whole truth would have to be told without
delay, cost what it might. Gwendoline had no manner of hesitation there.
Reaching the Leys, she was met in the hall by Miss Withers.
"You have come back," that lady observed, with what struck Gwendoline
as a singular expression.
"Yes," Gwendoline said simply. "Where is Lady Halcot?"
"Her ladyship is occupied, and desires not to be interrupted at
present."
There was nothing remarkable in this. Gwendoline passed on silently to
her own rooms, and there indulged in so absorbing a dream of home-faces
and home-news that she lost count of time, and the luncheon-bell rang
unexpectedly. Gwendoline hastened down-stairs, regretting that she had
not made an effort to see Lady Halcot. It was too late now.
Luncheon proved to be a silent meal that day. Lady Halcot's nose and
mouth wore their most rigid look; Conrad Withers seemed conscious and
uncomfortable; and Miss Withers bore an aspect of humble satisfaction.
Gwendoline became conscious of something unusual in the atmosphere.
Whether or no this something unusual were connected with herself, she
wisely resolved to be prompt in what she had to do.
"You have all finished?" Lady Halcot said at length, glancing round and
rising. Other words were on her lips, but Gwendoline forestalled them.
"May I speak to you alone, if you please?"
"Certainly," Lady Halcot said, casting a swift glance at the girl's
pale face.
She did not see how another face in the room fell, but led the way
to her own boudoir, and placed herself in her favourite arm-chair.
Gwendoline stood near, trembling slightly, but resolutely calm.
"Miss Withers said you were engaged when I came in, or I would have
told you sooner. I have seen my friend, Honora Dewhurst!"
"Where?" asked Lady Halcot.
"On the beach. She is staying for a night or two with her uncle and
aunt, Mr. and Mrs. Widrington, and she came there with her uncle. I was
taken by surprise, and I did not know what to do. He and I shook hands."
"That 'did not know what to do' is not quite ingenuous, Gwendoline,"
said Lady Halcot coldly. "You could scarcely have forgotten my desire."
"No, but—with Honor there—I did not know how, indeed," said Gwendoline
in distress. "I could not refuse to notice him."
"Certainly you could. I expect you to do so in future."
Gwendoline thought of a dozen different things to say, and said none of
them.
"Your only excuse is that you were, as you say, taken by surprise. But
it must not happen again. The Widringtons are not to be received as
acquaintances in any sense by you. Have you told me all?"
Gwendoline considered painfully, finding some difficulty in commanding
her thoughts, with those stern bright eyes upon her.
"Honor asked if it was allowed, and I said 'No;' and she asked him to
leave us. I thought you would not mind my talking to Honor herself for
a few minutes."
"Only a few minutes?"
"I don't think it could have been more than a quarter of an hour, but I
cannot be sure. She was telling me about all of them at home, and the
time went very fast."
"Did you talk of nothing else?"
Gwendoline blushed vividly. "Yes; I was telling her I wished I could be
of more use to—to somebody—to people."
"You are of use to me. That ought to be sufficient. Have you told me
all?"
"Not quite. I am afraid I kissed Honora at the first moment more warmly
than you would have liked. But it was so sudden."
"I do not approve of school-girlish ecstasies, especially in public.
But I have not had to complain of your manner before."
"You shall not again, if I can help it," said Gwendoline quietly.
"And about the Widringtons? That has to be put an end to, decisively.
Either you must not meet them, or you must make them understand your
respective positions."
"I think I had better not go on the shore again at present."
"Mr. Fosbrook wishes you to bathe."
"Yes, twice a week; I can manage that safely by going early,—but I
will not sit about on the beach again. I do not want to give pain
unnecessarily."
"Very well," Lady Halcot said, and she sat looking at Gwendoline
thoughtfully.
"You need not stand," she remarked. "Gwendoline, it is well that you
have acted with openness. I had already heard of this interview."
Gwendoline's astonishment was unmistakable.
"It does not matter how,—still, I have no objection to your knowing.
Mr. Withers was on the cliff during the early part of the affair, and
on arrival here, he naturally told his aunt what he had seen. Miss
Withers felt it her duty to inform me. It is well therefore that you
have been frank. If you had kept back any particulars, my trust in you
would have suffered. The only complaint I have now to make is of your
want of presence of mind. There was plainly no deliberate intention to
disobey."
"I hope there never will be," Gwendoline said, in a low voice,
smothering with difficulty a sharp sense of indignation at Miss
Withers' conduct.
"It would have been singular," Lady Halcot said, in a musing tone,
unusual with her,—"singular if to-day of all days I had found cause
to think less well of you. You do not understand me, of course, and
there is no need that you should. Still, it is well that you should
see clearly the relations in which we stand to one another. By certain
alterations made in my will, and completed this very morning, you are
made heiress to the greater part of that property which lies at my own
disposal,—not the Halcot estate, but that which came to me from my
mother. Unless you give me reason to revoke this step, you will some
day be a tolerably rich woman."
Gwendoline showed no excitement, as the old lady had expected. She
received the news in silence, and, after some serious thought, she said
simply, "I hope that if I ever am rich, I shall use my money rightly."
"Is that all you have to say?"
"No, I ought to thank you," said Gwendoline. "And I do, indeed I do.
Only I wish—"
"You wish what?"
"That it could be left to my mother instead of to me."
"There is no need to enter upon that question," said Lady Halcot, with
less displeasure than she would have shown some weeks earlier. "Your
mother took her deliberate choice, and she must abide by it. I do not
wish this matter talked about, remember."
"No," replied Gwendoline; "I will be very careful—and of course you
might change your mind again. Shall I tell my mother, or would you
rather not?"
"I leave that to your discretion."
"Did Mr. Selwyn come?" asked Gwendoline suddenly.
"To Riversmouth—to-day? No; I wished it, but he was unable. Had he done
so, I should have remembered that he was an old acquaintance of yours.
Now you may dress for our drive."
Gwendoline understood that no more was to be said, and she moved away,
outwardly quiet, but inwardly much stirred. As she passed along the
corridor leading to her room, Conrad Withers suddenly darted towards
her from some unknown corner, and brought himself to an abrupt pause.
"Miss Halcombe!—Miss Halcombe! Just one word, I entreat of you! The old
lady has let the cat out of the bag! I knew she would. I see it in your
look. Can you ever forgive me?"
Gwendoline stood still, and gravely scrutinized his perturbed face.
"How much have I to forgive?" she asked.
"I assure you I didn't mean any harm, but I'm a most unlucky
fellow—always putting my foot in it! I saw you were awfully delighted
to get hold of the young lady, and it made me laugh to see old
Widrington sawing your hand up and down and speechifying! I just told
my aunt out of fun, and never dreamt of anything else, till I saw she
took it as a serious matter. I assure you I didn't mean any harm."
"It was nothing worse than a little gossip on your part," said
Gwendoline.
"Well, you see it's so tremendously dull here. If I didn't have a
little fun sometimes, I should die of the dumps, I do believe. But
you'll forgive me, won't you?"
"There has been no harm done," said Gwendoline, with a certain quiet
dignity which Conrad thought fascinating. "But there might have been.
Another time I shall feel much obliged to you and your aunt if you will
leave me to make my own explanations. Miss Withers may be perfectly
sure that Lady Halcot will not fail to hear everything from me. Perhaps
you will kindly say this to your aunt."
"I'll see that she understands. And I'll bite off my tongue before ever
I tell her anything about you again," said Conrad.
"Stay," Gwendoline said, as he made a move. "When did Miss Withers tell
her story to Lady Halcot?"
"Oh, she just kept watch outside the door till the lawyer's man—Mr.
what d'you call him?—was gone, and then she went in, and never left
Lady Halcot till the luncheon-bell rang. 'I' knew what it meant, the
moment I saw the old lady's face; and wasn't I mad with myself? Hallo!
There she comes! I must be off, or I shall catch it!" And Conrad sped
past Lady Halcot, receiving a sharp glance of questioning as he went.
CHAPTER XV.
CLOUDS.
A YEAR had gone its round, spring yielding to summer, summer fading
into autumn, autumn giving place to winter, winter once more budding
into spring.
Gwendoline lived still at the Leys, and had lived there through all
these months, with only one slight break of a fortnight at Malvern with
Lady Halcot. The old lady rarely cared now to leave Riversmouth.
Sometimes Gwendoline found it difficult to believe that only one year
had passed since she was banished from her home. The time seemed
interminable to look back upon; and the busy happy London life appeared
to lie indefinitely far behind. Gwendoline wondered often how she could
ever have murmured at the surroundings of that dear life. The troubles
in it seemed so small to her now, the happiness so great. She did so
thirst to be again in an atmosphere of lovingkindness, away from all
this cold grandeur.
Strange to say, Gwendoline had found no friends in Riversmouth.
Lady Halcot kept everybody at a distance. Mr. Fosbrook had made
one attempt to advance acquaintanceship between Gwendoline and his
sister-housekeeper; but Lady Halcot did not like Miss Fosbrook, and
she gave him so decided a snubbing that the offence could hardly be
repeated. Gwendoline stood entirely alone.
The Halcombes had not quitted their old home, though Mr. Halcombe's
present clerkship, bringing in about £150 per annum, lay at an
inconvenient distance. The said clerkship, together with Lady Halcot's
settlement, and Victor's lately increased pay, tended to keep them
all in greater comfort. Two or three of the boys had been sent to a
boarding-school, which lessened the amount of home-work. Gwendoline
knew that her parents' cares were much lightened. Sometimes she and her
mother exchanged by post some words of sorrowful longing; but generally
each wrote cheerily for the other's sake, suppressing any mention of
troubles, and neither, perhaps, quite knew how the other pined for a
sight of her face.
Conrad Withers no longer filled the post of secretary to Lady Halcot.
A grave and elderly man of greater competence gave her the assistance
which of late she had increasingly needed. Conrad had taken it into
his simple head to fall in love with Gwendoline. Miss Withers did not
exactly discourage him; but she counselled patience not without secret
hopes of bringing the matter to pass. Gwendoline, as Lady Halcot's
adopted child, was distasteful to her; but Gwendoline, the probable
heiress, as Conrad's "fiancée," would have been quite another thing.
Miss Withers over-estimated, in some degree, her own influence with the
old lady; for probably nothing would ever have induced Lady Halcot to
consent to such an engagement, had Gwendoline herself become willing.
She also over-estimated Conrad's powers of self-command. The gradual
and subtle working out of plans, which suited Miss Withers, was an
impossibility to him. He endured a few weeks of delay, in deference to
her wishes; then, under a sudden impulse, he precipitated matters by
making a direct proposal.
Gwendoline, a good deal astonished at his boldness, refused him
at once, kindly yet decisively. She passed some hours of painful
hesitation as to her next step; and then followed her usual habit of
telling Lady Halcot what had occurred.
The delay was unfortunate. Miss Withers, feeling convinced that
Gwendoline would certainly speak, took her own measures, and made
use of the interim. By some delicate manipulation of the tale, and a
little additional colouring, she caused it to appear that the "poor
silly boy," as she called him, had been the victim of Gwendoline's
trifling—the helpless fly caught in the web of her attractions, and
flung carelessly away so soon as Gwendoline had had her amusement.
Miss Withers' daily increasing influence over Lady Halcot, and Lady
Halcot's own detestation of anything like flirting, caused this tale
to carry weight. Gwendoline's own version of affairs, following after,
came too late to counteract the mischief. Lady Halcot was angry with
everybody,—angry with Conrad for his temerity; angry with Miss Withers
for not preventing the thing; doubly angry with Gwendoline, alike
for her delay in speaking, and for her supposed conduct towards the
unfortunate Conrad.
Conrad was dismissed from his employ on the spot, with a quarter's
salary in advance, and a promise of recommendation to work
elsewhere,—"if he could find anything he was fit for," Lady Halcot
grimly added.
Miss Withers could not forgive Gwendoline this banishment of her
nephew, for which poor Gwendoline was certainly not responsible. While
enduring meekly her own share of Lady Halcot's annoyance, Miss Withers
stealthily fanned into continued existence Lady Halcot's displeasure
towards Gwendoline.
To Gwendoline the change in Lady Halcot's bearing was an utter mystery.
She was unable to imagine any reason why Conrad's foolish fancy should
be visited upon her so heavily. Lady Halcot's air of cold vexation,
persisted in week after week, was simply inexplicable. Sometimes she
fancied she caught glimpses of strong dislike to herself underlying
Miss Withers' soft civility of manner, and she wondered whether the
clue lay there; but again she would blame her own thoughts as unkind
and suspicious, and would resolve to wait patiently for a lightening of
the cloud. At times she felt strongly disposed to ask an explanation
from Lady Halcot; and the step might have been a wise one. It was,
however, impossible to tell how such a request would be received,
and Gwendoline's courage failed. Her bright free spirit was growing
positively timid under the long pressure of her present life.
Matters had gone on thus during many weeks, when one day Gwendoline
received by post a short note from Conrad Withers. It ran as follows:—
"DEAR MISS HALCOMBE,—I have not any right to send you a letter, of
course, but you'll forgive me this once. I want to say something to
you, and that is—Mind you beware of my aunt. She is a good woman, I
suppose, as good people go,—at least, she has been good to me and my
sisters; but she has claws beneath her velvet pads, and she hates you
from the very bottom of her heart. Mind, if she can oust you from the
Leys, she will! I think you ought to be warned, for you are too good
to suspect anybody—a different sort of goodness from the 'other!' I
didn't mean to say so much when I began. Of course this is strictly in
confidence. I depend on you not to say a word to anybody, for you'll
get me into an awful mess if you do. But you must just keep your eyes
open.—Yours ever,—
"C. WITHERS."
Gwendoline read and re-read the scrawl in painful bewilderment. What
should she do? How could she betray the poor fellow's well-meant effort
to warn her? Yet might she venture to keep his secret? Gwendoline was
naturally impulsive, and an impulse seized upon her now. The letter had
been brought to her room by a servant, and she did not know that it had
lain for a few minutes in the hall, with some others by the same post,
and that Miss Withers had inspected them. Conrad had endeavoured to
disguise his handwriting in the address; an abortive attempt, so far as
his aunt's eyes were concerned.
Gwendoline, ignorant of this, and hearing a footstep approaching,
crumpled sheet and envelope together and flung them into the fire. The
blackened edges were curling still when Miss Withers entered with some
slight message from Lady Halcot; and they did not escape that lady's
notice.
Miss Withers withdrew, leaving Gwendoline a prey to troubled thought.
The deed was done, but the question was scarcely settled thereby. For
many hours she was tossed to and fro in utter perplexity as to her
right course. Inclination would have led her, for her own sake, to
divulge the whole to Lady Halcot; but a fear of bringing trouble upon
Conrad, and a conscientious shrinking from anything like betrayal of
confidence, withheld her.
Days passed, and nothing was said. Gwendoline did not speak, neither
did Lady Halcot. It was not Lady Halcot's fashion to ask an explanation
which she expected, as her due, to come spontaneously. Miss Withers had
not failed to inform Lady Halcot of the arrival of the letter, adding
to her information regrets as to "the poor boy's folly," and mild
surmises that some encouragement from Gwendoline must have caused the
deed.
"I do not believe that," Lady Halcot said. "I have always found Miss
Halcombe straightforward and obedient hitherto. Your nephew is by no
means wanting in assurance, Miss Withers. I shall no doubt hear all
from Miss Halcombe before night."
But in a little while, Lady Halcot did believe it—naturally, perhaps,
since Gwendoline said nothing.
So the cloud upon Gwendoline grew darker, she herself unknowing why.
She could not see the weaving of the web behind the scenes, could not
tell how the gradual process of alienation was carried on, could not
guess how her most unimportant remarks were detailed to Lady Halcot,
with new meanings of which she herself had never dreamt. She was
conscious of a wall of separation growing up between herself and Lady
Halcot, but the manner of its growth was a mystery to her. That Miss
Withers had a hand in the matter she could no longer doubt. Conrad's
letter supplied her with a clue thus far. It supplied her, however,
with no means of circumventing the evil.
Gwendoline had never passed through a trial of this description before.
Accustomed, up to the time of leaving her London home, to be petted,
beloved, and sought after, in her little circle of acquaintances;
accustomed, since coming to Riversmouth, to be admired and trusted
and made much of,—it was an experience no less new than painful to
find herself thrust out into the cold. The cessation of Lady Halcot's
interest in her concerns revealed to her how much she had valued that
interest. She was still looked after, told what to do, desired where to
go; but the manner of the superintendence exercised was sharp and cold,
as to a child in disgrace. Sometimes she wondered whether Lady Halcot
were growing tired of her, and would one day decide to send her home;
and her heart sprang at the thought. But no hint of such an intention
ever dropped from Lady Halcot's lips.
Gwendoline drooped under this icy atmosphere like a hothouse plant
turned out into the frost. Without any definite ailment, she grew thin,
pale, and listless, and the days seemed to her to drag by interminably,
lacking life and interest. She had nothing particular to do for
anyone except herself, and the mental energy necessary for steady
self-improvement seemed of late to have died away. The weariness of
long patience was upon her.
Yet she did not murmur, and she was patient still. Whatever results
this time of trial might have in the end remained to be seen; but its
present effect was distinctly to draw her nearer to her God. In her
lack of earthly friends, she clung the more closely to her Heavenly
Friend. The unsatisfied thirst for earthly love made her drink more
deeply of the river of Divine love. Even now, in the pain of her
loneliness, Gwendoline knew that the pain was "good for her."
Mr. Selwyn came down to Riversmouth one spring day, by the old lady's
request, to discuss certain matters divulged by her to nobody. The
change in Gwendoline's position, and in Gwendoline herself, struck
him forcibly. He had been down several months earlier, just before
the Conrad affair, and had seen Gwendoline well and happy, seemingly
established as Lady Halcot's especial favourite. Lady Halcot had been
giving her riding-lessons, and had just presented her with a beautiful
little horse. He well remembered Gwendoline's eager pleasure and
gratitude, and her brilliant prettiness on horseback, together with
Lady Halcot's evident satisfaction and pride in her. He had counted the
whole arrangement a most happy success.
But this sunny May day, when he found himself once more in the old
mansion of the Leys, he perceived at once a change. Gwendoline's
wistful face and subdued voice, as she met him, told their own tale.
She could hardly speak for threatening tears, and she had to turn
away lest others should see. At luncheon, he noted with regret her
constrained and even timid manner, together with Lady Halcot's cold and
repressive bearing, nor did he fail to perceive the covert dislike and
silken satisfaction of Miss Withers' air towards Gwendoline.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE CODICIL.
"I WISH to have a codicil added to my will," said Lady Halcot.
She spoke very decidedly, after her wont, and sat upright in her chair,
facing the lawyer, while the muscles round her mouth worked nervously.
"I have decided not to make Gwendoline Halcombe my heiress to the full
extent that I purposed some months ago. Circumstances have occurred to
alter my determination."
"Indeed!" Mr. Selwyn said, not without a touch of surprise.
Lady Halcot took umbrage at it immediately.
"I suppose I am at liberty to dispose of my property as I see fit," she
said sharply. "I am not under obligations to explain my reasons to all
the world."
"Certainly not; certainly not," Mr. Selwyn answered, with all
politeness.
"I intend to leave the sum of thirty thousand pounds for the building
and endowing of a small hospital in Riversmouth; and also the sum of
ten thousand pounds for the building of some almshouses. I did not
realize till lately the need for these two institutions. Miss Withers
has been drawing me some neat plans for the almshouses. She has quite a
gift that way."
"Ha! That is it," thought the lawyer. "So 'she' is at the bottom of the
matter."
"Also, I intend to leave the sum of four thousand pounds to Miss
Withers."
"Miss Withers ought to be grateful," said Mr. Selwyn.
"Miss Withers is always grateful for kindnesses. I find her
increasingly useful,—a most devoted attendant. I am not so young as I
was, and I do not know what I should do without her. It is my wish to
mark my appreciation of her services. If I could depend upon others as
entirely as I can depend upon her—"
The old lady's tone was combative, and the unfinished sentence plainly
pointed to Gwendoline.
The lawyer again said, "Certainly," in a soothing tone. Secretly he
thought Lady Halcot nervous and irrational, as if something had thrown
her off her balance.
A pause followed, and he observed cautiously, "It is, of course, no
concern of mine, but perhaps I should recall to your memory, Lady
Halcot, that in a letter to Miss Halcombe you undertook to provide
handsomely for her future. There would not be much remaining to her,
after what you propose to do. Thirty thousand to the hospital, ten
thousand to the almshouses, four thousand to Miss Withers, twenty
thousand, roughly, in various bequests and legacies,—out of some
seventy thousand pounds."
"Seventy thousand is a low estimate, if I am not mistaken. I promised
to provide handsomely for Gwendoline Halcombe, if she gave me
satisfaction," Lady Halcot said, rather too much as if speaking of a
housemaid. "But I have had reason of late to be disappointed in Miss
Halcombe. She has shown a want of ingenuousness, a want of entire
straightforwardness, with which it is impossible to be satisfied. And
within only the last week she has displayed a want of propriety in her
manner of speaking about me—not, of course, to my face, but behind my
back—which I could never have expected in her."
"I am surprised, I confess," said Mr. Selwyn, while "Miss Withers
again" flashed through his mind. "I should not have imagined the thing
possible, knowing Miss Halcombe as I do. Is your ladyship sure that the
information is completely reliable?"
"Completely," Lady Halcot said, with her most decided air. "However, I
am not in the habit of forgetting my promises, or of swerving without
sufficient cause from my intentions. I intend to leave Miss Halcombe
sufficiently provided for. Your suggestion was therefore superfluous."
Mr. Selwyn felt that he had given offence, and he bowed slightly, with
an air of apology.
"The five hundred a year, settled upon her parents for their lifetime,
will revert to Miss Halcombe after their death. This is already so
arranged; and the arrangement shall remain undisturbed. Also there will
be at my death a few thousands to become hers immediately,—some seven
or eight thousand, if I am not mistaken. This is, at least, as much as
I have ever pledged myself to do; although for a time I intended to go
much farther."
Mr. Selwyn found the old lady as usual keenly interested in business
details. It struck him, however, that she was not so clear as she had
once been. She forgot herself repeatedly, asked the same questions over
again, and seemed not fully to grasp the sense of his answers. Still,
her resolution was plainly taken.
The interview was a long one, leaving Mr. Selwyn barely time to catch
his train. He would have liked a few words alone with Gwendoline; but
to defer his return until a later hour was not possible; and he learnt
that Gwendoline had gone out for a drive. Was it by her own wish? Mr.
Selwyn shrewdly suspected that Gwendoline would have been at least as
pleased as himself to exchange a few remarks.
"The upshot of the matter is that Miss Halcombe is unhappy at the Leys."
Mr. Selwyn had said little about his visit to Riversmouth that same
evening in the drawing-room,—much less than he was wont to say.
Isobel's questioning had proved almost fruitless; for her husband was,
of course, an adept at fencing. Mortimer Selwyn had listened silently,
drawing his own conclusions; and these conclusions took shape suddenly
in the above remark.
"I have not said so," Mr. Selwyn cautiously answered.
"Not in words, precisely," said Mortimer, "Is she well, father?"
"I should say not thoroughly. She has lost her colour."
"And her spirits?"
"I thought her looking rather depressed. But, as I tell you, I had no
opportunity of speaking with her."
"Is the old lady as fond of her as she was six months ago?" inquired
Isobel.
Mr. Selwyn could have laughed. "Fondness" was not a word to apply to
Lady Halcot under any circumstances, and he said so.
"Call it anything you like, Stuart. You know what I mean. Does Lady
Halcot care for Gwendoline Halcombe as much as ever? Or has she begun
to throw her overboard? You need not be afraid to speak. Mortimer and I
are perfectly safe."
Thus pressed, Mr. Selwyn yielded in some measure. He said nothing
about the proposed change in the will; but he spoke with regret of
Gwendoline's altered look, and of the old lady's seeming coldness.
"I'll tell you what it is," Isobel cried indignantly. "It is all that
little wretch of a Miss Withers, and her stupid nephew!"
"My dear! You are not acquainted with Miss Withers."
"Yes, I am, through you, quite as much as I am acquainted with Lady
Halcot. Do you think I don't understand the expression of your face
when you mention Miss Withers' name? I have no doubt she is a most
estimable person, in people's opinion generally; but she isn't in your
opinion, Stuart. And I haven't the least grain of doubt that she is at
the bottom of the mischief, and you haven't either."
Mr. Selwyn would not confirm or deny the assertion. He said merely,
"You are too observant, Isobel, and you have a quick imagination. But,
remember, this must not go farther. Not a word must reach Gwendoline's
parents."
"What! You would leave that poor girl to pine away for want of a kind
word!"
"I hope matters are not quite so bad. We have no business to interfere;
and it would be positive cruelty to tell her parents, when nothing can
be done. Gwendoline is bound to remain at the Leys so long as Lady
Halcot desires to keep her."
Isobel fumed, but could not explain away the truth of the assertion.
Later in the evening, when she had retired, Mortimer took the
opportunity to say quietly, "You consider seriously that no steps can
be taken?"
"About Gwendoline? Certainly not. She is entirely in Lady Halcot's
hands. You and I have nothing to do with the matter."
"I am not so sure that I have not."
"Eh!" Mr. Selwyn said doubtfully; and Mortimer's pleasant eyes met his.
"I do not know whether I shall ever marry, father. But this I know,
that if I do, Gwendoline will be my wife."
Mr. Selwyn made a sound of regret and disapproval.
"I should wish you to understand so much. I have had as yet no
opportunity of endeavouring to win her."
"And you will not have," said Mr. Selwyn.
"I should not wait long but for your position with Lady Halcot. As it
is, I could take no step without your approval."
"The last step which I could approve would be your going to Riversmouth
with such an aim. She is a good girl and a sweet girl, Mortimer; but
she is utterly out of your reach at present. Lady Halcot has her own
plans. I am sorry for you. Perhaps I should be right to mention to you
in confidence that Gwendoline will not be so rich as many suppose."
"So much the better," Mortimer said quietly.
CHAPTER XVII.
RICH TOWARD GOD.
ONE June Sunday there came into the parish church a new preacher, never
before seen within its precincts. A charity sermon was foretold for
that morning, and Mr. Rossiter had summoned a clerical acquaintance
from a distance. He did not very often indulge his congregation with
variety in their spiritual fare. Charity sermons and strange preachers
were contrary to the traditions of Riversmouth, and he was at all
times anxious to avoid giving needless offence to his aged patron.
Occasionally, however, he broke through this rule, and he had done so
now.
Lady Halcot was in her pew, as she seldom failed to be, despite her
increasing infirmities. She counted it her duty to set a good example;
and, though unwell for some days past, she was there.
Charity sermons are not, as a rule, peculiarly spirit-stirring
addresses; but this charity sermon promised early to be somewhat
exceptional in its nature. The preacher was a middle-aged man, of a
rugged and fervid aspect, yet a gentleman. He said little about the
immediate object for which help was needed, taking at once a broader
stand. Also, he kept away from the smooth and sleepy lines of much
pulpit phraseology, and spoke in terse every-day language, such as he
might have used in conversation, always to the point, nevertheless
always reverent. Such clothing of ideas in words might almost take the
place of eloquence. Mr. Rossiter, with all his earnestness, had not yet
learnt this secret of speaking straight to men's hearts in strong Saxon
English; and he began to take a lesson for himself, as he sat watching
his congregation wake up from its ordinary air of drowsy submission.
"Twelfth chapter of St. Luke, twentieth and twenty-first verses. 'But
God said unto him, Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of
thee: then whose shall those things be which thou hast provided? So is
he that layeth up treasure for himself, and IS NOT RICH TOWARD GOD.'"
The closing words rang solemnly through the building. The clergyman,
indulging in no circumlocutions, with the half-closed Bible clasped in
his hands, went straight to the point.
"Which among you all, my friends, can count himself thus 'rich toward
God'?
"You are strangers to me, and I am a stranger to you. Of your families,
your homes, your circumstances, I know nothing. But this much I know,
that not one among you is without his treasure laid up, whether for
himself or for his God.
"Wealth is a matter which men see differently from different
standpoints. A man may be rich in his own or others' estimation with
five hundred a year. A man may be poor, at least in his own estimation,
with ten thousand a year. The exact 'how much' that each one has is
not the question. You have your wealth, more or less; you have your
possessions, great or small; you have your treasures that you have
provided; you have these things in some sort, every one of you. Now
comes the vital question. Is it only treasure for self, mere pelf of
earthly storehouses, subject to mildew, moth, and flame? One night or
day thy soul shall be required of thee. Then whose shall that poor
worthless rubbish be which thou hast so carefully provided? Not thine,
in any case.
"'Not rich toward God.' There is the gist of the matter. You may have
your 'much goods laid up for many years.' You may have your thousands
or tens of thousands descending to you from your forefathers. You may
have your luxurious home, your high position, your care and comfort
and delicate fare, fruits of industry in generations past. Or you
may have striven and fought your own way upwards from poverty to
comparative wealth, till now you can sit with your hands before you,
and look placidly round, confident in the knowledge that want and
poverty cannot touch you. Of course that 'cannot' is far from absolute.
Riches do 'take to themselves wings' unexpectedly sometimes. You know
this, yet you feel secure. You have your possessions inherited by
descent or gained through labour of hand or brain, and you know you are
comfortably provided for, till—till—
"My friends, till when?"
The question came sharply, breaking into the slowly-uttered syllables
which preceded it. He paused for an instant, and the silence was
intense. Lady Halcot looked stern and pale. She thought the preacher
meant herself. Mr. Widrington, seated near, felt equally sure that he
was the person intended.
"'This night,' the summons came thus. It may be 'this night' to any one
of us. Suppose the call came now to you, whose should those things be
which you have provided—those things which have filled your hearts and
lives hitherto? Have you treasure laid up in the heavens?
"'Surely every man walketh in a vain show; he heapeth up riches, and
knoweth not who shall gather them.' YOU may make your plans and form
your wills, and those plans and wills may or may not be carried out
after you are gone. What if they are? You will not be here to see it.
What of yourself, stripped of all your wealth, of all your position, of
all that you have sought and valued and stored and laid up,—yourself,
standing, a cold and poverty-stricken soul, before the Eternal God?
'Not rich toward God,' in the hour of death. It is an awful thought.
'Lo, this is the man that made not God his strength, but trusted in the
abundance of his riches, and strengthened himself in his "substance."'
So in the margin.
"I do not for a moment say that wealth is a sin. No gift of God can in
itself be evil. I say only that wealth is a danger. Poverty is a danger
too, though of a different kind. No condition of life is without its
dangers. If you hold your treasures of any kind as from God, they will
not harm you.
"'How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of
God!' Yes, because 'they trust in the abundance of their riches'! That
is why. God made Abraham aboundingly rich, and Abraham was none the
worse in heart and spirit; for his trust was in God, not in his wealth.
So too with Job. When his riches were swept away, he could still say of
God, 'Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.' Which of you could
speak those words from the bottom of the heart, if your best treasures
were taken away? And mark,—treasure does not always mean money. There
may be treasures in the shape of mental powers, treasures in the shape
of loved friends or relatives, as well as treasures in the shape of
wealth. Those who have not one have another of these.
"'The blessing of the Lord it maketh rich, and He addeth no sorrow with
it.' My friends, do not make it needful that He should add sorrow. Take
heed that your hearts are rich toward God with the wealth which Christ
alone can give; and neither riches nor poverty will hurt you then.
"Remember, every one of you, treasure-holders of any kind or degree,
that which you have is not your own. It is the Lord's. You have to use
it for your God; and by and by He will demand from you a solemn account
of the use which you have made of it. Are you prepared to yield this
account?
"The need for which I plead to-day is one among many needs. I do not
seek merely to move your pity, or to stir your feelings in the hope
of loosening your purse-strings. The principle of the matter lies far
deeper than any surface stir of pitiful feeling. God has given to each
one of us so much of the good things of this world. Are we heaping them
together for ourselves, or are we using them for God, counting them as
lent, while the true God-given riches of forgiveness and peace and joy
are in our hearts for evermore?
"Using them for God means more than an occasional shilling put into the
plate at church, or an occasional penny tossed to a beggar. It means
more than plans of kindness and schemes of generosity. It means doing
what you do for Christ's sake. It means doing what you do as unto the
Lord Himself.
"There is a deadly sin spoken of in the Bible. Listen:
"'The wicked shall be turned into hell . . . and all the nations that
FORGET GOD.'
"And again,—'The wicked through the pride of his countenance will not
seek after God. God is not in all his thoughts.' Only forgetfulness
again! How much has God been in our thoughts this past week? Put the
question to yourselves. 'Consider this, ye that FORGET GOD.'
"Only forgetfulness! A small matter in the eyes of many. It will not
seem a small matter in that hour when you stand face to face with
the Eternal God, whom you through long years of life have habitually
forgotten.
"Forgotten Him in your work! Forgotten Him in your duties! Forgotten
Him in your pleasures! Forgotten Him in your money-earning! Forgotten
Him in your money-spending!
"And yet—He is your Father. He has not forgotten your needs. The Lord
Jesus did not forget to die for you. The Holy Spirit does not forget to
plead with you."
So far the sermon proceeded, the effect of the preacher's brief, clear
utterances being enhanced by his impressive earnestness and by a mellow
voice of strong feeling.
Suddenly, and without the slightest warning, as regarded the greater
number present, there was a heavy "thud." Lady Halcot lay senseless
upon the floor of the large square pew.
Two or three friends near said afterwards that they had observed a
livid whiteness creeping over the old lady's face, but had not thought
much of it. Miss Withers, the only sleepy person in the congregation,
had noticed nothing; and Gwendoline, absorbed in attention to the
preacher, had been equally oblivious. The collapse of Lady Halcot's
powers was so instantaneous that neither could be in time to break the
force of her fall, but Gwendoline was the first to lift her head.
A general stir took place, and the thread of close attention was
broken. The clergyman came to a sudden pause, and people around craned
their necks to observe, with eager whispers, two or three young ladies
becoming slightly hysterical. Help was at hand, and before many seconds
had elapsed, the little bent figure was carried into the vestry. There,
with the help of fresh air and remedies, Lady Halcot slowly revived.
"It must have been the heat. I never fainted in my life before," she
said uneasily. "So very strange! If I had guessed that anything of the
kind was coming on, I should have walked out. It must have made quite
a disturbance. Thanks; I do not require the salts, Miss Withers. I am
quite well."
But when she stood up to walk to her carriage, Lady Halcot fell back
again in semi-unconsciousness.
The disturbance in church had not been slight, and many found it
difficult to give further attention to the sermon. With some, however,
the event had rather deepened the effect of the preacher's words, and
among these was Mr. Widrington. For so chatty a man, he was strangely
silent during the remainder of the day; and a clue to his silence came
at night.
"Wife," he said tremblingly, "I can't get out of my head the things I
heard this morning. It's an awful thought that all these years I have
been forgetting God,—forgetting Him in my getting, and my spending too.
I didn't mean to, but I have. It was awful to see the old lady go down
like that, and to think it was, maybe, the call come all of a sudden. I
hope it isn't, but there's no knowing; and I hope, if it is, she's got
her treasure in heaven all right. But I'm sure I haven't. It's time we
should see to it, wifie."
The preacher came and went, and his first sermon in Riversmouth was
also his last there. But the words flung broadcast upon the soil that
day sprang up and grew and bore fruit; not only in the heart of little
old Mr. Widrington.
CHAPTER XVIII.
LONELINESS.
SIX weeks had passed since Lady Halcot was first taken ill in church,
and she was ill yet. She had not left her room, had, indeed, scarcely
quitted her bed, since that day. Mr. Fosbrook found it difficult to
say in precise terms what was the matter with her. She seemed to have
no definite ailment, beyond a collapse of all her powers. Suddenly,
and almost without previous warning, she had sunk into the ways of a
confirmed invalid.
Miss Withers from the first moment stepped quietly into the position
of head nurse and of general manager in all that appertained to Lady
Halcot. Gwendoline found herself gradually excluded from the sick-room.
A brief visit once or twice a day was permitted for a while, Miss
Withers invariably remaining present. But as time went on, difficulties
were raised; and slowly—almost imperceptibly to herself—it came about
that her entrance was forbidden.
"I do not think it desirable to-day," in Miss Withers' placid tones,
grew into, "I could not possibly allow it, Miss Halcombe."
Gwendoline had no means of knowing whether this was by Lady Halcot's
desire. Miss Withers did everything in Lady Halcot's name, spoke much
of the necessity of keeping her quiet, and promised to call Gwendoline
at once, if at any time the old lady seemed to require her. Gwendoline
had no power to separate the true from the false in their utterances.
Had she felt the slightest security that her presence was desired by
Lady Halcot, she would have taken a firm stand immediately. But this
security she could not feel. Lady Halcot's long-continued coldness, and
the absence now of any kind message from the sick-room, made her shrink
from intruding where, as it seemed, she was not wanted.
Life dragged on wearily with her through those weeks. She had no
friends, no companions. Miss Withers was with Lady Halcot, morning,
noon, and night; scarcely quitting the room for even a hurried meal now
and then, but "snatching food," as she called it, when she could, and
never walking out at all. Yet she showed no signs of being over-taxed,
but always appeared placidly neat and satisfied. Gwendoline wondered at
her.
What Mr. Fosbrook thought of the old lady Gwendoline did not know.
She would have spoken to him, but no opportunity presented itself. So
sure as Mr. Fosbrook's carriage reached the front door, the ubiquitous
Miss Withers was gliding through the hall to welcome him; and when he
left, she accompanied him out upon the steps, talking always in muffled
and confidential tones. If Gwendoline came up and asked a question
for herself, the answer was snatched from Mr. Fosbrook's lips by Miss
Withers. Her after report to Gwendoline was almost invariably the same,
"Mr. Fosbrook considered Lady Halcot very feeble still, and desired
that she should be kept perfectly quiet."
It was a strange life for Gwendoline, brought up as she had been in
a crowd, and now entirely cut off from all whom she loved. Letters
were her great comfort, and correspondence was no longer subject to
supervision; but Gwendoline was strictly honourable, and she would in
no case exceed the bounds marked out for her by Lady Halcot. A feeling
of restlessness made it very difficult to settle to any course of
study; and rides and drives were melancholy, with no particular object
in them, no companion with whom to exchange ideas, nobody to see her
off, nobody to welcome her home. Gwendoline had not imagined until now
how much of real affection she had learnt to bestow on Lady Halcot, or
how keenly the little old lady could be missed out of her daily life.
In despair of other interests, she at length took to her painting
again, and spent hours over it daily, struggling with lassitude and
disinclination, and trying to revive a shadow of her former delight in
the occupation. Some of the old pleasure crept back slowly; but she
missed the companionship of her fellow-students, their criticisms,
opinions, and judgments, together with the warm interest of her
home-circle in all that she undertook. To have painted a picture for
her mother would have brought real enjoyment, but Gwendoline knew well
that her work, when done, would be Lady Halcot's, not Mrs. Halcombe's.
Sometimes the poor girl flung her pencils down, and sobbed aloud in her
heartache, for "Mother, mother!"
Occasionally Miss Withers would drop in, and scan Gwendoline's
unfinished canvas, with the monotonous verdict of "So very pretty."
Gwendoline had some difficulty on such occasions in controlling herself
to receive politely the unwelcome commendation.
She was alone in Lady Halcot's boudoir early one afternoon, going
through an hour of self-prescribed reading, when, to her surprise,
Mr. Fosbrook walked in. It was half an hour before his usual time
of calling, and Gwendoline said, as she rose, "I did not hear the
carriage."
"No; I came on my own feet for once," Mr. Fosbrook answered, not
thinking it necessary to add that he had done so for the express
purpose of securing a private interview with her. "Finding the door on
the latch, I did not ring. Have you been out to-day, Miss Halcombe?"
"No; I did not feel inclined."
"Don't give way to that feeling."
Gwendoline smiled assent, cheered quickly by the interest shown in her
well-being. She had had little of such kindness for many weeks.
"You are not looking very well, I think. People cannot get on without
fresh air."
"No; I will remember," she said, not wishing to waste valuable time.
"Mr. Fosbrook, what do you really think of Lady Halcot? She has been so
long ill now. Will she soon be well?"
Mr. Fosbrook looked at her in silence for two seconds. Then he said
gravely, "Miss Withers undertook to tell you."
"She tells me nothing," said Gwendoline hastily. "Except that Lady
Halcot is weak, and must be kept quiet."
"That is true,—so far. It is not all. There has been a marked failure
the last three days."
"A failure of strength?"
"Of vital power."
"I have heard nothing," Gwendoline said, in a trembling voice,—"nothing
whatever. Is this right? Why am I to be kept away from Lady Halcot, and
to have the truth hidden from me? I am not a child."
"Then it is not by your own wish that you are absent?"
"My own wish! Staying out of the room! No, indeed! Could you think so?"
asked Gwendoline reproachfully.
"Miss Withers seemed to think that you were of a nervous disposition,
as regarded illness."
Gwendoline exclaimed in amazement. "I am the eldest of a large family,"
she said. "I have been used to nursing all my life."
"I confess it did not sound very much like the young lady whom I saw
leaping from the rock," he said, with a half-smile. "But characters are
often inconsistent in their developments. Then you would not really
object to seeing Lady Halcot?"
"If I thought Lady Halcot wished to see me, nothing should keep me out
of the room," said Gwendoline indignantly. "Afraid of illness indeed!"
"It is possible that Lady Halcot wishes it more than she allows to
appear. She is always reserved."
"Has she ever said anything,—ever asked about me?"
"No," Mr. Fosbrook answered. "Your name has not been mentioned by
her in my hearing. When I have alluded to you, she has immediately
dropped the subject. But this very silence strikes me as unnatural, and
inclines me to believe that there is strong feeling of some kind below."
Gwendoline stood with a look of painful perplexity on her face. "If I
only knew what to do!" she said. "If I could only see my way clearly!
Miss Withers,—'she,' of course, has no right to forbid me the room. If
I knew myself to be wanted there, I would go at once. Miss Withers has
no real power in the matter. There is only my doubt about Lady Halcot's
wishes. Did you mean just now that you think Lady Halcot's state at all
serious?—Anything to be anxious about?"
"It would be no kindness to hide the truth from you," said Mr. Fosbrook
seriously. "She will never come down-stairs again."
"You don't mean to say that she is dying?"
Gwendoline's startled face was turned upon him in blank distress. But
his answer left her in no doubt.
"Lady Halcot is dying."
"Not actually dying I—surely not so bad as that! How long can she live?"
"It may be weeks. It may be only days. I cannot speak with certainty. A
temporary rally is not even now impossible, but I hardly expect it."
"And she,—does she know it?"
"I cannot tell. She does not appear to be conscious of danger; but
certainly I have an impression that something is weighing upon her
mind. It may be that, or it may be your absence."
A light seemed to flash upon Gwendoline. "I see,—I see!" she said. "You
think that perhaps Lady Halcot is fretting about me,—perhaps believing,
as you did, that I have been staying away out of choice—selfishly."
"I did not believe it, Miss Halcombe. But mistakes are possible,
especially in a sick-room, where the mind is not very strong."
"And you advise me to go to her?"
Mr. Fosbrook's answer was unhesitating. "I do. The experiment is at
least worth trying."
The boudoir door opened slowly, and Miss Withers entered, a rather
disagreeable expression underlying her smile. "Mr. Fosbrook already!"
she said, with an accent of surprise. "How do you do? You are early
to-day."
"Rather," Mr. Fosbrook answered composedly.
He was, of course, entirely indifferent to Miss Withers' displeasure,
and he shook hands in his usual manner, content to have achieved
that which might prevent after unhappiness or self-reproaches on the
part of Gwendoline. He had suspected the fact of certain not quite
straightforward dealings. Having done his part, he left Gwendoline to
carry on the matter.
CHAPTER XIX.
TO A POINT.
GWENDOLINE'S resolution was quickly taken. A plan of action flashed
into her mind, and she unhesitatingly resolved to carry it out. With
all her capabilities of passive endurance, and her real sweetness of
temper, there was much of underlying force and spirit, and she was now
thoroughly aroused. No thought of self came into the question. Her
solicitude was entirely for Lady Halcot.
"Will you please to come up-stairs, Mr. Fosbrook?" Miss Withers said,
with less than her usual assurance.
Gwendoline advanced a step or two, colourless still, but
self-possessed. "Miss Withers, I have been asking Mr. Fosbrook his real
opinion of Lady Halcot; and I am very much surprised to find matters
far worse than you have given me any reason to suppose."
Miss Withers murmured something about "not liking to distress Miss
Halcombe."
"Mr. Fosbrook has also given me full leave to go in and out of Lady
Halcot's room," Gwendoline continued.
"Lady Halcot's wishes—" came in answer to this.
"I will find out for myself what Lady Halcot's wishes really are," said
Gwendoline. "Mr. Fosbrook, would you please to come up-stairs with me?
If you like to make a third, Miss Withers, pray come also."
Miss Withers seemingly did like to make a third, for she followed Mr.
Fosbrook, while Gwendoline preceded him. The little fair-haired woman's
control of feature was curiously displayed at this juncture. Neither
fear nor annoyance showed in her face. She rather appeared to be
occupied with cogitations as to her next step. On the first landing a
quick and unexpected movement placed her beside Gwendoline, and at the
same instant she was saying, in a subdued voice, "I should wish you to
understand, Miss Halcombe, that I have acted throughout entirely with
Lady Halcot's consent. The responsibility does not rest with me."
Gwendoline was silent, not knowing what answer to make; and the shadow
of an incredulous smile was on Mr. Fosbrook's lips. Miss Withers looked
steadily from one to the other.
"I assure you it is so. How could it be otherwise? I have acted simply
by Lady Halcot's desire,—simply as her mouthpiece."
"I do not think a mouthpiece is required. Lady Halcot will tell me her
own wishes," Gwendoline answered coldly.
The trio moved on without more words, till Lady Halcot's bedroom
door was reached. Gwendoline there paused, her hand upon it, that
Miss Withers might not push in first. "I do not wish to startle Lady
Halcot," she said, in a low tone. "No, not you, Miss Withers. Mr.
Fosbrook—"
Miss Withers obeyed, drawing back, strange to say, with a still
unruffled mien.
The doctor entered alone, greeting his patient cheerfully. "How are you
to-day, Lady Halcot? Not very bright, I am afraid. No; I thought so."
"Imprisonment never suits me," Lady Halcot answered, in a thin faint
voice. She was on the sofa, built up with cushions and shawls, not
dressed, but warmly muffled and covered, her shrunken wan face looking
out from manifold wraps. Excessive restlessness had driven her for an
hour from her bed, but she had to be lifted like an infant, and summer
heat brought no warmth to her chilled frame.
"The days seem long to you up here?" Mr. Fosbrook said
half-questioningly.
"Yes,—long and monotonous. I have been an active woman, and time hangs
heavily, with no occupations. I have no right to complain, however."
"A little change might do you no harm."
"A change down-stairs? I have no strength."
"No, I could not recommend that. But how would you like to see another
face, by way of variety? Miss Halcombe is anxious to pay you a visit."
"Gwendoline!" and there was a pause. "Yes,—if she cares to come."
"She is just outside. Miss Halcombe!" the doctor said; but almost
before the words crossed his lips Gwendoline stood by the bedside.
An instant's hesitation on her part, and the old lady would have
withdrawn into a shell of icy reserve. Gwendoline did not hesitate. She
knelt down beside the couch, and pressed her lips to one of the small
withered hands.
"Gwendoline, my dear!"
Lady Halcot's voice shook painfully.
"You will let me be with you now, will you not?" asked Gwendoline
beseechingly. "Mr. Fosbrook has given me leave. I have been so longing
to see you all these weeks."
"She told me—you—"
Lady Halcot broke off, and her apprehensive glance round the room was
not lost upon her companions. Miss Withers had become invisible. Mr.
Fosbrook went to the door, and closed it, not quite unconscious of a
figure moving away on the other side.
"There has been some misunderstanding," he said, as he came back. "Miss
Halcombe has not remained absent by her own will."
"I have wished so much to come. I would have given anything to be with
you," Gwendoline repeated earnestly.
Lady Halcot looked at her and at the doctor by turns. "Ah, yes,—a
misunderstanding!" she murmured at length. "Only a misunderstanding.
Such things will happen. But you will not leave me again, my dear. I
have wanted you so much. And I thought you were too busy to care to
come,—riding out, and painting, and writing letters home. A little
misunderstanding."
Gwendoline had it on her lips to say, "She told me you did not want
me." But something seemed to restrain the utterance. The old lady
looked so broken and shadowy, that Gwendoline shrank from putting her
to pain. She only said, "You will know me better now."
"Yes, my dear,—yes. I have misjudged you," said Lady Halcot sadly.
Then, as the doctor felt her pulse,—"I am not well to-day, Mr.
Fosbrook. I am very weak."
"Yes, very," he answered. "Is there anything you could fancy in the way
of food,—anything fresh?"
"Ah, if only one did not need to eat. I have such a distaste for
everything. But perhaps—perhaps, with Gwendoline to sit by me—"
"I am going to be your nurse now," said Gwendoline.
"I shall like that, my dear. And I think—perhaps—a little nearer,
Gwendoline; I don't want to be overheard. Is the door shut? Thanks. I
think, my dear, if you could manage to arrange it, when you are not
here yourself,—if either Spurrell or Frith could take your place,—so as
not to leave me quite alone with Miss Withers!" The tones were eager
as well as tremulous. "I have no complaints to make. Miss Withers is
an excellent nurse,—most painstaking. But sometimes—it tries me a
little—if you could manage so—"
"You shall never be without Spurrell or Frith or myself in the room for
a single instant," said Gwendoline firmly.
"Don't tell Miss Withers that I have expressed the wish. She has been
most attentive, and I should be sorry to hurt her feelings. Indeed, I
am quite sure she means everything for the best. But if—if you 'could'
arrange it—"
The mastery which Miss Withers had evidently obtained over the old lady
in her weakness was strangely and pitifully shown. Gwendoline could
hardly control her indignation; but for Lady Halcot's sake she only
replied quietly, "I will, indeed. I promise to take care. You shall not
be alone with Miss Withers again."
"Then all will be as I could wish. I have no desire for other changes.
She means well, and she is very capable. Doctor, I think I will
ask you to come again this evening. The sinking is worst then, and
perhaps you could do something to relieve it. I want a few words with
Gwendoline now, before I am too tired. And perhaps, if you should see
Miss Withers,—perhaps you could keep her in conversation down-stairs
for a few minutes? You understand I do not wish to blame her,—I am not
asking you to find fault with her,—but simply if you could detain her a
little—"
The doctor said "Certainly," and took leave at once, fully
comprehending.
Gwendoline went outside the door with him, closing it after her, and
said, under breath, "Would it not be possible to forbid Miss Withers
the room?"
"I hardly think so," he answered, equally low. "Lady Halcot could not
stand the agitation. Do as she has asked you; and meantime I will give
Miss Withers a word of warning. It may be only a question of a few
days."
Gwendoline went back to her old position, holding again the withered
hand between her own, and wondering badly what might be the import of
those words to the old lady herself. Only a few more days, perhaps!
What lay beyond?
"That is what I wished," the sunken voice said. "Is the door shut,
Gwendoline? No, not locked. I do not care to offend Miss Withers, and
perhaps she might not like to come and find it locked. But Mr. Fosbrook
will detain her for a few minutes. I have something to say, and I am
anxious not to be overheard. My memory seems so weak now; but I think I
can recall—presently—what it was."
"It will come back to you by and by. Don't distress yourself with
trying to remember now," Gwendoline said tenderly, as she might have
spoken to a sick child. This poor little wasted feeble creature seemed
utterly unlike the dignified Lady Halcot. "Another time will do as
well."
"No, my dear; I cannot tell. The doctor does not say what is the matter
with me, and I suppose it is only old age and tiredness; but I shall
never be well again. And sometimes everything seems going from me."
She looked steadily into vacancy with a strained expression, as if
seeking after wandering ideas.
"Something that you did! What was it, Gwendoline? Did you give me
reason to be displeased with you? Or was it—was it your mother? I have
so much confusion of memory, I cannot disentangle things."
"Mother displeased you long ago, Lady Halcot; but you have forgiven
her now, I am quite sure," said Gwendoline. "And you were displeased
with me, but I could not tell why. I think it may have been another
misunderstanding,—through Miss Withers."
"Yes, yes; I dare say it was that," said Lady Halcot feebly.
"Something that she knew, which you did not tell me. If you had told
me, I should not have minded. But we need not go into that now. A
misunderstanding!—Yes, another misunderstanding! You are a good girl,
Gwendoline. I see it now. I wish—I wish I had not been persuaded to
alter my will."
Gwendoline heard this silently.
"I do not think I can alter it again; I am so tired, so very weak and
weary," continued Lady Halcot "And I am not quite sure that it would
be right. The money left for a hospital and almshouses—once given—I do
not think I could rightly take that back now. My conscience would not
approve."
"No, indeed; I am sure you could not," said Gwendoline.
"You feel so too? That is a relief to my mind," said Lady Halcot, as if
surprised. "I thought perhaps you would be angry. Miss Withers said so
sometimes, and wished you not to know. But you do not love riches as
some do."
"I think I would rather not have a very great deal of money," said
Gwendoline. "Wealth brings danger with it."
"Ah, that sermon!" and a shiver passed over Lady Halcot. "Yes, I
remember. It comes back to me often, especially at night. 'Not rich
toward God.' I have so often thought since of those words. But, my
dear, you will have something, only I cannot recall how much. And I
have left four thousand pounds to Miss Withers. It is a large sum. I
think she has wanted me lately to make it eight thousand, but I could
not feel that to be right. Still, she has worked hard, and she means
so well always,—and there are her nieces and nephews too. I think now
that I have not acted quite wisely. I ought to have remembered how much
stronger your claim upon me was—of the two. But you will not grudge it
to her, Gwendoline. I cannot make any further alterations."
"It will be all quite right," said Gwendoline softly. "Don't trouble
yourself any more about money. That matters so little."
"I have nearly done with it. But there is the responsibility," said
Lady Halcot. Then more faintly she added, "Now I must rest."
Sleep crept over her, and she lay unconscious, with her head supported
on Gwendoline's arm. Miss Withers presently came in, wearing precisely
her usual expression. Gwendoline could not have told from her face
whether or no she realized the changed aspect of affairs. Presently,
however, a movement of Lady Halcot set her free, and Miss Withers then
made signs of a desire to speak. The two moved noiselessly into the
adjoining room.
"I merely wished, Miss Halcombe, to apologize for my unfortunate
mistake. It must seem strange now, but I do assure you Lady Halcot has
never expressed the slightest desire for your presence."
"It does seem strange," Gwendoline answered.
"If I had understood,—if I could possibly have guessed; but, indeed,
she has, on the contrary, appeared to desire nothing so much as quiet.
I have felt it my duty to secure it for her. And Mr. Fosbrook said
so much about the danger of excitement. If I have misjudged, it has
been misjudgment only. You will, I am sure, give me credit for right
motives."
Gwendoline thought it as well not to enter upon a discussion
about motives. "Lady Halcot wishes to look upon the whole as a
misunderstanding," she said; "and I am willing to accept the same view.
I need say no more, except that for your own sake I am very sorry for
the way in which you have acted."
Miss Withers showed no resentment. "I can quite believe that my
conduct may appear singular to you," she said meekly. "You cannot, of
course, see the matter as a whole, or know quite all that passed. Lady
Halcot is in a feeble state of mind, and says one hour what she unsays
the next. On reflection I believe you will regard the matter more
leniently."
Gwendoline was silent, fearing to speak too strongly. She found patient
listening by no means easy.
"Of course, if it were Lady Halcot's wish that I should not attend upon
her any more," Miss Withers suggested, with a mournful intonation,—"if
it were her wish, even, that I should leave Riversmouth—" and the
little woman's handkerchief went up to her eyes.
"No," Gwendoline answered. "Lady Halcot takes the most indulgent view
possible of your conduct, and I am trying to do the same. Mr. Fosbrook
forbids all agitation, and there must be no explanations. We can make
use of you in the sick-room still; only you must please to understand
that all arrangements are entirely in my hands."
"To be sure. I shall not forget," said Miss Withers.
CHAPTER XX.
LINGERING ON.
NOR did she. During many weeks following, the little slim lady neatly
accommodated herself to her new position, appealed to Gwendoline on
all occasions, came and went as she was desired, did as she was told,
and seemed quite as well content to be second as to be first. Truly
she showed single-hearted devotion, though to no worthy aim. If the
four thousand pounds might not be doubled, Miss Withers was at least
determined that there should be no loophole of a further reason for the
legacy being halved or done away with altogether.
The motive was a powerful one with Miss Withers, and it acted
powerfully on her conduct, as such baser motives not seldom do. Pride
and love of managing went down before it. A more submissive and
unobtrusive yet useful attendant could hardly have been found.
Gwendoline, in her comparative inexperience, found Miss Withers an
assistant of no small value. If Miss Withers felt resentment towards
Gwendoline, it was completely veiled. A stranger would have counted her
affectionate to the older and the younger lady alike.
Had Lady Halcot passed away, as the doctor with good reason expected,
in the course of the next few days or weeks, Miss Withers would have
gained the object for which she had so patiently striven.
There came, however, an unlooked-for rally; not real recovery, but
a partial return to something more of life and warmth. The chill
sinking and exhaustion lessened; and Lady Halcot became able to take
an interest in things about her once more. There was no talk of
dressing, or of leaving her room, for she was far too feeble for any
such exertions, yet there seemed to be an indefinite postponement of
the end, once apparently so near. Mr. Fosbrook ascribed this rally in a
large measure to the pleasure of the old lady in having Gwendoline with
her again.
Days grew into weeks, weeks lengthened into months, and still she
lingered on, sometimes better, sometimes worse. Illness had strangely
broken the formerly stern and high spirit.
Lady Halcot became, as time went on, gently affectionate, patient under
suffering, grateful for every attention, altogether unlike her former
self. Could illness alone have worked such a change?
She was still, as ever, exceedingly reticent on religious topics.
Gwendoline wondered often what might be going on below the surface,
but she dared not attempt to penetrate this proof-armour of reserve.
The day after her return to the sick-room, Lady Halcot had said, with
a touch of nervous shyness, "If it will not fatigue you, Gwendoline, I
should wish you to read me the Lessons every morning, as my eyes are
now so weak."
Gwendoline had thankfully complied, throwing much earnest feeling into
her low-voiced utterance of the sacred words. But no conversation on
these subjects had yet become possible.
Towards the close of summer there was again a seeming advance, more
marked than any preceding; and for several days Lady Halcot was able to
dress partially, and to be wheeled into another room on the same floor.
Gwendoline spoke of recovery in a hopeful tone, and Lady Halcot moved
her head negatively. "No, my dear; it is only for a little while. But I
feel stronger just now, and I am glad to feel so. There are one or two
things which ought to be done."
"Not things tiring to you, I hope," said Gwendoline.
"One must be tired sometimes," Lady Halcot answered calmly. "My plan
throughout life has always been to do what had to be done, and to let
bodily consequences take care of themselves. But of late I have been
unable to act; there has been such a lack of mental energy. I am more
like myself this week."
She lay thinking for some minutes, while Gwendoline worked silently
by her side. Many hours each day were spent thus by the two together,
and Lady Halcot never seemed so content as when Gwendoline was her
attendant. She was not, however, a selfish invalid. Regular walks and
drives, and sufficient absence from the sick-room, were constantly
enforced; and, despite long nursing, Gwendoline had never appeared to
be in better health.
"Gwendoline, I wish you to write to Mr. Selwyn for me. Stay,—is the
door shut?"
"Yes,—close."
"I do not wish to be fanciful, but precautions are occasionally
needful. Some people have not quite such a delicate sense of honour
as others—as one could wish. I suppose early training makes a great
difference in these respects. I wish you to write to Mr. Selwyn this
morning."
"Shall I at once?" asked Gwendoline.
"No, not here, but in your room,—presently, when Frith takes
your place. I should like you to request him to come to me
immediately,—to-morrow, if possible. Express yourself in urgent terms.
I cannot tell how long this improvement will last, and I am anxious
to take advantage of it without delay. Tell him from me that it is a
matter of serious importance. Write the letter before you go out, and
post it yourself. Say nothing to Miss Withers, if you please."
"I will take great care," Gwendoline answered quietly; no shadow of
curiosity appearing in voice or look.
"You are a good girl," the old lady said. "I have entire trust in you,
Gwendoline."
Tears flushed quickly into Gwendoline's eyes, and her glance was full
of gratitude.
"Yes, entire trust," repeated Lady Halcot. "I know you better now than
some months ago; and I would not have you other than you are in all
particulars."
"I am so glad you are satisfied," Gwendoline said, in a low voice.
"I am fully satisfied. But sometimes I fear it is a dull life for you.
If I were a little stronger,—not so soon shaken—"
"I am not dull now, indeed," said Gwendoline. "Ever since I have been
allowed to wait upon you, I have been quite happy."
"Thanks, my dear!" and Lady Halcot's voice spoke of touched feeling.
"It was not by my wish that—" Then she paused. "But no need to go into
the past. We understand one another now. Yes, I believe you are happy.
Yours is a contented spirit. Still, you are young, and you ought to see
people sometimes. I could ask some of your friends here to pay you a
visit,—Miss Dewhurst, perhaps,—but I do not feel that I could stand the
fatigue. You should go home for a few weeks' change, only I hardly can
resolve to spare you just now. Do you mind waiting a little longer? It
will not be very long, Gwendoline."
"I could not leave you. I could not be easy away," Gwendoline
answered earnestly. "Indeed, dear Lady Halcot, I do not want any
visitors—except—till you are better."
"Ah, that will not be," Lady Halcot answered.
"Except my mother!" had been the words on Gwendoline's lips. "If only
my mother might come!" she longed to say. Yet, somehow, she could
not quite resolve to speak out. She had such a dread—perhaps almost
a cowardly dread—of disturbing the present calm and placid relations
between Lady Halcot and herself. The idea of seeing Mrs. Halcombe
again seemed never to occur to the latter; though of late she had
occasionally sent a message of remembrance when Gwendoline was writing
home. Later in the day Gwendoline blamed herself much for not making
better use of what might have been a good opportunity.
The letter was written and posted as Lady Halcot wished, Miss Withers
remaining in complete ignorance of the transaction.
Next morning Lady Halcot seemed restless, and was constantly on the
look-out. "Do you think he will come?" she asked often of Gwendoline,
adding once, "He is a busy man. But I do not think he will disappoint
me, unless compelled to do so."
"I am sure he will not," Gwendoline said. "There may be engagements
which he cannot set aside."
"Yes; previous engagements. I have thought of them. But you wrote
stringently? He will not disappoint me if it can be helped," she said
again. "Let me know without delay if he should come."
An immediate response to her letter was more than Gwendoline ventured
to expect; though, seeing the old lady's heart bent upon such a
response, she was not quite without hope. A telegram, promising an
early interview, seemed to her the most likely reply; but soon after
midday, to her surprise, Mr. Selwyn himself drove up to the front door.
Gwendoline was the first to greet him, and he was evidently gratified
by her improved looks. He was soon closeted with Lady Halcot; all
others, including Gwendoline, being banished.
The sudden appearance of the lawyer came plainly as a shock to Miss
Withers. She looked uneasy and even unhappy the rest of the day, asking
no questions, but scrutinizing sharply others' faces. Mr. Selwyn
returned to London immediately after his tête-à-tête talk with the old
lady, not waiting even for luncheon; and as he went out of the house he
was seen to rub his hands with an air of satisfaction.
A few days later he appeared again, and was a second time closeted
with Lady Halcot. Moreover, Mr. Fosbrook, and also the clergyman, Mr.
Rossiter, who had of late been re-admitted at the Leys and had become a
frequent caller on Lady Halcot, were both present during part of this
latter interview, evidently by previous arrangement.
"What has Mr. Selwyn come for?" Miss Withers inquired suspiciously of
Gwendoline, prudence yielding before stronger motives.
Gwendoline was glad to be able to reply, "I do not know, Miss Withers."
She saw at once that the truthful utterance was not believed. Double
people are apt to suspect others of doubleness.
"You mean that you did not expect Mr. Selwyn to come?"
"No, I did not mean that," Gwendoline answered coldly, rather
astonished at the little woman's boldness. "I do not know what he has
come for."
"Lady Halcot has not informed you?"
"No. If she had, the information could go no farther, Miss Withers."
"Certainly not," Miss Withers answered with an air of would-be
indifference. "Still, one is at liberty to conjecture in such cases.
I should suppose it to have something to do with the disposal of her
property." Miss Withers' pale eyes gave one of their stealthy cat-like
glances.
"Very possibly. I really see no need to trouble myself with
conjectures," said Gwendoline.
"No. Certainly no need. As you say, it is useless trouble. I am not at
all an inquisitive person, Miss Halcombe,—that never was my failing, I
am thankful to say. But naturally I am interested in all that concerns
our dear Lady Halcot."
Gwendoline allowed the dialogue to drop, and turned away in silence.
She would have no collisions with Miss Withers which might be avoided.
CHAPTER XXI.
PARTING WORDS.
THE day following was Sunday. Lady Halcot's brief improvement in health
seemed to be already on the wane. It was as if she had kept up just
long enough for the carrying out of her purposes, whatever they might
have been; and then the flickering light went down.
"All is settled now, and my mind is at rest," she said calmly to
Gwendoline, after Mr. Selwyn's second visit. "There is nothing to
trouble me any more."
And even before night, Gwendoline knew that she was failing.
Early in the morning a marked change for the worse became apparent, and
Mr. Fosbrook, called hurriedly in, did not think well of her state. "I
have expected this for some time," he said gravely to Gwendoline. "The
only marvel is that she has gone on so long."
It had been arranged that Mr. Rossiter should come in after breakfast,
to administer the Holy Communion, as he had done occasionally since she
had been entirely cut off from attending public worship. Lady Halcot
would allow no change of plan; but by the time the short service came
to an end, she was almost pulseless with exhaustion.
About five o'clock in the afternoon she revived a little, and seemed
to enjoy a cup of tea. Gwendoline, who had not left her all day, was
keeping watch beside the couch, Frith being within call.
"It is passing off now," Lady Halcot said. "I thought this morning that
the end was very near. Yes,—near, still, it must be. My last earthly
Communion is over."
"Oh, not yet," Gwendoline broke out sorrowfully. "Don't talk about
leaving me yet."
Lady Halcot's withered hand came softly on hers.
"Will you be a little grieved to lose me, Gwendoline?"
"A little!" Gwendoline's voice failed.
"Yes; you will feel it, I know. You have been very good to me, my
dear, and I owe much to you. But you will have your mother and all of
them again,—your father,—your brothers and sisters. I am afraid the
separation has been hard to bear at times. If I were living the last
two years over again, I would arrange differently. Things that are done
cannot be undone."
"We can never forget all you have done for us," murmured Gwendoline.
"Not more than is right. Not really much; it has involved no
self-denial. But I am thankful to have been able to make these last
arrangements—just in time. Now my mind is at rest. I believe your wish
would be, Gwendoline, that your mother should be remembered in my will
rather than yourself. I have acted on that supposition,—and it will all
revert to you later."
"Oh, thank you! I would so much rather!" Gwendoline said earnestly.
"I felt convinced that it would be so. Also, I desired that others
should see your mother reinstated in her old position, so far as can be
now."
"It will make mother so happy," said Gwendoline. "I know she has always
longed to feel that you had quite forgiven her,—I mean, that you felt
as you used to feel."
"Yes; you are right to alter your form of expression. It is not a case
for forgiveness,—from me towards her. Perhaps rather from her towards
me."
Then, after a pause for recollection, "But I was saying something.
My wish has been to reinstate her, so far as is now possible. It is
possible only in a measure. She would once have inherited all my own
property. I do not feel, however, that I can undo the gifts for the
building of the hospital and the almshouses. I may be mistaken, but it
does not appear to me right,—even though the resolution was taken under
mixed motives—under a mistake in some measure; still I cannot think I
should act rightly in reversing that decision."
"Oh no; you could not. Mother would feel the same," said Gwendoline.
"Yes; you agreed with me before on that question, and I was glad of it.
Your assent helped me through the difficulty. I have not forgotten.
And, after all, Mr. Selwyn finds the sum-total at my disposal to be
more than he imagined some months ago. You and your mother will not
know want. Also, I have esteemed it my duty to lessen the legacy to
Miss Withers. My opinion of her has undergone a change. Still, I do not
wish to show vexation. It has been too much my way in the past. I wish
to forgive entirely any manner of wrongdoing towards me. Miss Withers
will not find her name omitted in my remembrances to friends."
Gwendoline was conscious of a slight stir behind the large screen
which stood between bed and door. She went to close the latter, and
saw a figure passing swiftly down the passage. Gwendoline drew her own
conclusions, yet she said nothing.
"Yes; you are right to shut the door. I like my room kept fresh,
but it is very cold to-day. We were speaking about your mother just
now. I wish her to understand that I feel towards her as of old. All
bitterness is at an end. Sometimes, in the last week, I have considered
whether to send for her."
Gwendoline's heart gave a bound. "If I only might!" she said
beseechingly.
"I think not. I am too weak. I do not feel that I could stand the
agitation. Give her my love, and tell her that I regard her as my dear
Eleanor. Perhaps, just at last,—but I am not sure. I wish to keep my
mind clear now for other matters."
Gwendoline hardly knew whether she might say more. She ventured, after
a pause, to suggest, "Mother is such a comfort in illness."
"Yes, my dear; but it would be agitating—would call up distressing
memories. I have but one need now, Gwendoline. I want only—Christ."
Lady Halcot seemed striving to break through the chains of her lifelong
reserve. She continued, with a manifest effort,—
"I think those lonely weeks were good for me—strangely so. I never knew
the feeling of loneliness before; but it came then, when I believed you
did not care to come near me, and when all my old confidence was gone.
The words of that sermon returned often, and showed me what I was. 'Not
rich toward God.' Other riches seemed so worthless. And I used to think
you could perhaps have brought comfort. But it was better so. For God
Himself helped me."
Another pause followed. Gwendoline asked gently, "Was it that sermon
that made you ill?"
"No; the illness was coming on before. I had felt the signs of it
without recognising them. But the words of the sermon stayed by me
afterwards, and I could not put them away. 'Poverty-stricken,' he had
said I was, and I knew it to be true."
Gwendoline's face begged for more; she could not ask it in words.
"Some of those weeks were terribly hopeless," Lady Halcot said, in a
weary voice, as if strength were failing. "But I am glad of them now,
for I think they taught me much. I had to look to God alone, for there
was no other helper. If you had been with me, I might have leant too
much upon you."
"I suppose the teaching that comes straight from Him is the best of
all," Gwendoline whispered.
"Yes; I think so. Not that one would desire to choose. But He taught me
then, and He has been teaching me since—in many ways. Mr. Rossiter's
visits have been a help, and your reading too. I cannot talk much on
such matters, and I hope I do not deceive myself. I seem to have no
fears. Sometimes Christ seems so very near—so very loving. How can I
help trusting Him? After all these years of forgetfulness—so much more
than I deserve. But I think I am too weak for doctrines and doubts.
No doubt it is better so. I know He died for me. I can only just give
myself into His keeping,—like a child."
The closing sentence was scarcely audible. Before Gwendoline could
resolve what answer to make, she added faintly, "I have wished to say
thus much—for your comfort. I cannot talk more. I am very weary."
"You will rest now," Gwendoline said.
"Yes; rest—now. It is over at last. So long—long—tired."
She sank into heavy sleep, and Frith's entrance did not disturb her.
It seemed to Gwendoline that there was something unusual about this
slumber. Two hours later they had to rouse Lady Halcot, that she might
take a little nourishment, and the task proved no easy one. Still, when
Gwendoline held a spoon to her lips, she half smiled, and murmured,
"Thanks."
"A little more, dear Lady Halcot," Gwendoline entreated.
"No; no more. I cannot swallow. Gwendoline—is it Gwendoline?"
Gwendoline's "Yes" came falteringly.
"I can hardly see," Lady Halcot said, lifting her dim eyes. "Almost
dark. Will you kiss me, my dear Gwendoline?"
The tender response brought another smile.
"Yes; a good girl—you have been a good girl. It is almost over now, my
dear. And if—if you would like to send—send for your mother—yes—send—"
These were nearly the last words of Lady Halcot. She fell immediately
into a state of unconsciousness bordering on coma. The doctor came, but
he found her beyond reach of remedies. A telegram had been already sent
to Mrs. Halcombe. Gwendoline had, however, small hope that she could
arrive in time.
Once only Lady Halcot partially revived. A little before midnight
Gwendoline tried to give her some medicine, and it was refused. "Oh,
do, please," she said anxiously. "Do, dear Lady Halcot. Mother will be
here soon."
But Lady Halcot clasped slowly her faded hands, and murmured, "No, no;
none but Christ—none but Christ now!" Then deep sleep again had her in
its keeping, and within an hour she passed away.
CHAPTER XXII.
COMING.
GWENDOLINE, numb and bewildered, could shed no tears. Frith persuaded
her to go to bed, and she lay tossing to and fro, with intervals of
stupefied stillness, sometimes journeying again through the scenes
of the last few days, sometimes recalling the events of the past two
years, sometimes unable to think at all. Sleep proved an impossibility.
Her mind was in a state of restless distraction—oppressed with genuine
grief, yet by no means altogether sorrowful. While distressed for Lady
Halcot's death, and sincerely feeling the loss of a real friend, she
yet turned ever and anon with a sense of positive joy to the thought of
"home." Gwendoline almost hated herself for the joy, but she could not
do away with it. Life at the Leys had been at its best much shadowed.
The commingling of sorrow and of pleasurable anticipation amounted to
pain and strain, gradually resolving itself into a definite present
longing for her mother. The aching of heart took refuge here.
By six o'clock she was up and dressed, unable any longer to lie still.
Her first move was to steal softly into the library for a "time-table,"
and to look-out London trains. Mrs. Halcombe might possibly arrive a
little before eight; not sooner. Gwendoline was sure she would come
then, if possible.
Two whole hours, or nearly so, of waiting. Gwendoline did not know
what to do with herself in the interim. She returned to her bedroom,
and endeavoured there to read her Bible, and to kneel for her usual
morning devotions. The Bible-reading was almost a failure. With the
utmost effort of will, she could not fix attention upon two consecutive
verses. Prayer proved a different matter. A succession of definite
petitions was beyond her power, but she could and did spend a time in
submissive wordless waiting at the Divine footstool, looking for such
help as she needed. Nor did the help fail her. When she rose, much of
the restless heart-pain was stilled.
A thought flashed into her mind, to be acted upon unhesitatingly.
Gwendoline took a hat from the wardrobe, found a light flower-basket,
and went quietly down-stairs into the garden. Servants were not yet
about, and no one saw her. She made her exit through the conservatory,
unlocking the inner and outer doors.
It was an exquisite morning, sunshine flooding the air. Birds sang
exuberantly, and flowers, breaking into bloom, lifted their faces
to the blue sky. The house behind, with its closed shutters, was a
contrast to this abounding life and brightness. Gwendoline looked back
sorrowfully, and thought of the small still form lying within, calmly
at rest, after nearly eighty years of life.
"Yes, real rest," murmured Gwendoline, as she passed among the
rosebushes, gathering here and there a blossom of surpassing beauty.
"How could one wish to keep her? If I were so old and weary, I should
not wish to be kept. Dear Lady Halcot! How good she has been to me!
Oh, I am thankful she was not taken four or five months ago, before we
really knew one another. I must not give way to wrong feelings about
Miss Withers. After all, no lasting harm has been done—thanks to Mr.
Fosbrook; and perhaps she did not deliberately intend mischief. People
sometimes act worse than they really mean. And it is all over now—quite
at an end. I don't want to think of her with any bitterness."
The basket was quickly filled from the profusion of roses around, and
Gwendoline turned homewards, entering again through the conservatory,
and leaving sunshine behind. The darkness of the silent house weighed
upon her heavily. Half-past six sounded from the hall clock, and still
she appeared to be the only person stirring. Gwendoline went slowly up
the broad staircase, and paused at Lady Halcot's door, turning the key
gently.
Nobody within—except the placid figure which "had" been Lady Halcot,
now only a marble and lifeless image. No, not only; for that same form,
though "ashes to ashes, dust to dust," was its present verdict, should
yet be raised again, in new and glorious beauty, "at the Resurrection,
in the Last Day."
A shiver crept over Gwendoline, not so much of fear as of sorrow. She
had been in the presence of death before, and she had no feelings of
terror. Yet, standing face to face with the cold image, she realized
what she had lost—and realized not yet what Lady Halcot had gained.
Gwendoline roused herself with an effort, and began placing her
flowers, laying a crimson rose here, or a creamy bloom there, with
tender and loving fingers. The work was absorbing, and drew her out of
herself. When the basket was empty, she gave one long look, bent to
kiss the chill brow, and went quietly back into her own room.
Nothing now remained but to await patiently her mother's arrival. Once
or twice the thought struck her—what if Mrs. Halcombe did not come
by this particular train? But that conjecture was put aside at once.
Gwendoline did not feel as if she could endure longer delay. After
half-past seven she took her station at the window, watching with
concentrated attention of eye and ear.
Eight o'clock was not far distant, when a sound of wheels became
audible. Gwendoline caught one glimpse, through the trees, of an
approaching fly, and before it could reach the front door she was
standing there on the doorstep, in a suppressed tumult of feeling. A
little worn woman descended, and for three seconds the two held one
another in a voiceless embrace.
"Gwen,—am I in time?"
"No, mother; oh, mother!"
"Hush, my darling, hush!"—For Gwendoline was clinging to her in a
passion of sobs, which were yet by no means all sorrow.
The joy of reunion had at least an equal share in her feelings. She
was, however, overstrained by long watching, and nervous excitement
was not to be at once mastered; while the very relief of finding
herself again a child under a parent's care made self-command the more
difficult.
"Hush, Gwennie," Mrs. Halcombe repeated. "Don't cry so, dear."
"Oh, mother, if you could have been in time. But it was impossible."
Mrs. Halcombe asked, "When?" in a low voice.
"Last night, about half-past twelve."
They went slowly up the broad staircase, Mrs. Halcombe gathering at
every step fresh recollections of her girlish days spent under this
roof. Gwendoline indicated by a gesture the room in which Lady Halcot
lay.
"I will go there by and by," Mrs. Halcombe said in a low voice, which
trembled somewhat.
Then they reached Gwendoline's pretty boudoir. Mrs. Halcombe removed
her cloak and sat down, Gwendoline kneeling at her side, to cling anew
and shed more tears.
"Oh, mother, it has been so long, so sad," she said, with a sigh of
mingled pain and relief. "I hardly know how the last few weeks have
gone. I love Lady Halcot dearly now, and I do miss her; but—oh, mother,
I have not known how to get on without you."
"Yes; it has been very long," Mrs. Halcombe echoed. "Two whole years."
"I have wondered sometimes if they ever would end, mother. It isn't
as if I had been used before to living long away from you. We were so
seldom parted. Still, I could have come back here happily now; it has
been so different of late, since dear Lady Halcot has really understood
me, and has been so gentle and loving."
Mrs. Halcombe repeated the two adjectives, as if surprised, adding,
"She must have been much altered at the last. Then she did not
understand you earlier, my Gwen?"
"Things were different, mother. Not so much at first as later. I could
not tell you all in letters, and it seemed useless to worry you; but
now you must hear everything. The worst was over some time ago. It has
been all right lately."
"Then you really were not quite happy at one time, my dear. I felt sure
of it; yet there was nothing in your letters to take hold of."
"I used to be lonely, with no one to care for me, and Lady Halcot so
changed and cold."
"But, Gwen, what made her cold?"
"Miss Withers came between," said Gwendoline quietly. "I could not
unravel the tangle then, but it is plain enough now. I don't like to
let myself think that she meant it all deliberately,—still—it 'was' her
doing. When Lady Halcot first fell ill, Miss Withers kept me out of the
room for weeks; and Lady Halcot had been so cold before that I did not
dare to act,—I could not tell whether she wished to see me. I did so
long for you then, mother. There was nobody to speak a kind word to me,
unless I happened to meet Mr. Rossiter or Mr. Fosbrook out of doors;
but that only happened once or twice, quite early in the illness."
"If I had known the state of things, Gwen—"
"Ah, but I could not bear to trouble you, mother, when I knew you could
do nothing. Mr. Fosbrook managed at last to see me alone, and to let me
know that he did not think I was shut out of the room by Lady Halcot's
own wish. Things soon came right then. I'll tell you all about it
another time; but I found that Lady Halcot had been under quite a false
impression, supposing me to keep away of my own free will. You cannot
think how happy she was to have me again. From that time she has always
seemed to trust me thoroughly. But she never would quite believe the
worst of Miss Withers; and I am trying not to feel harshly about her. I
suppose it was a great temptation to get everything into her own hands.
But here comes the tea, and you must need it."
Frith herself bore the little tray. Mrs. Halcombe kept her for a few
minutes in conversation.
"Lady Halcot has been a good mistress to me," Frith said, with tears in
her eyes. "I would never ask a better. There are those who counted my
lady stern; but she was always just,—always the same. I don't know what
I shall do now she is gone."
Both mother and daughter felt better for a little refreshment.
When Frith was gone, Mrs. Halcombe could venture at last to put the
question,—"Gwen, was there no message for me at the last?"
Gwendoline told all that had passed, finding comfort in the narration.
She had not known such freedom of speech for a long while as during
this hour. Even at the best there had been always a measure of
constraint between herself and Lady Halcot, owing in part to the
intense constitutional reserve of the latter. Now she could say what
she liked, and could say it as she liked.
"I shall begin to think I am a child again," she said. "It is so
wonderful to be with you, and to feel quite free, with no fear of
blundering and doing the wrong thing. Do tell me now about father and
all of them. I am thirsting for home-news. How is father?"
"Quite well,—much better than he used to be; the pressure has been so
lessened of late. If it had not been for your absence,—but even in
spite of that I have sometimes thought him looking ten years younger."
"If I had not come here when Lady Halcot asked me—" Gwendoline said,
half to herself.
"Ah, our position would be different indeed. I see that now. You and he
were quite right, Gwennie. It would have been a positive sin to throw
aside such an offer; and you are none the worse for it, my darling,
though I am afraid you have had much more to go through than we ever
imagined. But the parting has been hard to bear at times,—the feeling
that we were so completely cut off from you, and might never venture
to come to Riversmouth. I used to lie at night and wonder how it would
be if you were taken ill,—whether Lady Halcot would relent then. Now I
see how faithless I have been. Everything has been arranged for us so
wonderfully,—so lovingly."
"And I thought at one time that the plan was a punishment to me for
discontent," said Gwendoline.
"You don't think so now?"
"Oh no, mother." Then in a half-bewildered voice Gwendoline broke
out—"Home!—Am I really going home,—to live there?"
"Will you be sorry, my dear?"
"Sorry! Mother, how can you ask?"
Mrs. Halcombe glanced round the room. "I am afraid our house will
look very small and shabby to you after this,—not quite so crowded,
certainly, since the three have been at school,—but still—"
"It is home," said Gwendoline simply. "I don't want more than that."
With a sigh she added, "Mother, it is such rest to have you here! But
go on, please,—tell me more about them all."
CHAPTER XXIII.
LADY HALCOT'S WILL.
"IT is such rest to have you here," Gwendoline said repeatedly to her
mother; and the sense of rest grew upon her hour by hour.
There was necessarily much to be done and much to be heard, mournful
in kind; but Mrs. Halcombe took things into her own hands, sparing her
child in every possible way. When the first excitement of their meeting
was over, Gwendoline proved to be temporarily unwell enough, from all
she had gone through, to need being spared.
Miss Withers did not appear at breakfast that morning, and an encounter
between her and Mrs. Halcombe was thus delayed until near luncheon.
When the said encounter took place, it was quiet, not to say prosaic in
kind. Mrs. Halcombe said politely, "How do you do?" And, after a return
of the utterance, "I hope you are well. This has been a very trying
week for you all."
Miss Withers assented, with downcast eyes, and a murmur of "Thanks,
yes,—exceedingly trying," and appeared anxious to get away as soon as
possible.
During the next few days she studiously shunned both mother and
daughter, and looked unhappy.
The funeral was conducted with heavy solemn grandeur, according to
Halcot and Riversmouth traditions.
Afterward came the reading of the will; a singular document, with
its weighty addenda in the shape of long codicils carefully undoing
previous arrangements.
Mrs. Halcombe and Gwendoline were, of course, present; as also were
Miss Withers, Mr. Rossiter, and Mr. Fosbrook. Mr. Selwyn had come down
from London for the occasion. The nephew, known to be the heir-at-law,
had made his appearance in time for the funeral; and there were also
three or four distant relatives, elderly gentlemen, all more or less
grave, embarrassed, and expectant. Gwendoline, treated by all as in
a sense the daughter of the house, was thankful for the help of her
mother's presence. Mrs. Halcombe quietly took the lead, and, by Mr.
Selwyn's advice, acted as temporary hostess.
The Riversmouth estate, together with the title, descended as a matter
of course to the said nephew, a gentlemanly young man, Philip Halcot by
name. Most of the later alterations in the will were in respect of Lady
Halcot's disposable property, inherited chiefly from her mother.
The large sums set apart for hospital and almshouses had been left
untouched; as, too, were legacies to the amount of nearly twenty
thousand pounds, left to numerous friends and distant relatives,
including the three or four present on this occasion. Old servants and
family retainers also were not forgotten. In place of four thousand
pounds to Miss Withers, five hundred pounds were left to her, and five
hundred to each of her two nieces and to Conrad.
Mrs. Halcombe found herself the possessor of thirteen thousand pounds,
in addition to the yearly five hundred already given, both to be
held in trust; the thirteen thousand pounds to revert to Gwendoline
on her own death; the annual five hundred to become Gwendoline's on
either her own or her husband's death, whichever was the survivor. To
Gwendoline immediately was left the bulk of Lady Halcot's personal
possessions,—jewellery, plate, books, pictures, many valuable
knickknacks, and numerous articles of furniture.
"No inconsiderable legacy," the lawyer remarked in an undertone.
At the moment Gwendoline did not at all realize the worth of that which
had fallen to her share.
"Mother, how good Lady Halcot has been to us! I am glad it is not
more," she breathed to Mrs. Halcombe in an undertone, as the party
present filed slowly out of the room, leaving only herself and her
mother with Mr. Selwyn.
One pale-faced disappointed woman, passing out among the rest, could
not have echoed these words.
"I am glad it is as much," Mr. Selwyn said, rising and coming nearer.
"There was a time when I feared matters would have a different ending.
Accept my sincere congratulations, Mrs. Halcombe. I only wish it were
more."
"Don't wish that," Mrs. Halcombe answered, with a rather tremulous
smile. "Gwen and I do not. This will be wealth to us."
"The jewels are a property in themselves," remarked Mr. Selwyn. "There
are some, handed down from the Halcots, which Lady Halcot did not think
she could rightly alienate from the estate. The larger proportion of
her jewellery was, however, inherited from her mother; and the bulk of
this is left to Miss Halcombe."
"Lady Halcot showed me some of her jewels once," said Gwendoline. "I
thought them very pretty."
Mr. Selwyn could not resist a smile. He repeated the word "Pretty!" and
stroked his chin. "Yes, undoubtedly. There are many more than you have
seen, however. The value of the jewellery alone, which now belongs to
you, amounts at the lowest estimate to several thousand pounds. They
are a property in themselves," he repeated complacently. "The diamonds
are particularly fine,—and there are good turquoises."
"I shall hardly know what to do with them," said Gwendoline.
"You will, of course, have them in a place of safety, my dear Miss
Halcombe."
"I suppose I may keep out a brooch or two for use," said Gwendoline.
"And I should like to have by me the ones that Lady Halcot used
commonly. May I give something to Ruth,—a brooch and a bracelet, I
mean?" She looked eagerly now at the lawyer.
"They are your own, and you are of age," said Mr. Selwyn. "But I would
advise you not to act too hastily,—not to part with anything that you
might regret later."
"Oh, I shall not regret. The best part of having more is to be able to
give away," said Gwendoline. "Mother, there is a beautiful little ruby
brooch which would just do for Ruth; she does so admire rubies. And I
should like to take Honor a gold bracelet,—quite a plain one."
"There are the pictures also," observed Mr. Selwyn, after a rather
dissatisfied pause; "not to speak of a very handsome supply of plate."
Gwendoline seemed rather bewildered. "The plate will be useful, of
course," she said. "I know we are always short of spoons and forks. But
the pictures,—we have so little room at home."
"The number of pictures is not great, but they are of very considerable
value. Possibly you may not always remain in your present home," said
Mr. Selwyn.
"No; I have had that in my mind," said Mrs. Halcombe. "We have so often
wished to move, and have not felt Justified in going to the expense.
But things will be different now. I am sure my husband will agree with
me in thinking that the right time has come."
"A house in the country," suggested the lawyer, "within reasonable
distance of London, so that the boys could run in and out by train. The
pictures and furniture would prove no slight assistance in the event of
such a move; until, of course, Miss Halcombe finds a home of her own."
"No fear of 'that' for a long while to come," Gwendoline answered,
smiling and not blushing.
Somewhat later, when alone with her mother, Gwendoline asked, "Mother,
did you notice Miss Withers' face while the will was being read?"
"Yes, I saw. I was sorry for her."
"I wish one could say something to her, mother."
"Something of what sort?"
"Why, to help her. She looks so unhappy."
"I don't quite know what could be said. We have our suspicions—more
than suspicions—as to her share in the alterations which were made in
the will. But it would hardly do to allude to those suspicions, Gwen."
"No, of course not. Only, if one could gain her confidence, mother!"
"If one could! There is not much hope, I am afraid. She rebuffs most
decidedly all approaches on my part."
"And on mine too. Yes, that is the difficulty. I have hardly had a
dozen words from her for days."
Nor was Gwendoline to have many more. Two hours later, a closed fly
stood before the door, and some large boxes were carried out. Miss
Withers presently entered the drawing-room, wearing her bonnet, and
carrying a small travelling-bag. She seemed composed as usual, except
that her under lip twitched nervously.
"I have come to say good-bye to your daughter, Mrs. Halcombe," the
smooth voice said.
"Are you going already?" asked Gwendoline in surprise.
"There is no object in my remaining longer. I believe you and Mrs.
Halcombe leave to-morrow?"
"The day after," Mrs. Halcombe answered, for she found much still to be
arranged.
"There is no object in my remaining," Miss Withers said again, with the
slight twitch of her lip. "I—I had a letter yesterday from one of my
nieces, deciding me to hasten away."
"You will have tea before starting?" said Gwendoline kindly.
"Thanks,—no; I do not require anything, and the journey is not long."
"Perhaps some day you will write and tell me how you are getting on,"
said Gwendoline.
"Thanks. You are very good;" and Miss Withers extended a limp hand.
"Good-bye."
"Good-bye. I hope you will have a pleasant journey," Gwendoline said,
kindly still, though with an effort.
"Good-bye," added Mrs. Halcombe.
Miss Withers passed out of the room, and speedily drove away, dropping
thus in a moment, as it were, out of Gwendoline's life.
Miss Withers went to reside in the same town with her nieces, bitter
in spirit at her failure; and Lady Halcot's legacies sowed dissension
between them and herself.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE OLD HOME.
TWO days later there was a stir of excitement in the dingy London home
from which Gwendoline Halcombe had been so long absent. James, the
second lad, opportunely had a half-holiday; and with the two younger
boys, Willie and Robert, he was all the afternoon exceedingly busy,
putting up an arch of welcome inside the front door. It was not an
artistically beautiful erection. Green things are by no means easily
obtained in London, and a scanty supply of leaves had to be eked out
with much coloured paper. But none the less would the arch speak
eloquently to Gwendoline's heart.
The three intermediate boys, Edmund, Frederick, and Arthur, had been
for a year past, boarders in a large school, only coming home for
the holidays. James' school-days were now drawing to a close, a good
opening in a mercantile house having been recently found for him. He
was a pleasant sensible lad, plain-featured, but warmhearted.
Ruth, staidly working in the shabby little drawing-room, presently
overheard a low-voiced discussion outside her door, between
seven-years-old Bob and little fair-haired Nell, the latter being as
much as ever the family pet and plaything.
"I think I shall be just a scrap afraid of Gwen," Bob said
confidentially. "She is such a grand lady, you know, Nell,—not like
mother and Ruth. Willie says there's a drawing-room at the Leys as big
as this whole house almost; and he says Gwen will be quite different,
and will always wear silk frocks, and won't like us to come too near."
Ruth could picture Nell's troubled eyes, as the little voice said
tenderly, "Won't she? I'm sorry, Bob. I thought she'd want me to get up
in her lap and kiss her, because she's sorry."
"Well, she won't," said Bob decidedly. "And I don't see what she has
got to be sorry for. She is a grand lady now, with lots of things
belonging to her; and she won't care, of course, to play with a little
wee thing like you."
"Is mother going to be grand too?" asked Nell.
"Oh, mother is different! I don't think anything would make mother
grand. But you'll see about Gwen! You'll see!"
Bob and Nell called Ruth suddenly; and they ran in.
"Bob, you are putting very silly ideas into Nell's head,—Very silly
indeed," said Ruth, with sharpness. "Gwen is not a grand lady at all.
She is our own sister. Living in a large house and having pretty
clothes has not made her any less our sister."
"And will Gwen love us, Ruth?" asked little Nell.
"Of course she will," answered Ruth.
"And will she like to have me kiss her?"
"Of course she will. Bob has been talking great nonsense."
"Willie told me," Bob said, prompt to throw off blame.
"Then Willie was very absurd," said Ruth.
Probably her words would have been more convincing had they been
less rough. The children exchanged glances, and did not seem greatly
reassured.
"Willie was very absurd indeed to say anything of the kind," repeated
Ruth more energetically. "And you are silly children to believe him. If
you seem frightened of Gwen when she comes in, you will just make her
unhappy, that's all!"
The two little listeners took this for a dismissal, and they went back
into the hall, looking subdued.
"Nell, you don't remember Gwen?" Bob said softly.
"No," Nell answered, shaking her small head. "Not one bit."
"I don't either,—hardly at all," said Bob. "But Willie does, and he
says she is ever so much nicer than Ruth."
"Does he?" asked Nell rather wonderingly, as if she found this report
of Willie's opinion at variance with the last.
"Ruth speaks so 'cross,'" said Bob. "Willie says Gwen never used to
speak so cross as Ruth does, and he likes her ever so much the best.
Only you mustn't tell Ruth, you know, because that would make her
crosser."
Ruth heard the words, and, strange to say, she was not angry. With a
naturally impatient and angular disposition, she could yet bear to
learn her faults. Bob's words caused a thoughtful half-hour following.
Then Mr. Halcombe came home, and Victor a little later, just in time.
Almost immediately the front bell rang sharply, and Gwendoline ran
lightly up the steps, to find herself in the midst of welcomes. Not
quite such eager and enthusiastic welcomes as everybody had expected,
for the boys seemed suddenly seized with shyness. Two years had altered
Gwendoline, and they were sensible of the alteration, without knowing
wherein it consisted. Gwen had been a pretty girl at nineteen, but at
twenty-one the prettiness was matured and developed; her bearing had
gained much in ease and grace; and the short hair had grown long enough
to be turned up in a coil of plaits. Also, though her new mourning was
studiously simple in kind, there was about the make of her dress and
about the manner of wearing it a certain style and finish, marking her
out as apart from the other members of the family.
The boys fell into silence, and Ruth for once appeared tongue-tied.
Gwendoline was somehow ushered into the drawing-room, and there she
stood dreamily, her arm linked in Mr. Halcombe's, as she glanced
wistfully from one to another. "Dear old home!" she said at length.
"Oh, dear old home!"
"It must look awfully shabby after the Leys," remarked Victor, plucking
up courage.
"It looks small," Gwendoline admitted, smiling. "Dear old place! Oh,
father!"
She turned and clung to him.
"My own dear child!" he said repeatedly. "My good self-forgetting Gwen!"
"No, no! Not that. But it is all over now. And indeed she was very very
good to me, and I 'did' love her very much. But this is home. Father,
kiss me again! I can hardly believe I am really here."
"Gwen, did you see our triumphal arch?" asked Jem bashfully.
No; Gwen had seen nothing, on first coming in, beyond the familiar
faces. She proposed to inspect it immediately, and her bright frank
gratification went far towards reinstating her in her old position with
the boys. Coming back into the drawing-room, they clustered round,
chattering in eager tones, while Nell clung to her hand confidingly.
"The tea will be ready in ten minutes," said Ruth. "Would you like to
take off your bonnet, Gwen? Mother has gone to get ready."
"Yes, if you please. The same room, I suppose?"
"No, not the same. I'll show you," Ruth said, moving towards the
staircase. "Mother thought you would like a room to yourself; and we
are not quite so crowded now except in the holidays."
Gwendoline followed Ruth to her new domicile, and stood there for a few
seconds in silence, looking round.
She was conscious at once of two things,—how eagerly all had done
their best to make the little room comfortable, and how very meagre
was the result after her late surroundings. But no sign of the latter
consciousness showed in her face.
"Ruth, are you sure this can be spared to me?"
"Of course. Quite sure. The only difficulty will be in the holidays,
and they are only just over." After a pause, Ruth added bluntly,
"Everything must seem wretched to you here at the best."
"Not 'wretched,'" said Gwendoline gently.
"Well, shabby and poor and disagreeable. I should hate it all, in your
place."
"Oh no, you would not. It is home; and the other never seemed like
home."
"Home isn't always necessarily the very best thing that can be in
life," said Ruth rather wearily. "At least, I don't find it so. One may
have too much of it."
Gwendoline looked at her sister doubtfully. "Why, Ruth—" she began, and
stopped.
"You have been away for two years, so of course you are no judge," said
Ruth. "And you used to feel the same."
"But I thought—" Gwen hesitated again, recalling Ruth's sharp lectures
to herself, in past days, upon discontent, yet hardly liking to allude
to them.
"Never mind me. I am only cross," said Ruth, recurring in mind to Bob's
words. "It's of no consequence."
"I would rather know what really is the matter," said Gwendoline.
"Nothing is the matter. I tell you I am only cross. One must grumble
sometimes. It is such a tread-mill of a life,—always going on the
same,—nothing but doing things for other people, and never having any
gratitude in return. Not one of the boys cares for me as they all do
for you. And I have not had a night out of this house for four years."
"No. I have thought of that, Ruth dear. Mother and I were talking about
it only yesterday. We want to arrange for you to have a holiday."
"There is nowhere to go. Nobody wants me."
"There is Riversmouth," Gwendoline said, with rather a sad smile. "I
should like you to see the place where I have been so long. How would
you like two or three weeks there?"
Ruth's eyes brightened, but she only said, "I can't go alone. Don't
talk nonsense, Gwen. I shall do very well."
"I don't think you will. Mother told me she did not believe you were
quite strong, and now I can see it for myself. You want a little
change, I am sure."
"Anybody would in this stuffy London atmosphere, after four years,"
Ruth said rather gruffly. "But it is no matter to anybody except
myself."
"Well, we shall all have a change, by and by, if we take another
house," said Gwen.
"Do you suppose we really shall?" Ruth looked eager as she put the
question. "We seem such fixtures here, like limpets grown to a rock."
"Mother seems to have no doubt about the matter. Of course she cannot
speak decidedly till she has talked things over with father, but she
knows beforehand what he will say. A nice little house with a garden,
in the country, but near enough to London by train for the boys to run
in and out. Don't you think that sounds tempting, Ruth?"
Ruth's "Yes" was listless. "If I could really believe it!" she added.
"You will not be so sceptical soon," said Gwendoline brightly. "But of
course that cannot take place directly, and mother and I want you to
have a change the very first thing. I don't know exactly how it is to
be arranged—"
"Ruth! Gwen! Ruth! Tea is getting cold!" shouted Victor, from
down-stairs. "And something is waiting for Gwen!"
"Something!" repeated Gwendoline. She opened the door to call, "Yes,
we are coming, Victor," and then drew hastily from her bag a tiny
cardboard box. "Ruth, I want just to give you this first. I should have
liked to bring several things, but mother would not let me do more in a
hurry. I hope you will think it pretty."
Ruth opened the box, and flushed with pleasure. A small round brooch
lay upon white cotton wool—itself a mass of rubies clustered together,
rich, and yet simple. Ruth quite gasped. "Gwen!—This isn't for me."
"Yes. I know your fancy for rubies. Do you care to have it?"
"Oh, Gwen!"
Ruth's one kiss spoke volumes. Then they ran down-stairs together.
"Here, Gwen,—look!" exclaimed a chorus.
The tea-table had been laid as for a festive occasion, bearing Ruth's
best efforts in the shape of fancy-bread and cakes. Gwen's seat was
by her father, Nell's high chair being on her other side. And beside
Gwen's plate lay a magnificent bunch of hothouse flowers, filling the
room with fragrance.
"Mother!" Gwendoline exclaimed in astonishment.
"Who do you think it is from?" asked Victor.
Gwen's eyes went to her mother. "Not Honor?" she said.
"Gwen's first idea is always Honor," said Victor, feeling himself once
more on easy brotherly terms.
"No, not Honor," said Mrs. Halcombe, smiling.
Gwendoline's look was unmistakably perplexed.
"Have you forgotten your friend, Mr. Selwyn?" asked Victor.
"Is it really from Mr. Selwyn? How good of him!"
"It is 'a' Mr. Selwyn," Victor said softly by her side. "But he isn't a
lawyer, and he has a limp."
Gwen's colour rose slightly. "Very kind," she said. "Was there any
message from Mr. Selwyn, mother?"
"No, dear. Mr. Mortimer Selwyn simply gave in the bouquet, said it was
'for Miss Halcombe,' and asked if you were well after your journey.
Jane begged him to come in, but he declined."
"I suppose they ought to go into water," said Gwendoline quietly.
"Ruth, have we a vase large enough?"
A China flower-pot served the required purpose, in default of a
sufficiently capacious vase. The boys insisted on its being placed
exactly in her front, and Gwen's half-pleased half-perplexed look was a
pretty study in her mother's eyes.
Tea went on merrily thereafter,—such a joyous meal as Gwendoline
had not known for two years past. She felt strangely dreamy, almost
oppressed,—happy in the present, yet bewildered by the unwonted stir,
and haunted constantly by vivid recollections of Lady Halcot's face and
voice. The strain was becoming too much, and the boys' high spirits
were almost more than she could stand. She was positively thankful when
tea came to an end, and Mrs. Halcombe said, in a low voice, "You are
tired, Gwen. We must give you a quiet evening."
Gwendoline's face quivered irresistibly. "It isn't much, mother," she
said. "I am very very glad to be here again—only just now and then
everything seems to come back,—and I hear 'her' voice so plainly—"
"Yes, I saw; dear child! But the boys don't understand, of course."
"I can't expect that they should. Mother, I think I will go to my room
for just half an hour. I should like to be alone,—but that will be long
enough."
"Yes, darling."
The brief response was the best she could have given. Gwendoline
vanished, and Mrs. Halcombe quietly exerted herself to keep everybody
away from Gwen's door. She could well understand the sharp contrast
between life in this house and life at the Leys, and could well believe
the mingling of joy and pain which so tried Gwendoline's fortitude.
The half-hour at an end, she went herself to Gwendoline's room, and
with a light tap entered. Gwen was seated by her dressing-table, with
an open Bible near, though seemingly not reading. The face which
greeted Mrs. Halcombe was calm and happy.
"Better, Gwennie?"
"Oh yes, mother. It was stupid to be so easily upset."
Mrs. Halcombe sat down beside her, and said, "You are accustomed to
being a good deal alone."
"Yes, too much, I am afraid. It seems quite strange to have so many
round me. I hope I have not grown unsociable."
"It is not that to-night, dear. You have had a great deal to try you."
"Yes—perhaps—altogether," Gwendoline admitted. "But thinking about dear
Lady Halcot is not 'only' pain, mother. It must be such rest to her."
"I cannot tell you, Gwen, what a pleasure it is to me that you were
able to give her real love," Mrs. Halcombe said.
CHAPTER XXV.
WINDINGS-UP.
"I CANNOT think why Honor does not come in, if only for a minute,"
Gwendoline said more than once, in the course of her first evening.
No one took any particular notice of the remark, and Gwen waited
patiently, stilling herself with the certainty that Honor had some good
reason. Perhaps she would not intrude on the family circle so soon.
"But Honor might have been sure of a welcome," Gwen thought.
Next morning, after breakfast, Mrs. Halcombe said unexpectedly, "Gwen,
are you going to see Honor this morning?"
"I wish I could, mother. No use, I am afraid, for she will be away at
her painting. I quite thought she would have come last night."
"I think you had better call. Honor is not well, and she will be at
home."
"Honor ill!"
"Not ill now. She has been so,—not dangerously, but it was a sharp
attack. She is very much pulled down, and cannot work yet."
"Mother, why did you not tell me before?" Gwen asked, almost
reproachfully.
"Honor would not allow it. She made us promise not to say a word to
you sooner than was necessary. She could not bear you to be troubled.
It was about three weeks ago that the attack began, and, having just
written to you, she knew you would not expect to hear again for a time.
Honor always thinks of everybody except herself. But Ruth and I have
been in and out constantly, and have done our best to brighten her up."
Gwendoline had tears in her eyes. "My poor Honor! Ill, and never to let
me know!"
"It seemed to be Honor's chief comfort that you did not know. How she
does love you, Gwen!" the mother added affectionately. "But, indeed, I
do not wonder."
"What has been the matter?" Gwen asked, answering the last words with a
kiss.
"I hardly know. Too much application at her painting, and not enough
exercise, and a severe chill. She is a generous creature, and gives
away too much, and then has to work doubly hard. I promised that you
should go to her this morning, Gwen. Wait one moment; I want to say
something about our idea of sending Ruth to Riversmouth."
"Ruth seemed to like the idea," Gwendoline said, trying to curb her
impatience.
"Yes, very much, and she really needs a change. Your father thinks the
same. But I cannot be the one to go with her."
"I wish you would," Gwen said affectionately.
"No; I have just been away, and there is so much to arrange. Besides, I
really cannot resolve to part with you quite so soon. But what do you
say to sending Honor as Ruth's companion?"
"Mother! What a perfectly delightful idea!"
"It would do Honor good, and be just the thing for Ruth. Your father
and I both wish it, dear; and you must tell Honor she will be doing us
a real kindness. Ruth has grown so fond of her lately that she is sure
to like the plan."
"Delightful!" repeated Gwendoline. "Mother, how you always think of
exactly the right thing! When do you suppose they can go?"
"Honor ought to have change in a few days, her doctor says. I fancy she
has been in some difficulty how to manage it. Now, darling, I will not
keep you longer. Say whatever you like, only make Honor understand that
the expense will be our affair."
"After to-day I am going to take up housekeeping, and give you a little
rest," Gwendoline said, kissing her mother, and she ran up-stairs with
a light step, singing softly by the way.
"Dear child!" Mrs. Halcombe murmured. "Not in the least spoilt."
Honora Dewhurst had not yet risen. Her bedroom was small, and at the
back of the house, with a window which looked out upon a high wall.
Inside all was daintily nice, however simple. Honor's own plain face
hardly looked handsomer for illness; yet the peace stamped upon it
was such that even a careless looker-on must have been attracted. She
lay quietly, with her hands folded one over the other, and her eyes
fixed upon the tiny scrap of grey sky visible through one window-pane.
Suddenly a voice at the door said,—
"Honor, may I come in?"
"Yes, Gwen."
Gwendoline entered softly, bearing a choice little bunch of hothouse
flowers, gathered out of her big bouquet. Honor had never seen her
look more brilliantly pretty. Mourning was becoming to her clear and
fair complexion, and the bright flush on either cheek, matched by the
sparkling eyes, was tempered by an expression of gentle solicitude. But
Gwen's face changed suddenly at the first glimpse of Honor's smile.
Dropping her flowers on the bed, she clasped her friend's hand, and hid
her face in the pillow.
"Why, Gwennie!—My dear Gwennie!" said Honor.
Gwendoline lifted a pair of wet eyes. "Honor, why didn't you tell me
you were ill?"
"My dear child, what was the use? I am getting on all right now,—able
to sit up half the day at least. I hope to be at my painting again next
week."
"That you certainly will not," said Gwen resolutely. "Honor, what had
you been thinking about just before I came in?"
Honor did not answer the question. She turned Gwen towards the light,
saying, "So,—let me see. Yes; the face is the same,—not changed by
absence, and not spoilt by all the grandeur."
"I used to be very tired of the grandeur sometimes."
"And now you will be sometimes very tired of its absence."
"I hope not. It is very sweet to be at home again,—only just at first
everything seems strange. Honor, everything seems so happy just
now,—almost everything! Only I do wish I could see you well."
"Wait a few days, dear."
"Yes; a few days. Mother and I are going to ask a great favour of you
then."
Honor's look was questioning.
"Ruth wants change. She is rather overdone, and not quite herself. We
think of sending her to Riversmouth for two or three weeks, perhaps
a month. And the difficulty is, whom to send with her. Mother cannot
well get away just now. So we want you to go, and to be there with
Ruth,—just as if you were one of ourselves. You understand, Honor?
Ruth would see after the housekeeping; and of course it would cost you
nothing,—only you would just be Ruth's companion."
"And duenna," suggested Honor.
"Yes; if you like. I am not going to hear one word against the plan.
Mother and I have quite set our hearts upon it. And I shall write to
Mr. Fosbrook, and ask him to consider you his patient. You are 'not' to
say No."
Honor seemed to have no such intention. She only answered quietly, "It
is very good of your mother. Something always comes up when needed."
"And you know this is needed."
"The doctor says I ought to have a change before beginning work. But I
could not quite see my way to it. This illness has been an expense."
"And going to Riversmouth is to be no expense,—you understand, Honor?
Mind,—it must and shall be just as mother and I wish."
"I suppose no answer can be made to 'must' and 'shall,' in such a
determined voice," said Honor, laughing. "Dear Gwen, I shall like it
very much indeed. Tell your mother so, please, with my warm thanks. I
suppose you will not mind Ruth seeing my uncle and aunt while we are
there. That could hardly be avoided."
"No, indeed. How pleased they will be!"
"I did think of proposing to run down to them by and by, for a week;
but I know their spare room is engaged at present."
"And a week would not be long enough," Gwen said. "What were you
thinking about just before I came in, Honor?"
"You, dear."
"Not only that. I saw something else in your face."
"Something else in connection with you. I had been thinking how
wonderfully God shapes life for us,—and how little we know ourselves
which is the best path for us to tread."
"Do you remember, when I was going away to Riversmouth,—when you and I
were on the platform,—how it seemed to me that perhaps I was being sent
there in punishment for murmuring? And you told me I had hard thoughts
of God."
"Many of His children have," said Honor. "Not that He does 'not'
punish. It is necessary at times. But we often misjudge our Father's
loving motives."
"I think I know that better now. I think I have learnt more of His
lovingness while I have been away," said Gwendoline, in a low voice.
"And perhaps you are more willing now, Gwen, than you used to be, to
let Him plan life for you."
"Oh yes; I do hope so. And that was what you had in your mind?" Gwen
asked again, as if hardly satisfied.
"That, partly. I was thinking, too, how wonderful it will all look to
us, by and by, when the whole story of our life lies spread before our
sight. I don't suppose we shall wish 'then' to have had one single
trouble less, or one pain less, or one arrangement different. Except,
of course, such arrangements as we have made wilfully for ourselves.
God's choice is always the very best for us."
"I can believe that now easily enough. When I had to go away to
Riversmouth, it did seem as if there were a great deal of pain in life."
"My dear child, there will be pain still. There must be," Honor said
tenderly. "Don't expect perfect freedom from it. After your quiet
existence at the Leys, you will be tried by the stir and the rubs of
family life. I don't see how it can be otherwise. But you must just
take them as God's will for you."
"I know one thing," Gwen said; "I do thank God for giving me such a
friend as you are, Honor."
The Riversmouth scheme came off as planned by Mrs. Halcombe. Ten days
later—by which time Gwendoline had quite settled down into her old
home-nook—Ruth and Honor departed together for a month at Riversmouth.
Ruth's spirits had gradually risen at the prospect of her holiday, till
the boys declared her to be hardly recognisable.
Gwen saw them off from the station, and at the last moment said softly,
"I have written to Mr. Fosbrook."
"Gwen, there was no need," said Honor. "I only want sea air now."
"Mother and I thought differently. I have asked him to count you his
patient. So you will see him," Gwen answered, smiling, as the train
moved.
Mr. Fosbrook failed not to fulfil his charge. Letters from the
absentees spoke of one call, and then of another.
The doctor's sister next made her appearance, and proved exceedingly
agreeable. Invitations to tea followed, and, for a busy individual, Mr.
Fosbrook seemed to be very often disengaged.
"He is a kind man, and we like him very much," Ruth wrote. "He and
Honor get on capitally, and seem to have any amount of things to talk
about. I like Miss Fosbrook too, happily, for she generally falls to my
share. Honor is enjoying herself immensely, and so am I."
Gwendoline did not read "between the lines," as did her more
experienced mother, and she noticed without understanding Mrs.
Halcombe's curious smile over this letter.
The month was lengthened out to five weeks, and then the two returned,
both looking well, healthy, and sunburnt.
"It has been a delicious time," was the verdict of both.
Honor spent that first evening with her friends, the Halcombes; and
Gwendoline noticed her look of quiet happiness as something beyond
what was usual. Not till the close of the evening, when putting on her
bonnet in Gwendoline's room, did Honor say,—
"Gwen, I have news for you."
"What news?" Gwen asked.
"Guess."
"I can't guess. What about?"
"I am going to live at Riversmouth altogether."
Gwendoline looked hard at Honora. "Going to live at Riversmouth! Not
really? Have the Widringtons offered you a home?"
"No; but somebody else has. You told me I should like Mr. Fosbrook, and
I do. He is a good man, Gwen."
"Honor!" was all Gwendoline could say.
"A startling idea, is it not?" said Honor, blushing. "True, however."
"But you don't mean—'that!' Not really! Oh, I am so glad."
"I am to be Mrs. Fosbrook by and by," said Honor softly. "Nobody knows
it yet,—not even Ruth. I wanted you to be the first to hear."
"Oh, Honor! And you won't have to work for your living any longer."
"Well, no,—not exactly," Honor said, half drily. Then a smile broke
over her face, and she added, "I am very happy, Gwen."
"And I am so glad. So glad for your sake, I mean,—not for mine. And for
Mr. Fosbrook's."
"And for yours too. What makes one of us happy makes the other happy.
My dear child, you will not lose me. We shall often arrange to meet.
Is it not strange?—He says I have never been out of his mind since the
day we met at my uncle's house, when you had saved the little boy from
drowning. And I thought he was fascinated by you."
"By me! No, indeed!" Gwen answered. "I always liked Mr. Fosbrook, but
there never was anything of that sort,—not the least shadow of it."
Something "of that sort" was, however, already looming in the distance,
and Honor knew it.
Mortimer Selwyn had to wait long and patiently for the fulfilment
of his desire. Wisely, he would not precipitate matters, or act
with undue haste. Gwendoline was now more than ever the darling of
her home-circle; also, she was much occupied, and very happy in her
occupations. The change of house from London to country made everybody
busy, and Gwen seemed to be ever the centre of all that went on. A
pretty dwelling in a healthy situation was found after much searching,
and at Michaelmas the move took place. No sooner were the Halcombes
settled in, than Gwendoline entered upon a round of parish work, under
their new and excellent vicar; and her hands were speedily full.
Mortimer found it no easy task to see anything of her.
Then came the great event of Honor's wedding. She was married from the
Halcombes' new house, Mr. Halcombe giving her away, while Gwendoline
and Ruth were her bride's-maids. Mortimer Selwyn was present at the
wedding, and made some use of his opportunity. Gwendoline began to
show a consciousness of his attentions, and she did not display any
aversion; but that was all.
Mortimer waited still, biding his time. He had the comfort of Mr.
and Mrs. Halcombe's full concurrence, and of his own father's hearty
approval. When at length, after many months, he ventured to speak,
Gwendoline had no difficulty in giving him an answer. Dearly as she
loved her own home, she knew then that another home might be still
dearer.
About a year and a half after the death of Lady Halcot, Gwendoline
became Mrs. Mortimer Selwyn. Hers would be still no idle life. Mortimer
was a man of ample means, and of countless benevolent schemes.
Gwendoline delighted thenceforward to work hand in hand with him,
serving the Master whom they loved.
Printed by
MORRISON & GIBB LIMITED
Edinburgh
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