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Title: Aldyth's inheritance
Author: Eglanton Thorne
Release date: October 8, 2024 [eBook #74544]
Language: English
Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALDYTH'S INHERITANCE ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
ALDYTH'S INHERITANCE
BY
EGLANTON THORNE
AUTHOR OF "THE OLD WORCESTER JUG," "IDA NICOLARI,"
"THE MANSE OF GLEN CLUNIE," "THE TWO CROWNS," ETC.
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
56, PATERNOSTER ROW; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD
AND 164 PICCADILLY
RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BUNGAY.
CONTENTS.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER
I. THE BLAND FAMILY
II. A NOVEL INTRODUCTION
III. GUY LORRAINE
IV. A LECTURE ON POETRY
V. A DAY AT WYNDHAM HALL
VI. DISAPPOINTMENT
VII. A MISCHIEF-MAKER
VIII. GOSSIP AND MISCONCEPTION
IX. MR. STEPHEN LORRAINE COMES TO AN UNDERSTANDING WITH HIS HEIR
X. HILDA BLAND'S PARTY
XI. CHRISTMAS AT WYNDHAM
XII. MR. LORRAINE SENDS FOR HIS SOLICITOR
XIII. SORROW AND JOY
XIV. A LONG-DEFERRED HOPE IS REALIZED
XV. ALDYTH WAKES FROM A DREAM
XVI. CONTRASTS
XVII. HILDA IS HAPPY
XVIII. A SUMMONS TO WYNDHAM
XIX. THE MISTRESS OF WYNDHAM
XX. UNWELCOME CHANGES COME IN FORTUNE'S TRAIN
XXI. GUY MAKES A DISCOVERY
XXII. A STRICKEN HEROINE AND A SHAMELESS SUITOR
XXIII. LOSSES AND GAINS
XXIV. A SECRET SORROW
XXV. HOW MRS. STANTON SPENT HER FIRST AFTERNOON AT WYNDHAM
XXVI. A FAREWELL
XXVII. AN ACCIDENT IN THE HUNTING-FIELD
XXVIII. KITTY SHOWS THE STRENGTH OF HER CHARACTER
XXIX. A MIND DISEASED
XXX. THE WRONG DISCLOSED
XXXI. HOW GUY WAS PACIFIED
XXXII. THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS
ALDYTH'S INHERITANCE.
CHAPTER I.
THE BLAND FAMILY.
MRS. BLAND'S house stood in the High Street of the little town of
Woodham. It was an old-fashioned, sedate-looking house, with a
bow-window projecting on each side of the front door, and two rows
of white-curtained windows above; but there was nothing prim about
the garden which lay at the back of the house. This garden, with its
wealth of sweet-scented flowers, its fruit trees, its sunflowers and
hollyhocks standing out in rich contrast to the mellow red of the
old walls, was a delightful place in which to spend a warm September
afternoon.
About the middle of the garden, and bordering at its lower end the
portion which, though not devoid of beauty, was obviously devoted
to utility, was a strip of lawn shaded by trees. Here, on such an
afternoon, Hilda Bland was lying, very much at her ease, in a hammock
suspended between two sturdy trunks. She had a book in her hand, but
reading was impossible, since Kate was on the path close by, chattering
fast as she gathered flowers, and Gwen, her younger sister, was
displaying great energy in her attempts to shake or knock down some of
the ripe greengages that were visible at the top of the tall tree to
which one end of the hammock was fastened.
"You won't get them that way, Gwen," cried Kate, as her sister threw a
rake handle at the top of the tree, and it came rattling down through
the branches.
"You are far more likely to break my head," said Hilda, from the
hammock, "and you shake me dreadfully. You might have a little respect
for my feelings."
"Nonsense; you are so lazy, Hilda! If you were anything of a sister,
you would come and help me."
"Thanks for the suggestion, dear," said Hilda, sweetly, "but I prefer
remaining where I am." And she threw herself back upon the cushions
with an air of indolent grace.
At all times Hilda had rather a languid air. Of slender form, below
the middle height, with a colourless complexion, and features regular
and delicately formed, she had a frail appearance beside her more
robust-looking sisters; but, in truth, her health was as good as
theirs. Mrs. Bland used to boast that her girls were never ill, thanks
to the care with which she had followed the common sense rules for the
rearing of his children laid down by her deceased husband, who had
practised as a surgeon at Woodham. There was a dreamy, absent look in
Hilda's large blue eyes, which some persons found interesting, and
others quite the reverse. To the unimaginative it was a sleepy, stupid
look; but the more discerning saw in it the sign of a thoughtful,
reflective nature.
There was but the faintest resemblance between Hilda and Kate, who was
eighteen months older. No one could be less dreamy or indolent than
Kate, or, as she was more often called, Kitty. With black hair, keen
dark eyes, and a warm brown complexion, now, at the end of the summer,
deepened to a gipsy-like hue, she looked very much alive. Her form was
sturdy, though trim, her features of a decided character, the nose of
the Roman type, the chin well rounded and somewhat prominent, the mouth
firm, though ready enough to break into smiles. She was the eldest of
Mrs. Bland's family of four, and had passed her twenty-second birthday,
but strangers often took her for younger than Hilda, there was so much
of the child about Kitty still. Hilda was the quiet one of the family,
fond of reading and dreaming. Kitty was seldom still. She seemed made
for a country life, and was as happy in the rigours of winter as in
the summer's prime. Riding, rowing, skating, there were few healthy
exercises in which she did not excel. Of the liveliest temperament, she
was a great talker and rather satirical, but happily her nature was too
sound and warm for her satire to be tinged with malice or envy.
"I wish Charlie would come," she said presently, as she flitted to and
fro amongst the flowers; "it chimed four ever so long ago. There, the
quarter is striking now."
"Did you ever know Charlie come straight home from school?" asked
Hilda, as she turned over the leaves of her Browning. "Why are you in
such a hurry to see him?"
"Oh, you know! I am dying to hear about that new master. The arrival of
a stranger at Woodham is such an event."
"Is there a new master?" asked Hilda, indifferently.
"Oh, Hilda! How stupid you are! Don't you know that Mr. Ferris was
to leave at the end of last term, and did you not hear Miss Lorraine
say the other day that a gentleman from London was coming to take his
place—a B.A. of Cambridge, she said he was?"
"I did not hear it," said Hilda; "but Miss Lorraine has always so much
to say, I cannot pretend to listen to every word."
"Well, I should think you might have listened to that," returned Kate,
whilst Gwen paused for a moment in her futile efforts to bring down the
greengages, and turned to hear what her sisters were saying.
"Why? What about him? What is his name, and what has he to do with us?"
asked Hilda, anxious to get information as speedily as possible, that
she might resume her reading.
"I have not heard his name, and I do not know that he has anything to
do with us," said Kate, rather lamely; "but I hope, for Charlie's sake,
that he is nice; and, of course, I should like to know whether he goes
in for boating and that sort of thing, and would be likely to join our
tennis club."
"Oh, you are thinking of the tennis," said Hilda, languidly; but the
next moment she started up with an exclamation of pleasure, as she saw
who was coming down the path from the house, accompanied by Mrs. Bland.
The visitor was a tall, slight girl, wearing a fresh cotton gown and
a wide straw hat, as simply dressed as a girl could be, yet with a
certain becoming grace peculiar to the wearer. You might not have known
at first sight whether Aldyth Lorraine was to be considered pretty; but
you would have felt in an instant that she was charming.
Her features were neither regular nor delicately moulded. The chin was
too long, the mouth too large, the lips perhaps a trifle too full for
beauty; but when the lips parted they displayed the most white and
perfect teeth, and her smile revealed the sweetness of a frank and
loving nature. The large-brimmed hat hid the broad, finely-arched brow
and the dark brown hair which rippled back from it, but could not dim
the merry, happy light that shone in the grey eyes. There could be
no question as to the beauty of those eyes, long in shape, of a deep
violet-grey hue, and shaded by long dark lashes. But, whilst we may
attempt to describe features, what words can give the charm of a sweet
girl's face? Aldyth's had a charm which won many hearts. But perhaps
the charm was rather in herself than in her face. That was winsome,
because her heart was tender and true and sympathetic, full of kind
feelings towards every one she met.
"To think of my finding you all at home!" exclaimed Aldyth. "I felt
sure you would be at tennis this lovely afternoon, and that I should
have a quiet chat with Mrs. Bland."
"I am sorry for your disappointment," said Kitty; "but there has been
nothing to hinder your having a quiet talk with mother. The fact is,
Clara Dawtrey has a party of her friends on the ground this afternoon."
Kitty's lip curled as she spoke.
Aldyth's quick little nod expressed perfect comprehension.
"What a pity that girl is so loud in her manners," she remarked. "I
feel sometimes as if I should like to give her a little hint, but I
suppose it would do more harm than good. Aunt says that if she only
knew the things that are said of her, even by the gentlemen she counts
her admirers, she would alter her ways."
As she spoke, Aldyth was lifting a chair out of the summerhouse at the
end of the lawn for Mrs. Bland.
"Gwen," cried Kitty, who had her hands too full of flowers to render
assistance, "do you see what Aldyth is doing? How rude you are! It is
time you went back to school."
"Never mind, Gwen," said Aldyth, laughing, as the girl rushed up too
late to be of use; "it won't kill me to lift a chair. And it is cruel
of Kitty to remind you that Monday is so near. Charlie has gone back to
school to-day, has he not?"
"Oh, that is nothing; I wish I only went to a day-school," said Gwen,
a big girl of fifteen; "but is not Kitty curious? She is dying to
question Charlie about the new master. Do you know anything about him?"
"Some one else is curious, I think," said Aldyth, merrily. "All I know
of him is that he is named John Glynne, and Aunt Lucy is trying to
persuade herself that he is one of the Glynnes of Norfolk, and that she
went to school with his mother. Ah, here is Charlie; now we shall hear."
A boy of twelve, satchel in hand, came bounding down the garden. But,
boy-like, Charlie would yield but meagre replies to the questions with
which the girls plied him.
Yes, he had seen Mr. Glynne, of course. He had taken their class for
Latin, and they were to read Shakespeare with him on Friday afternoons.
He did not know that Mr. Glynne was any different from other masters;
he did not like him so well as Mr. Ferris. He had given them a lot to
prepare, and he had come down "like a load of bricks" on one boy, whom
he had caught with a book open beneath his desk. He said it was as bad
as stealing to take the credit of knowing a lesson which had not been
studied, and that he had hoped he was going to teach manly boys, and
not "sneaks."
"He is quite right," said Mrs. Bland, warmly. "I hate to hear of boys
doing such deceitful things. Charlie, it would grieve me beyond words
to express if I thought you could act in such a way. But I am not
afraid. I believe that my boy will always be true and straightforward
in his conduct."
"All right, mother," said Charlie, hastily. "But, please, I want
that half-crown you promised me. I'm off to Stubbs' now, about those
rabbits." And no more information concerning the new master was to be
drawn from him.
"Tiresome young monkey!" cried Kate, as Charlie ran off with his
half-crown. "Aldyth, you have no idea how provoking a young brother can
be. You have no brothers or sisters to trouble you."
"I have a brother and sisters," said Aldyth, "though they cannot
certainly be said to trouble me."
"To be sure! I always forget those relatives of yours on the other side
of the world," said Kate, carelessly. "I must say I could not feel much
affection for half-brothers and sisters whom I had never seen."
"But I hope to see them some day," said Aldyth, colouring as she spoke;
"and I write to them, and they write to me sometimes. I should be sorry
to feel as if I did not belong to them. But I must be going. I only
looked in to ask Mrs. Bland if I had bought the right kind of wool that
mother wants me to send her."
"Oh, Aldyth, don't go yet!" exclaimed Hilda, springing up in the
hammock, and well-nigh overbalancing herself. "Do try the hammock;
it's delicious this afternoon. A thousand apologies for not asking you
before."
"Not now, thank you, Hilda," said Aldyth; "I have my letter to finish
for the mail."
Though Aldyth was on the friendliest terms with all the Bland family,
Hilda was especially her friend. The two girls walked arm-in-arm to the
garden door, and after a prolonged good-bye there, Hilda came back to
her mother and sisters.
"Kitty," she said, "you should not have said that about Aldyth's
relatives. I am sure you hurt her, for she thinks so much of them all.
She is always writing to them, and she never forgets one of their
birthdays, though they sometimes forget hers."
"I am very sorry," said Kitty; "but really it is absurd to suppose that
she can care as much for her brother and sisters as if they had been
brought up together."
"She may not care in the same way, but she certainly loves them; and as
for her mother, it seems to me that Aldyth simply worships the mother
whom she has never seen."
"She must have seen her," said Kate.
"Of course; but you need not be so absurdly literal, Kate. Aldyth
was only two years old when her mother went to Australia. She cannot
remember her."
"It always seems to me that Miss Lorraine is more truly Aldyth's
mother," said Mrs. Bland. "She has had the care of her ever since
she was a few months old, for shortly after Aldyth was born, Captain
Lorraine's health began to fail, and then Mrs. Lorraine travelled about
with him, and the baby was left with her aunt. I am sure Miss Lorraine
feels that Aldyth is her child, and I believe she provides for her
almost entirely."
"Yes, but Aldyth does not feel like that," said Hilda. "She is fond of
her aunt, and very grateful to her; but she loves her mother best. She
is always looking forward to her mother's coming to England. I wonder
if she ever will come!"
"Poor Aldyth!" said Mrs. Bland, with a sigh.
"Why do you always say 'Poor Aldyth' when we speak of Aldyth's mother?"
asked Hilda, quickly.
"Do I always say it?" replied Mrs. Bland.
"Yes, you do, mother, and I want to know why. I believe it is because
you think that Aldyth's mother loves her eldest child less than her
eldest child loves her. Is that it?"
"Well, perhaps," Mrs. Bland admitted. "I must confess I find it hard
to understand how a mother could leave such a tiny child behind her in
England, and let her grow up to womanhood without making an effort to
see her. I can only suppose that the other children, born to her in
Melbourne, have taken Aldyth's place in her heart, and that, absorbed
in her home life, she thinks but little of her eldest daughter, and
regards her rather as Miss Lorraine's adopted child than as her own."
"But she wants to come home, and her coming has often been talked of,"
said Hilda. "She tells Aldyth in her letters how she longs to see her."
"I dare say," said Mrs. Bland, drily; "but a mother's passionate
yearning to see her child would have found out a way for them to meet
before now, I think."
"You knew Aldyth's mother when she was a girl, did you not?" asked
Kate. "Is Aldyth like her?"
"Yes and no," said Mrs. Bland; "Aldyth's mother was a lovely girl,
and had most fascinating ways. Aldyth is more of a Lorraine, and yet
she often reminds me of her mother. But there is a great difference—I
hardly know how to explain it—but there is a great difference between
them. Aldyth seems to have inherited her father's frank, loving nature
together with her mother's brightness."
"Had not Mrs. Lorraine a loving nature?" Hilda asked.
"Well, not as a girl. She was the belle of this neighbourhood, and
had many admirers, and that sort of thing makes same girls callous.
Then her parents were poor and designing, and they hurried her into a
marriage with Captain Lorraine, because they thought he was to be his
uncle's heir. I do not believe she loved him, and she was too young
to have an idea of the serious duties and responsibilities of married
life. You know I think no girl should be married before she is one and
twenty."
"And the marriage proved an unhappy one, I suppose?" said Kate.
"I fear so," said Mrs. Bland. "Stephen Lorraine strongly disapproved
of it, and when his nephew married in spite of his disapproval, he
would have nothing more to do with him. The captain was harassed with
money difficulties, and, as his health failed, he grew morbid and
depressed. I heard Mrs. Lorraine say once that living with him was like
being continually with a wet blanket. She was easily consoled after
his death, for within a year she married Mr. Stanton, and sailed for
Australia."
"Poor Aldyth!" sighed Hilda. "It seems hard that her mother should
desert her like that. Miss Lorraine is very kind; but she is so fussy
and talkative; I should not like to live with her."
"I wonder if Aldyth will ever join her family," said Kitty, "and how
she will like them if she does!"
"I almost hope that may never happen," said Mrs. Bland, "for I fancy it
would mean disappointment for Aldyth."
"She will never know what it is to have such a dear little mother as
you," cried Gwen, suddenly bestowing a warm hug on her mother.
Mrs. Bland laughed at Gwen's vehemence, but tears came into her eyes as
she kissed Gwen.
The death of her husband, followed a year later by that of her eldest
boy, three years younger than Hilda, had intensified the anxiety that
almost invariably attends a mother's love; but Mrs. Bland was a wise
woman, and kept most of her fears to herself, taking care not to worry
her children. Thus it was that her girls grew up with the feeling that
their mother was their best friend, and there was no constraint between
them, though Hilda at times evinced a certain reserve of character
which caused her mother some uneasiness.
Mrs. Bland's heart was so essentially that of a mother that its
sympathies could not be bounded by her own home circle. The friends
of her girls were her friends also, and responded gratefully to the
kindness she showed them. As for Aldyth Lorraine, she was well-nigh as
dear to Mrs. Bland as one of her own children. She had grown up with
Kate and Hilda. They had been separated only during their school terms,
Aldyth having been sent to a more expensive school than Mrs. Bland
could afford for her daughters. Aldyth often said that Mrs. Bland was
the most motherly woman she knew; and unconsciously the girl's thoughts
of her absent mother, and her dreams of what their meeting would be,
were largely coloured by what she saw of the love and confidence
existing between Mrs. Bland and her daughters.
CHAPTER II.
A NOVEL INTRODUCTION.
THE house in which Aldyth Lorraine lived with her aunt was scarcely
ten minutes' walk from Mrs. Bland's. The High Street took a turn just
above the Blands' door, and winding round to the left, ended at an open
space where three roads met. To the left diverged the Tolleshunt and
Longbridge roads. The road, which was almost a continuation of the High
Street, was known as the London Road, and was the more fashionable part
of Woodham. Here were the newest and smartest villas that the little
town could boast; but here and there amongst them stood a house with a
history, a history which went back through many generations, so that
one might imagine the old dwelling to look with contempt on its modern,
upstart neighbours.
Miss Lorraine's house was one of the old ones, and was known as Myrtle
Cottage. It was not very convenient, but it was picturesque, having
a thatched roof, and walls tapestried with ivy. It stood in a pretty
garden, sheltered by a thick hawthorn hedge, and, as it was the last
of the houses, and the road dipped sharply on the other side, it had
a fine view of a wide expanse of flat country, green meadows and
hedgerows, cornfields and copses, melting away into the exquisite blue
of distance.
Leaving the Blands, Aldyth walked quickly to the cottage, but her
haste did not prevent her pausing for a moment with her hand on the
gate to gaze at the far-reaching prospect bathed in the mellow light
of the lovely September afternoon. There was something to Aldyth very
heart-satisfying in that broad, fair landscape, and she never wearied
of looking at it.
But as she gazed now, she became aware that a young man was seated on
the low bank at the other side of the road. For a moment she imagined
that he was merely sitting there to enjoy the prospect, but another
glance showed her that he was very pale, and there was blood on the
handkerchief he was pressing to his temple; his cap lay in the dust,
and leaning against the hedge, a few paces down the bill, was a
bicycle, which seemed to have come to grief. Instantly Aldyth crossed
the road, saying, kindly—
"I fear you have had an accident. Are you much hurt?"
"Oh, it is nothing, thank you," said the stranger, in refined,
courteous tones; "I have had an awkward fall and cut my forehead, but
the pain is nothing, if only it would stop bleeding."
"Won't you come in and let my aunt see what she can do for you?" said
Aldyth. "This is her house, and she is rather clever at dressing
wounds."
"You are very kind," said the young man, meeting Aldyth's glance with a
pair of clear blue eyes that had a very penetrative gaze; "but I think
there is no need to trouble your aunt; I shall be all right in a few
minutes."
But a fresh spurt of blood from the wound made him press the
handkerchief closer to his face, and the colour which had returned to
it died away.
"Indeed, you had better come in," said Aldyth, earnestly. "You know you
really cannot go home like that. People would stare at you so."
The last words had their effect. The young man's face broke into a
merry smile.
"They would indeed," he said. "I had not thought of that. And the boys!
What entertainment for them! Thank you, I will avail myself of your
kindness."
"That is right," said Aldyth, making a movement as though she would
pick up his cap, but he saw her intention and was before her, though
stooping brought a return of the giddiness which he had at first
experienced. She had to help him bring his bicycle within the garden,
then she hurried on to the house, the stranger following with a slow
and somewhat uncertain step.
Happily Miss Lorraine was at home. She was seated at her desk in the
little drawing room which opened at one side of the front door. A great
talker, Miss Lorraine was not less great as a correspondent. When not
paying calls or entertaining visitors, she was generally to be found
writing letters.
"Aunt Lucy, here is a gentleman I met at the gate. He has had an
accident; he fell from his bicycle. Do come and see what you can do for
him."
"My dear! An accident?" cried Miss Lorraine, springing up with alacrity.
She came bustling into the hall, a comely little woman, whose age it
would have been difficult to determine, for her black hair was scarce
touched with grey, her eyes bright; she moved and spoke briskly, and
was always dressed in a dainty, becoming style. Of great energy, she
loved to be of use in any way, and, as Aldyth knew well, was delighted
by this unexpected call to render surgical aid.
Aldyth had not given a thought to the individuality of the stranger,
but Miss Lorraine recognized the gentleman who had been pointed out
to her that morning as the new master at the Woodham Grammar School.
She welcomed him heartily, took him in hand at once in her quick,
energetic fashion, and had soon sponged the wound and dressed it, not
unskilfully, with lint and plaster.
"Now, Mr. Glynne, you must stay and take tea with me and Aldyth. Yes,
indeed you must rest after such a shock, and the quieter you keep, the
sooner the wound will heal."
"You are very kind," said John Glynne, feeling the attraction of the
bright little home in which he found himself, and inclined to accept
the invitation; "but you have the advantage of me, since you know my
name, whilst I have yet to learn to whom I am indebted for such kind
services."
"Oh, no one can be long a stranger at Woodham," said Miss Lorraine; "we
have a curious faculty—have we not, Aldyth?—of finding out the history
of everybody, and if you had been here more than one day, Mr. Glynne,
you would have learned that I am Miss Lorraine, and this is my niece
Aldyth. I am pretty well-known, having lived at Woodham all my life.
And there are few persons in the neighbourhood who have not heard of my
father, Dr. Lorraine, who practised as a physician here for many years.
People would come miles to consult him."
"And did he leave no son to succeed to his practice?" asked Mr. Glynne.
"No," said Miss Lorraine, a shadow falling on her face; "I had but one
brother, Aldyth's father, and he chose the army as his profession.
Charlie Bland was my father's partner, and he succeeded him; but he
died, poor fellow, a few years later. His widow and family live in that
large house with bow-windows at the top of the High Street."
But Mr. Glynne had to confess that he was so new to Woodham that he had
not yet observed the Blands' house.
"I fancy the name Bland has come before me to-day," he said. "Is there
a boy at the school belonging to the family?"
"Yes, Charlie Bland goes to the school," said Aldyth. "He is a nice
boy. I know him well, for the Blands are great friends of mine."
Miss Lorraine was moving to and fro between dining room and drawing
room on hospitable thoughts intent. Nothing could please her better
than that she should be the first lady at Woodham to make the
acquaintance of the new master. As for John Glynne, he was beginning to
regard his accident as a fortunate occurrence, since it had introduced
him to this bright, good-natured woman and her charming niece. Aldyth
felt considerable inward amusement as she talked to this wholly
unexpected visitor.
"What will Kitty say?" she thought. "She will wish he had fallen from
his bicycle at their door."
"Tea is ready. Will you come into the next room, Mr. Glynne?" said Miss
Lorraine, rising to lead the way. "Now had you not better rest on the
sofa? No, won't you really? Then you must take this easy-chair. There!
You look quite interesting with your head bandaged."
At this remark the young man sprang to his feet and looked at himself
in the mirror above the mantelshelf He coloured, and laughed as he saw
the effect of the bandage.
"I hope it will not be necessary to appear before my pupils in this
headgear," he said.
Catching his half-rueful, half-humorous expression, Aldyth broke into a
merry laugh, in which her aunt joined.
"You need not fear that," said Miss Lorraine. "The wound will have
stanched by and by, and I can remove that unsightly bandage. It really
makes you look as if you had been fighting."
And the three laughed again.
"It is a punishment for reckless riding," said Mr. Glynne. "But I
was unprepared for such a sudden descent. I thought Essex roads were
guiltless of hills."
"So many persons suppose," said Miss Lorraine. "But Essex is really not
so flat as it is represented to be. There are many hills about Woodham,
are there not, Aldyth?"
"They seem considerable hills to us," replied Aldyth. "But I dare say
people coming from hilly districts would not think much of them. From
what part of the country do you come, Mr. Glynne?"
"I was brought up in Norfolk," he said, "but we have lived in London
now for many years."
"Norfolk!" exclaimed Miss Lorraine, eagerly. "Was your father a
clergyman in the neighbourhood of Yarmouth?"
"He was," said Mr. Glynne, looking surprised; "did you know him?"
"And your mother's name was Susan Staines before she married?" said
Miss Lorraine, in her eagerness passing by his question.
"It was—then you know my mother?" said the young man, his face lighting
up with pleasure. "How strange!"
"We were girls at school together; she was my great friend in those
days," said Miss Lorraine; "but she went abroad to perfect herself
in the foreign languages, and gradually our correspondence dropped.
I heard some years later that she had married a clergyman, and was
living near Yarmouth; then, after a while, I heard that her husband was
dead. I have often longed to see her again. And now I see her son. How
strange it seems!"
"My mother will be delighted to hear that I have met with an old friend
of hers," said John Glynne. "I will tell her when I write to-morrow."
"Yes, do," said Miss Lorraine, "and give her my love—Lucy Lorraine's
love. Tell her I mean to be your friend, if you will let me, for your
mother's sake. For indeed you seem no stranger now."
"You have shown yourself a good friend to me already," said John
Glynne; "but I am glad that you know my mother. It makes me feel at
home with you."
"Are you her only child?" asked Miss Lorraine.
"No; there are three of us. I have a brother and a sister. I am the
eldest. My mother was left with very limited means, and she has had
a struggle to bring us up. But things are easier for her now, I am
thankful to say."
"You have helped to make them easier," was Aldyth's quick thought, as
she saw the expression his face wore when he spoke of his mother.
It was a good face, and more and more it won on her, despite the ugly
bandage which concealed the square compact forehead, betokening a high
order of intellect. The features were not handsome, but they were
strong; the blue eyes had the kindest, frankest look in them, and the
curves of the mouth and the peculiarly sweet smile told of a warm, true
heart.
"He is a good son," was the conclusion at which Aldyth arrived
intuitively, and the thought deepened the friendly regard in which she
already held him. His age she judged to be about seven-and-twenty.
"So you have come to the Grammar School," said Miss Lorraine, after a
moment's reflection. "Are you fond of teaching?"
"Yes," he said; but Aldyth saw that his face clouded a little. "I
believe I like teaching, but I cannot say that I am very fond of the
drudgery of teaching small boys. I had hoped to obtain a different kind
of appointment, but it fell to another, and being offered this post at
the Woodham School, I thought it right to take it. My mother does not
like it for me, but I tell her the experience will be very salutary. I
have lately been attempting University Extension Lectures."
"Have you?" exclaimed Aldyth, greatly interested. "Oh, I have heard of
them—lectures on literature and science, with classes afterwards for
those who are earnest students. How I wish we could have something of
the kind here!"
"Why should you not?" he asked. "Surely there are enough people at
Woodham to form a centre."
"There are people enough, no doubt," said Aldyth; "but I fear they are
not sufficiently intellectual. They would not care to improve their
minds. On what subjects do you lecture, Mr. Glynne?"
"Literature is my subject," he said. "I have lectured chiefly on
Shakespeare and the poets."
"On Shakespeare! How delightful!" exclaimed Aldyth. "I would give
anything to study Shakespeare with one who really understood him. I
always feel my own narrowness and ignorance when I come to Shakespeare.
And Wordsworth, I long to read him intelligently. I have always loved
his poetry, though I hardly know why I love it so much. I should like
to be able to appreciate it rightly. Some of his poems seem to me so
much grander than others."
"There is no doubt that his work was unequal, and it is curious how
unable he was to discern his own highest work," said Mr. Glynne; "but
I am glad you love Wordsworth, Miss Lorraine, for I have a great
enthusiasm for him, and it is but rarely I meet any one who shares the
feeling. It is a bond of sympathy between us."
He looked at her with frank, boyish pleasure in his clear, bright eyes.
Aldyth met his gaze unshrinkingly, but she too was conscious of a
thrill of pleasure. To one whose life is bounded by a narrow circle, it
is a great gain to find a friend who shares one's intellectual tastes
and predilections.
"We must have some lectures this winter; I see no reason why we should
not," said Miss Lorraine, in her quick, decisive way. "It would be a
capital thing for the young people. Tell me how to set about it, Mr.
Glynne, and I will see what I can do."
"Auntie!" cried Aldyth, in a tone of delight.
"You must get together a committee of ladies and gentlemen," said Mr.
Glynne. "Appoint a local secretary, hire a room for the lectures,
choose your subject, and apply to the University Extension Society for
a lecturer, arrange the terms for the course of lectures, making them
as low as you can without incurring debt, and issue bill and circulars
announcing the lectures."
"All that is not difficult," said Miss Lorraine. "I will speak to some
of my friends on the subject to-morrow. But you must give the lectures,
Mr. Glynne. I will only move in the matter on that condition."
But Mr. Glynne would make no promise, though he appeared not unwilling
to fill the post of lecturer if he found that his other engagements
would permit him to do so. He sat talking to Miss Lorraine and her
niece till long after it grew dusk, and when at last he walked away to
his lodgings, there was no fear of any one's seeing the patch upon his
temple.
The day's incident had given a brighter colour to the prospect of his
sojourn at Woodham. Already he had made friends in the little town, and
he felt sure that its inhabitants were simple-hearted, good-natured
people, acquaintance with whom could yield only pleasure.
As for Aldyth, after he had gone, she awoke to the fact that she had
quite forgotten the long letter to her mother which should have been
finished that evening.
CHAPTER III.
GUY LORRAINE.
ALDYTH rose early the next morning, that her letter might be finished
and posted ere the morning mail went out. The clock had not long
struck seven, when she threw wide her casement, and let in the fresh,
delicious air. Birds were chirping beneath the eaves, and fluttering to
and fro; the dewy grass was sparkling in the sun, and the garden looked
most tempting; but Aldyth turned resolutely from the window, and seated
herself at her writing-table.
One may often gain insight into a girl's character by a glance round
her room. Aldyth's room, in which she took some pride, as girls do
in a place that is their very own, revealed that she had a refined
and cultured mind. There was nothing luxurious in its arrangements,
but it was a pretty room despite the disadvantage, that, owing to the
old-fashioned construction of the house, the ceiling sloped sharply on
one side. Flowers stood in glasses on the dressing-table, and bees were
buzzing over the mignonette planted in a box on the window sill.
Water-colour drawings adorned the walls, some of them painted by
Aldyth, and some the gifts of school friends, and here and there were
photographs Of Aldyth's favourite heroes—Carlyle, Ruskin, and Charles
Kingsley, Tennyson, and Browning. The little wooden bookcase held a
selection of books any girl might be proud to possess. There were
daintily-bound editions of all our greatest poets, with some of our
noblest works of fiction, and standard works of prose, too, showing
that Aldyth did not read for mere entertainment, though in reading she
found one of the highest pleasures of her life. For Aldyth loved books;
she stinted herself of many of the pretty things girls love, that she
might spend her pocket money on books, and at any time a bookshop had
more attraction for her than a milliner's.
In a handsome frame on the mantelshelf stood the latest portrait of
her mother which Aldyth had received. A similar one, reduced in size,
Aldyth wore constantly in a gold locket, suspended by a slender chain
from her neck. It was the photograph of a lady who might have been
thirty years of age, but looked no older, with a beautiful face,
faultless in form and feature, and luxuriant masses of hair dressed
high on the crown of the head, after the fashion of the day. The pose
of the head was queenly, the exquisite lips had a somewhat disdainful
curl, as though conscious of their beauty. It was a face which demanded
admiration; whether it would as readily call forth love, the portrait
did not reveal. It is never safe to judge a person from a photograph.
This was Aldyth's beautiful mother, of whom she had dreamed all her
life. Often did her eyes rest on the portrait with a sense of hungry,
yearning love, and she longed for the time when she could look into
her mother's face, and meet the kiss of her sweet lips. With passing
years the longing came to have somewhat of the bitterness of a deferred
hope. There were hours when it was positive pain to Aldyth to think of
the love she had missed through the long separation from her mother.
But her nature was too bright and hopeful for this thought to sadden
her long. She was more wont to look forward to the perfect joy of the
long-deferred meeting, and dream of the happiness that would then be
hers.
Near Mrs. Stanton's portrait were portraits of the two daughters who
had been born to her in Australia. They were taken as children, but
even these juvenile portraits showed that the elder one, a girl about
thirteen, had inherited the beauty of her mother, while the little
one, dark, heavy-browed, and somewhat stolid-looking, was unlikely to
develop good looks.
Aldyth's eyes turned instinctively to her mother's picture as she laid
down her pen, after signing herself, "Your ever-loving daughter."
"Oh, mother! When will you come to me?" she cried in her heart.
If she could have had her own way, Aldyth would long ago have sailed to
join her mother at Melbourne, but Mrs. Stanton had reasons for wishing
that Aldyth should remain at Woodham with her aunt. Five miles from
Woodham lay Wyndham, the family estate of the Lorraines, and at Wyndham
Hall lived Aldyth's grand-uncle, an old bachelor, strong-willed,
crotchety, eccentric, and possessed of considerable wealth.
Stephen Lorraine was the eldest and the last of three brothers, who had
been well-known in the neighbourhood of Woodham. His brother William
had practised as a medical man there, winning much love and honour,
but he died at the age of fifty, leaving two children, a son and a
daughter. The son, a handsome young fellow, was a great favourite with
his uncle Stephen, and was looked upon as his heir. With his uncle's
approval, he made the army his profession. Stephen Lorraine had a
decided notion that his heir must conform to his will in everything,
and as long as the young man did so, all went well.
But a time came in Captain Lorraine's history, when love proved
stronger than expediency, and he dared his uncle's anger by marrying
into an Essex family for which old Stephen had a particular dislike.
It was an offence not to be condoned, and Stephen Lorraine at once
announced his intention of leaving his property to the only son of his
brother James, who had taken holy orders, and after officiating for a
while as a curate at Woodham, had been presented to a living in the
north of England. At his uncle's request, this young man, Guy Lorraine
by name, came to Woodham, and took up his abode at the Hall. He brought
with him a delicate young wife and a bright boy of two years.
Meanwhile Captain Lorraine, the discarded heir, disappointed in his
married life and depressed by disease, was wandering from place to
place, seeking health, and vainly hoping that his uncle would relent
towards him. If the news of his death stirred a too late regret within
the heart of old Stephen Lorraine, he showed no sign of it, unless the
increased bitterness of feeling he manifested towards his nephew's
widow might be so regarded. He hated the very name of Aldyth's mother,
but he expressed a wish to see the little girl who had been left in
the care of her father's sister at Woodham, and as soon as he saw her,
Aldyth won her way to his heart.
A few months after the death of Captain Lorraine, Guy Lorraine's young
wife also passed away, so that when Aldyth's mother finally left her to
her aunt's care, Miss Lorraine—or Lucy Lorraine, as every one called
her in those days—had as good as two motherless children to love and
cherish. Little Guy and Aldyth were constantly together. If Guy were
not spending the day at Miss Lorraine's cottage, Aldyth would be
playing with him at the Hall, to her childish mind the most delightful
place in the world; for Stephen Lorraine made a great pet of the tiny
daughter of his favourite nephew. He would walk about the house and
garden with the little damsel seated on his shoulder, clinging to his
rough, wiry locks; and Aldyth's earliest rides were taken on a little
Shetland pony, attached by a rein to the stout cob ridden by her
grand-uncle. The servants at the Hall whispered to each other that the
squire cared more for the girl than for the boy, and they found the
cause in Aldyth's strong resemblance to her father.
But as young Guy grew into a robust, high-spirited boy, he too won his
grand-uncle's affection; and when by his father's sudden death from an
accident in the hunting-field he was made, as it seemed, the heir to
Wyndham, most persons in the neighbourhood believed that it was Stephen
Lorraine's intention that the cousins should marry, and Wyndham thus
become the home and inheritance of them both. But up to the time at
which our story commences, when the young people were both of age, no
one had heard old Stephen give the least hint of any such intention.
So far he had been content to let things take their course, judging
perhaps from his past experience, that by active interference, he might
defeat his own ends.
The old man had long outlived his two brothers, and he had seen several
of the younger generation of his family pass away; but he was still
hale and hearty, though in his eightieth year. Aldyth continued very
dear to him, and he liked to have her often at the Hall. And it was
because of her uncle's affection for her that Mrs. Stanton wished
Aldyth to remain at Woodham. When the girl in her letters pleaded to
be allowed to join her mother, Mrs. Stanton would reply that she felt
it would be wrong to take Aldyth from the poor old man, who evidently
found such comfort in her society.
"Do all you can to please your uncle, darling," her mother wrote. "Make
it your duty to cheer his old age, and by so doing you may atone for
the harm I did when married your father, and so deprived him of his
uncle's favour. Who knows? He may even come to forgive poor me for your
dear sake."
But as yet, Stephen Lorraine had shown no sign of forgiving Mrs.
Stanton. He preferred to regard her as one who had no connection with
him whatever, having passed out of his family when she married her
second husband. To Aldyth he never named her mother.
As Aldyth, having finished her letter, ran down stairs, a young man
was entering the house with the air of one who felt at home there. He
was a tall broad-chested fellow, and his shooting suit well became his
fine proportions. Of fair complexion, which the sun had brought to a
warm hue, with light hair curling crisply over his forehead, well-cut
features, and eyes that might pass for blue, he was a typical specimen
of an English country gentleman, and most persons considered him very
good-looking. He was carrying several brace of partridges strung
together. At the sight of Aldyth, he smiled brightly, and lifted his
cap with easy grace.
"Good morning, Aldyth," he said; "I'm an early visitor. I had to drive
a fellow up to catch the first train, so I took the opportunity to
bring cousin some birds. There are some for Mrs. Bland too, but I could
hardly call on them before breakfast."
"No, really? I should have thought your audacity might have carried
you so far;" said Aldyth, merrily. "However, in consideration of your
bringing us those birds, we'll give you some breakfast, and then, if
you like, I will walk down with you to the Blands, for I want to see
Kitty."
"Kitty! I thought Hilda was your particular friend."
"So she may be, but Kitty is my friend too. I have something to tell
her that will interest her very much." And Aldyth's eyes shone with
amusement as she pictured Kitty's excitement when she heard her news.
"What's up? What has happened?" asked Guy, looking at her with
curiosity.
But Aldyth only laughed in a tantalizing manner, and at that moment
Miss Lorraine made her appearance.
"This is good of you, Guy," she said, lifting her face for him to kiss,
for Guy had the place of a nephew in Miss Lorraine's heart. "I thought
we should see nothing of you whilst you had such a shooting-party at
the Hall. What fine partridges! You must be having good sport."
"Pretty fair," replied the young man; "the birds are not so plentiful
as last year; the wet spring thinned the broods. Still, we made
tolerable bags yesterday."
"So it seems," said Miss Lorraine, eyeing the birds with admiration,
and immediately beginning to plan a little supper-party, to which Mr.
Glynne should be invited. "How good of you to remember me! But here is
the coffee—come in and get your breakfast. You must need it after your
drive."
"When are you and Aldyth coming to Wyndham again?" inquired Guy, as he
helped himself to some of Miss Lorraine's excellent ham. "Uncle was
saying yesterday what a time it was since we had seen you."
"Well, you see, Guy, we feel rather shy of coming whilst you have a
house full of gentlemen," said Miss Lorraine. "You don't want ladies
about when you are so busy with the shooting."
"You forget that we do not shoot in the evenings," replied Guy. "Why
can't you and Aldyth come down to dinner one evening? I should like you
to see Captain Walker and Marriott. Marriott's awfully fond of music,
and sings well. You might ask the Blands to come with you, and then we
could have quite a musical evening."
"Well, perhaps; I must think about it," said Miss Lorraine, dubiously.
"But you must ask the Blands, Guy, not I."
"All right; that's easily managed," said Guy.
"Why should you not bring Captain Walker and young Marriott here one
evening?" asked Miss Lorraine. "Then I would invite the Blands and Mr.
Glynne to meet you."
"Who in the world is Mr. Glynne?" asked Guy, opening his eyes.
"The new master just come to the school," explained Miss Lorraine.
"Aldyth and I made his acquaintance yesterday." And she related the
circumstances that had led to the introduction.
Guy's lips curled satirically as he listened. To him the whole story
was absurd, and his comments on the incident were not entirely
agreeable to Miss Lorraine, who had taken a great fancy to John Glynne.
"How any man can make himself so ridiculous as to go grinding about the
country on one of those trumpery machines is beyond my comprehension,"
he said. "A good horse is worth fifty of them. I should be very sorry
to sit astride such a thing."
"There is no reason why you should, you have always a horse at your
command," said Aldyth. "I have no doubt Mr. Glynne would think a horse
preferable, if he could afford one; but a horse is expensive to buy and
expensive to keep, whilst a bicycle is no trouble at all, and its rider
is delightfully independent."
"Yes, especially when he falls off and cuts his head open," said Guy,
laughing.
"Now, Guy, I will not have you laugh at Mr. Glynne's misfortune," said
Miss Lorraine. "For my part, I was glad the accident happened when and
where it did, since it made us acquainted with so nice a man. He is not
one to ridicule, I assure you. He is a B.A. of Cambridge University,
and a highly cultured man. I hope we may be able to induce him to give
us a course of lectures during the winter."
"Lectures!" exclaimed Guy, lifting his brows. "What—to you and poor
dear Aldyth?"
"Don't be absurd; you know that is not my meaning. We want him to give
a course of lectures on literature at Town Hall, or some such place,
which any lady or gentleman may attend, who chooses to take a ticket."
"Whatever is the good of that?" asked Guy, with a simplicity which made
Aldyth laugh.
"The good is that we shall have a chance of improving our minds and
gaining some fresh ideas," said Miss Lorraine. "It will be a great
advantage to the young people, if we can arrange for such lectures. You
must take a ticket, Guy."
"I will take a ticket with pleasure, to oblige you," he said. "But
please do not ask me to sit for an hour on one of those hard benches in
the Town Hall, and listen to a dry lecture. I could not do it really.
What is the good of it?"
"Guy, you are shockingly lazy!" said Aldyth. "I am just longing for
the lectures to begin; and I know that Hilda and Kitty Bland will be
delighted when they hear of our grand scheme. I have no fear that the
ladies of Woodham will not muster strong at the lectures. I believe we
read and think more than the men do."
"Of course; you have nothing else to do," said Guy, who, like many
persons who enjoy unlimited leisure, was able to persuade himself that
he led a busy life. "But why women want to study so hard I cannot
think. They are no more attractive, in my eyes, for knowing a good
deal. Indeed, I dislike learned women."
"They are so much more difficult to talk to, are they not, Guy?" said
Aldyth, mischievously. "But I see you want to be off, so I will get my
hat."
As they walked to the Blands, Aldyth and her cousin met Mr. Glynne
hurrying along on his way to the school. It was but a few steps from
his lodgings, and he wore his gown and college cap, which made him
rather an imposing spectacle in the High Street. As he lifted his cap,
the patch of plaster on his brow was plainly visible. Aldyth smiled
frankly as their eyes met, and received a bright smile in response. Guy
looked at the new master with cold, critical eyes.
"How ridiculous to wear that mortar-board!" he said. "If that's your
grand lecturer, I don't think much of his appearance."
"I never said that he was handsome," replied Aldyth; "but I think he
looks strong in every way."
Breakfast was still on the table in the Blands' dining room, and Hilda
sprang up with rather a shame-faced look as the Lorraines entered the
room.
"Yes, Aldyth, it is very shocking, I know," she exclaimed, as her
friend shook her head with affected gravity. "But every one cannot have
your energy, and it is really mamma's fault that I am late, for she did
not call me this morning."
"Oh, of course; it is always some one else's fault," remarked Kitty,
running in from the garden with a basket of pears in her hand.
"And a very satisfactory thing that is," said Guy. "I never care as
long as I can find some one to bear the blame of my misdeeds. Why
should people make such a fuss about early rising? It is all very well
to get up if there is shooting or anything to get up for; but otherwise
I would rather stay in bed."
Every one laughed at this candid confession, and Hilda's face
brightened. They strolled out through the open door into the garden.
"Aldyth has prime news for you, Kitty," said Guy. "It seems there is a
new tutor come to the school, and he must needs prostrate himself at my
cousin's gate last evening. Aldyth found him there—a gory spectacle.
Being, as you know, one of the most strong-minded of her sex, she did
not faint, but promptly conveyed him into the house, where she, and
Cousin Lucy devoted themselves to binding up his wounds."
"What do you mean?" exclaimed Kitty. "I never heard such a rigmarole.
Aldyth, what does he mean?"
"It is quite true, I assure you," said Guy. "We met the wounded knight
not five minutes ago, with his forehead plastered up, looking like the
hero of a hundred fights."
"Do be sensible and tell me what you mean," pleaded Kitty. "Aldyth, is
there a word of truth in what he says?"
"It is remotely 'founded on fact,' like the stories auntie used to read
when she was a girl," said Aldyth, "and the facts are these: Mr. Glynne
had a fall from his bicycle near our gate yesterday afternoon. He cut
his forehead rather badly, and I persuaded him to come in and let aunt
attend to it."
"You don't mean it! What a joke!" cried Kitty. "Do tell me about it,
Aldyth."
"Indeed I will not, if you are going to make a joke of another's
suffering—you unfeeling creature!" said Aldyth.
"Why, was he much hurt?" asked Kitty, quickly. "You might tell me,
Aldyth."
"I think he will get over it," said Aldyth, with a merry twinkle in her
eyes. "He recovered sufficiently to talk a good deal to aunt and me
before he left. And what do you think, girls? He is perhaps going to
give a course of lectures during the winter."
"A course of lectures!" said Hilda, quickly. "On what subject?"
"Oh, on literature—the poets, perhaps," said Aldyth, vaguely. "Aunt is
delighted with the idea; she means to do all she can to realize it."
"Then she will succeed," said Kitty. "I never yet knew Miss Lorraine
fail to carry through any plan she had set her heart upon."
"The poets! That will be lovely!" cried Hilda.
"Then you will go to these lectures?" said Guy, his face clouding a
little as he spoke.
They walked on down the garden path, leaving the others a little way
behind. Hilda's slender form looked more fairylike than usual in
contrast to Guy's height and breadth.
"Of course, if they are held, I shall attend them," said Hilda; "I
would not miss them on any account. It will be a grand opportunity for
self-improvement."
"Some persons do not need improvement," said Guy in a low voice, as his
eyes rested admiringly on her. "I like you just as you are. You would
be spoiled if you became very learned."
His look and words brought a warm flush to Hilda's face. She was
embarrassed, but not annoyed. She gave a little nervous laugh, and said—
"I am sure I ought to feel much flattered. Fortunately there is little
danger of my ever becoming very learned."
Aldyth was replying as best as she could to a volley of questions from
Kitty concerning Mr. Glynne. She stayed talking for a while after Guy
had excused himself and gone off to his shooting. As she quitted the
house, she glanced down the High Street, and saw her aunt coming out
of the bank. Aldyth went to meet her. Miss Lorraine's face was radiant
with satisfaction.
"It is all right, Aldyth," she said. "Mr. Greenwood quite approves of
the lectures, and he has promised me his support."
Aldyth could fully sympathize with her aunt's satisfaction. Mr.
Greenwood, the banker, and his brother, Mr. Ralph Greenwood, the
solicitor, were highly influential members of Woodham society.
CHAPTER IV.
A LECTURE ON POETRY.
MISS LORRAINE succeeded in creating an interest in the literature
lectures, and carried out her project with little difficulty, though
not without encountering opposition. There were various individuals
who, like Guy Lorraine, could not see what good the lectures were to
do. Some of the elders declared that there were excitements enough for
the young people as it was. If they wanted to improve their minds, why
could they not read quietly at home instead of gadding out to lectures
at the Town Hall? And the mention of Shakespeare in connection with the
lectures alarmed these good people. Study Shakespeare, indeed! What
could that foster but a love of play-acting and theatre-going?
Happily Miss Lorraine was not wanting in tact. She persuaded the
friends who had formed themselves into a committee that Shakespeare
must stand aside for the present. They must not begin by riding
rough-shod over people's prejudices. No one could object to a course
of lectures on Wordsworth and the poets of the Lake School. Let them
begin with Wordsworth, and trust that in time the minds of certain
persons at Woodham would become enlightened with respect to the value
of Shakespeare as a teacher of truth.
Her advice was followed, and by the beginning of October, every
available wall and hoarding about Woodham bore posters announcing the
course of lectures on literature to be given at the Town Hall, on
Thursday evenings, by John Glynne, B.A., of Trinity College, Cambridge.
The novelty of the idea caused considerable excitement in the little
town. Every one talked about the lectures, and the tickets were
sold with a rapidity that surpassed the most sanguine hopes of the
projectors of the scheme.
The first lecture proved a grand success. The Town Hall was full. Every
person of importance at Woodham seemed to be there. Conspicuous in the
front rank of seats, reserved for the committee, sat Miss Lorraine, her
eyes sparkling with excitement, her whole face radiating satisfaction,
as, with head turned towards the door, she watched the people pressing
in, and welcomed her friends with nods and smiles.
Not far from her sat Aldyth, between Kitty and Hilda Bland. Aldyth's
satisfaction was more quietly evinced; but her face was bright with
subdued pleasure. She rather shrank from the eager whispers in which
Kitty, whose head was turning in all directions, made her observations
on every one who appeared.
To the no small astonishment of his cousin, Guy Lorraine was present,
seated at the other side of Hilda, on whom he was bestowing a good
deal of attention. Miss Lorraine had given her little musical party a
fortnight earlier, and Guy had made Mr. Glynne's acquaintance. But the
new tutor did not seem to have made a more favourable impression on
him on that occasion than at first sight. Guy continued to find much
to ridicule in him. Perhaps the interest which Aldyth and her friends
manifested in Mr. Glynne, and their enthusiasm about the lectures,
kindled in Guy some unconscious jealousy.
The lecturer had stepped on to the low platform; he had placed his
manuscript on the reading desk, and was about to begin his lecture,
when the arrival of a late-comer created such a stir in the audience
as obliged him to wait for a few moments. A young lady, dressed in the
most extreme style of fashionable attire, came sweeping down the room.
She would have been pretty but for the elaborate "get up" by which
she endeavoured to attract attention to herself. The mass of light,
frizzy hair which shaded her eyes completely concealed any intellectual
attraction her countenance might possess, and the pearl powder lavishly
applied to it reduced her complexion to an unnatural deadness of hue,
and rendered invisible the quick changes of colour, the subtle play of
expression on which the charm of a woman's face largely depends.
But however others might criticize her, Miss Clara Dawtrey seemed fully
satisfied with the result of the pains devoted to her toilet. It gave
her pleasure to feel that all eyes were fixed on her as she passed down
the room, pushing her way to the front, though it was obvious that
there were no vacant seats in that direction. When at last she halted,
with a dramatic air of dismay, within a few paces of the lecturer,
a gentleman rose to give her his chair, and after a faint protest,
she dropped languidly into it. The lecturer, who had been somewhat
anxiously watching the movements of the young lady, cleared his brow
and began to address the audience.
"Well," whispered Kitty, in Aldyth's ear, "I do hope Clara Dawtrey is
satisfied with the sensation she has created. The idea of her coming to
literature lectures!"
But Aldyth's eyes were on Mr. Glynne, and she was too anxious to lose
no word to pay much heed to Kitty.
John Glynne was a good speaker. He had a full, deep, musical voice.
He began his lecture in a calm, quiet manner, which was nevertheless
impressive. But as he went on, he soon began to display the fire and
energy of one who was keenly interested in the subject with which he
had to deal. He was a young man, and might be expected to display
some timidity in addressing a strange audience; but his manner was
singularly fearless and unaffected. He appeared too much in earnest to
be troubled with self-consciousness.
Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh, no matter what
the subject, and that one lecture was, to Aldyth Lorraine at least, a
revelation of the man. It showed her that John Glynne was a religious
man—religious in the highest and deepest meaning of the term, a
large-hearted man, to whom all life was dear, one who could enjoy much,
but one ever actuated by a strong, inflexible sense of duty.
The first lecture was introductory, dealing with the general character
of the poetry of the age preceding the era of Wordsworth and Coleridge.
There were a few earnest words concerning poetry, which stirred
Aldyth's heart with delight.
"I will not attempt a definition of poetry," the lecturer said. "All
definitions are alike inadequate; the subtle essence which makes the
preciousness of poetry seems to escape us when we try to define it.
But let it be said, once for all, that that cannot be poetry which is
artificial in its nature, stilted, and affected. True poetry has an
intimate relation to human life. It appeals to every heart of man,
to the wayfarer as well as to the scholar; it touches the simplest
details of homely life; it illumines the joys and sorrows which are the
heritage of our common humanity. What would our life be worth if there
were no poetry in it?
"Yet, even now, there are those who regard the poets as dreamers, and
depreciate their value in comparison with that of the so-called 'men of
action.' Dreamers! Yea, verily; but their visions uplift and strengthen
us, and make our life more beautiful because more true. 'We are such
stuff as dreams are made of.' We 'live in dreams;' and who shall say
how much the great heroes of history and men of action in all ages have
owed to the 'vision glorious' by which their poets stimulated them to
noblest endeavour! Poetry is the highest possible expression of truth,
and the true poet is the seer, the inspirer, the teacher of men. Let no
one fear that the study of poetry will unfit men for practical life; it
should rather make life more real and earnest, as it reveals the grand
and the awful possibilities that lie before every soul of man."
Aldyth listened with joy to these words. Was the lecturer conscious of
the soft liquid glow in the grey eyes fixed so earnestly on him? Did he
see how absolutely beautiful Aldyth's countenance became as it caught
and reflected his thought? Yes, for now and again his eyes met the full
flash of glad intelligence that leaped into Aldyth's, and he spoke the
better for knowing that he had one perfect listener.
The lecture over, the stir and bustle of departure arose in the hall.
Everybody was discussing the lecture, and the general feeling seemed
one of satisfaction. Guy Lorraine indeed yawned and stretched himself,
and professed to be glad that the lecture was ended, thereby exciting
the indignation of Hilda Bland, whose reproofs he seemed to enjoy.
"I am glad you were pleased," he said, "but for my part, I found it
dull."
"Dull! I cannot believe you," said Hilda. "It was the greatest
intellectual treat I have had for a long time."
"Well, I do not profess to be intellectual," replied Guy, drawing
himself up to his full height, and looking as if he prided himself on
the fact. "I suppose you are going to write the essay for Mr. Glynne."
"I shall try, certainly," said Hilda, "and I hope Aldyth will. I cannot
answer for Kitty."
"I should think you might," said Kitty, overhearing her words. "I write
an essay on the 'Character of Eighteenth Century Poetry'! I should pity
Mr. Glynne if he had to read it. No, I am like you, Guy. I go in for
what is practical. I am not a bookworm, like Hilda and Aldyth."
"Kitty, how can you talk like that after what you have heard to-night?"
cried Hilda, in a tone of disgust.
But Kitty only laughed, and said that though she had enjoyed the
lecture, she was not prepared to give her days and nights to the study
of poetry for the sake of Mr. Glynne or any one else.
Clara Dawtrey was professing herself delighted with the lecture in loud
tones, intended to reach the ear of the lecturer. But she saw to her
annoyance that he was paying no attention to her. He had stepped from
the platform and, having shaken hands with Miss Lorraine and received
her congratulations, he was leaning across a bench to talk to her niece.
Aldyth's face still wore the glow of excitement. She was looking her
best at that moment, when her face was radiant with spiritual light.
Clara saw the beauty, and it vexed her. She could have given no good
reason for disliking Aldyth, but dislike her she did. Perhaps she was
dimly conscious of the contrast that Aldyth in her simplicity and
refinement presented to herself. Perhaps it was because Aldyth belonged
to a different set—for the society of Woodham, like that of most little
country towns, was composed of several cliques—and she suspected her
of looking down upon herself. But she had no cause to think so of
Aldyth. Kitty and Hilda Bland had not always been careful to veil their
scorn of Clara Dawtrey's vulgarity and fastness; but Aldyth invariably
treated the girl withe faultless though distant courtesy.
It annoyed Clara that Mr. Glynne should stand talking to Aldyth for
some minutes.
"It is easy to see that Miss Aldyth Lorraine means to be Mr. Glynne's
pet pupil," she observed to a young man with whom she was talking. "I
write papers? No, thank you. I have no wish to compete with Miss Aldyth
Lorraine."
Mr. Greenwood had invited Mr. Glynne to sup at his house after the
lecture,—suppers, and not late dinners, were the fashion at Woodham.
Mrs. Greenwood, who had no daughter, was pressing Miss Lorraine to come
with Aldyth and make the supper more cheerful. Miss Lorraine yielded
to her persuasions, so Clara Dawtrey, lingering about the hall to the
last, had the chagrin of seeing Aldyth walk down the High Street to the
banker's house accompanied by John Glynne, who sheltered her with his
umbrella from the slight shower that was falling.
"Mr. Glynne," said Aldyth, as they walked together, "I am so glad you
said what you did about poetry to-night. So many persons have the idea
that poetry renders us dreamy and unpractical. Even my aunt, though, as
you know, she is no enemy to culture, talks in that way sometimes. And
Mrs. Bland vexes Hilda by trying to check her love of poetry; she seems
to think it makes her sentimental and idle. And really Hilda is rather—"
Aldyth broke off suddenly. Loyalty to her friend seemed to forbid her
to speak of her defects.
"I am glad you think I spoke to the point," said John Glynne, without
appearing to observe Aldyth's abrupt pause. "Perhaps it is my mission
here to teach some of my hearers the right use of poetry. Like every
other blessing, it may be misused. It is the wine of life; but we may
let it strengthen only our selfishness and vanity. There is always
danger to the reflective mind of becoming absorbed in abstractions
and notions which are never made fruitful—in a word, of cherishing
sentimentality instead of true sentiments."
"That is it," said Aldyth, eagerly; "you have expressed what I have
often thought."
"Yes," continued John Glynne, thoughtfully. "Poetry should not make us
dreamy, useless, inert; it should rather stimulate us to the highest
service, by making clear to us the true meaning of life—that man's
blessedness does not consist in any material happiness, but in service,
in doing his duty."
"Duty, ah, yes," said Aldyth, earnestly. "Do you know, I think I am
beginning to understand the meaning of Wordsworth's 'Ode to Duty.' It
used to puzzle me, but now I see the beauty of those words—
"'Nor know we anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face.'"
They were passing beneath a street lamp, and looking up, Aldyth caught
the strange, wistful glance with which her companion regarded her, ere
he said, in low, grave tones—
"Are you indeed beginning to understand it? It takes a deal of
learning. No one can rightly understand the poem who has not realized
the whole force of that word 'stern' that the poet so aptly uses—'stern
daughter,' 'stern lawgiver,' nor how essential to the bondman of duty
is 'the spirit of self-sacrifice.'"
He spoke so seriously that Aldyth felt awed, and for a moment the
gladness of her mood was checked. Would a time come in her life when
Duty would wear no smile up her face, but assume the attitude of a
stern, inexorable lawgiver, demanding the renunciation of happiness?
They were at Mr. Greenwood's house. The light from the opening door
fell on Aldyth's face, and showed the shadow there. But as she met John
Glynne's quick comprehensive glance and reassuring smile, the shadow
vanished, and Aldyth ran lightly up the steps.
CHAPTER V.
A DAY AT WYNDHAM HALL.
ALDYTH and Hilda were very busy during the next few days. They were
writing their essays on the "Characteristics of Eighteenth Century
Poetry," and whenever they met, they discussed the subject, and
manifested considerable excitement as to the result of their work.
Hilda, indeed, was so absorbed in this new interest that Kitty
laughingly declared that she was lost to the nineteenth century, and
would have been oblivious of every duty she owed to her contemporaries
if she had not looked after her.
"It is well I am a prosaic mortal," Kitty would say as she arranged
flowers, watered the plants in the conservatory, and attended to the
various little details on which the beauty and comfort of a home
depend; "not a room in the house would be fit to be seen if they were
left to Hilda."
And Hilda would smile dreamily, and, with an untroubled conscience,
devote all her time to reading and study. Kitty liked active duties,
she had no intellectual tastes; why should Hilda interfere to prevent
her performing as many such duties as possible?
Aldyth had no sister to relieve her of unwelcome tasks, and Miss
Lorraine, who was so much engaged outside her home, expected her niece
to assist her in domestic matters. Aldyth did not let her interest
in the literature lectures lead her to slight these. Each duty was
conscientiously discharged, but, by rising early and making the most of
every opportunity, she managed to secure time for reading and writing.
Mr. Glynne's second lecture, which described the influence of the
French Revolution on English literature, was even more interesting
than the former one had been. Aldyth's paper was returned to her with
a few words of commendation written on it. Hilda's, too, was marked
"good," but it was criticized as being rather too diffuse, and in some
respects not to the point. Hilda, who had spent hours over her essay,
and flattered herself that it was well done, was disappointed to find
it unequal to Aldyth's.
"Aldyth's is the best essay," said Kitty to Miss Lorraine, as they
met near the door of the hall. She spoke in loud, clear tones, as she
generally did, and her words were heard by Clara Dawtrey, to whom Miss
Lorraine had just been speaking.
"That Miss Aldyth Lorraine should stand first is only what one would
expect," Clara remarked with a simper.
Kitty gave her rather a haughty look of inquiry. But Miss Dawtrey had
turned to greet an acquaintance, and Kitty's look was apparently lost
on her.
"Now what did she mean by that, I wonder?" said Kitty, lowering her
voice.
"I am sure I cannot say," replied Miss Lorraine, rather belying her
words the next moment, however, by remarking, "I hope there will be
no nonsense of that kind. There never was such a place for gossip as
Woodham."
John Glynne no longer felt himself a stranger to people who gathered to
hear him lecture. The society of a small country town is not usually
reluctant to show hospitality to a young man of good family and high
personal credentials, and Woodham was no exception to this rule.
The young tutor sometimes was embarrassed by the number of invitations
he received, and had to use considerable tact in order to avoid
offending any of the many persons who wished for the pleasure of his
acquaintance. His frank, genial manner and good spirits made him
popular in every home. He was not musical in the ordinary sense of the
term; but he could appreciate good music, and so was a welcome addition
to the musical parties for which the little town was famous.
There were two houses in which John Glynne felt perfectly at home,
and an invitation to either was most acceptable to him. These were
Mrs. Bland's and Miss Lorraine's. His lodgings being close by in the
Longbridge Road, it was easy to drop into either. Needless to say, good
Mrs. Bland's heart went out towards the lonely young man, and for the
sake of his absent mother, she showed him many a motherly kindness. And
he enjoyed the life and freedom he found in her home. He was sure that
his sister would like the girls. Aldyth Lorraine, too; Mary could not
help liking her. She was somehow different from any girl he had ever
met before.
John Glynne little suspected that he never ran up the Blands' steps
or stopped in the High Street to speak to the Bland girls or their
friend Aldyth, without a pair of keen, dark eyes noting that he did
so. The eyes were those of the Blands' neighbour, Miss Tabitha Rudkin,
an elderly maiden lady, grand-aunt to Clara Dawtrey. Her house stood
opposite to Mrs. Bland's, just at the bend of the High Street, where a
narrow lane ran into it, and was so built that the windows commanded
two directions. The use which its occupant made of these windows had
led the Bland girls to name the house the "Observatory." Nothing that
happened in the High Street could escape the observation of Miss Rudkin
and her hired companion, Miss Purkiss.
In her way Miss Rudkin was a power in the little town, but, alas! it
was a power for evil. She was one of those unhappy spinsters who have
brought a slur upon the character of elderly single women. Of cold,
selfish nature and ill-disciplined mind, without occupation or any
close ties of affection, she had grown more and more unamiable, more
suspicious, more prone to believe the worst of her fellow mortals
with advancing years. Although it was no kindly interest she took in
her neighbours, the interest was intense. No one knew so much as Miss
Rudkin about all that happened or might happen at Woodham. She was the
most arrant gossipmonger in the place, if, indeed, she might not be
described as manufacturer of that commodity. All those who had a relish
for the latest piece of scandal, and could enjoy hearing the character
of a neighbour pulled to pieces, without being particular as to the
accuracy of the statements made, were wont to frequent Miss Rudkin's
house; and many others paid her attention, not because they liked her,
but because they feared her.
It was said that long, long ago, when Miss Tabitha Rudkin was young,
and perhaps good-looking, there had been a talk of her marrying Stephen
Lorraine. No one knew more than that there had been "something between
them"; no one could explain why the marriage had never taken place; but
it was certain that Miss Rudkin had still considerable influence over
old Stephen Lorraine.
Whether he were actuated by a sense of having wronged her in the past,
or whatever the motive, he invariably treated her with great respect.
On no day did he drive down the town without drawing up for a minute at
Miss Rudkin's door to inquire after her health, or leave some little
present of game or fruit. Not seldom he would go in to have a chat with
her, and gather information concerning the townspeople, for he, too,
had an appetite for gossip. It sometimes happened that these visits
produced results exceedingly annoying to Miss Lorraine, who had never
liked the Rudkins.
Aldyth's life had never been more busy or more full of interest than
it was now. It seemed to Miss Lorraine, as she watched her niece with
loving eyes, and marked the fresh animation in her look and bearing,
that Aldyth was daily growing prettier. There is, indeed, no beautifier
of the human face like the glow imparted to it by a noble, spiritual,
and intellectual life. High thoughts leave their impress, and a pure,
unselfish spirit will illumine the homeliest features.
Three lectures had been given, and Aldyth was looking forward with
great interest to the fourth, which was to treat of Wordsworth's work
as a poet. It was Tuesday morning, and having completed her round of
domestic duties, Aldyth sat down to finish the paper she was writing
for Mr. Glynne. She was just fairly launched into her task when she
heard her aunt calling to her from below—
"Come down, Aldyth; Guy is here."
Aldyth laid down her pen with a sigh, and ran to obey the summons.
Guy was chatting with Miss Lorraine in the dining room. His dog-cart
stood outside the house, with a boy holding the somewhat spirited
horse. Since he appeared at the first lecture, Guy had not taken the
trouble to attend another, but he had happened to be at Woodham on each
Thursday evening, and the Blands had found him waiting on the steps of
the Town Hall, apparently for the pleasure of watching the audience
disperse.
"Guy has come to take us to Wyndham for the day," said Miss Lorraine,
as Aldyth entered; "uncle wishes to see us."
Aldyth felt a pang of disappointment. The work in which she was so
interested must be put aside, for Miss Lorraine always regarded her
uncle's wishes as commands, and only absolute necessity would have led
her to decline this invitation. But Aldyth would not allow it to be
seen that she would prefer to remain at home.
"Thank you, Guy," she said brightly; "it is a lovely day for Wyndham. I
suppose you would like us to get ready at once?"
"If you please," said Guy. "You will want your habit, Aldyth. Uncle has
bought a new mare, one that carries a lady beautifully, and you are to
try her paces this afternoon, if you will."
Aldyth's eyes brightened. She was fond of riding, and the prospect of
the new mare was delightful. She ran to get ready, but, even with such
a pleasure in anticipation, she cast a regretful glance at the books
and papers scattered on her writing-table.
In a short time they were on their way to Wyndham. Aldyth sat on the
back seat of the dog-cart, and was content to let the other two do the
talking. For nearly five miles they followed the Longbridge Road, a
dreary road, running on a dead level all the way, with nothing to break
the monotony of flat fields save an occasional cottage, or a windmill
slowly revolving its long arms. But it was a lovely October day. There
was a crisp freshness in the air without its being cold. The sun was
shining on the stubble fields and on the brown mud and gleaming water
of the distant estuary. The hedges were bright with scarlet rose-hips,
an abundance of haws, russet leaves, and here and there rich clusters
of blackberries. Aldyth's eyes were quick to discern beauty wherever it
lurked. She loved the country at all seasons and under all aspects. She
had travelled little, and she often longed to visit the most beautiful
parts of the world; but whilst she waited for the realization of this
desire, she missed none of the beauty which Nature lavishes on every
spot of earth.
As they approached Wyndham, Guy turned his horse sharply from the main
road, and they entered upon a long carriage drive which crossed two
fields. The gates were set open in anticipation of their arrival, and
they drove straight on through a rather gloomy shrubbery till they
emerged in front of a long, low, white house. A lawn stretched to the
right of it, with flower-beds, rather untidily kept, and to the left
lay a round pond with the broad leaves of water-lilies floating on its
surface. At the sound of wheels, several dogs came running from the
back of the house, barking joyously. They knew Aldyth well, and she
called them by their names, and laughed as they made frantic efforts to
spring up at the back of the dog-cart.
The commotion soon brought out the squire to welcome his guests. He
was a fine old man, wonderfully upright and vigorous for his years. He
wore a shabby velveteen shooting jacket, and on his head a soft black
velvet cap, which he was scarcely ever known to lay aside. The hair
which fell beneath it and almost touched his shoulders was snowy white,
in vivid contrast to his cheek which had a ruddy glow like that of a
winter apple, and testified to a life spent largely in the open air;
his blue eyes were keen and bright; he had a large, handsome nose, a
think-lipped, tightly-closed mouth, and a round, cleanly-shaven chin.
His eyes shone with their kindliest light as he grasped Aldyth's hand
and helped her to spring from the dog-cart, while the others drove
round to the front door.
"So you've come, miss," he said. "Why did you make me send for you? It
seems you have no leisure to visit your poor old uncle nowadays."
"Indeed, uncle, we have talked of coming, but we have been very busy
lately."
"Busy! Pooh! What can you have to be busy about, I should like to know?"
"Well, uncle, you know we are having literature lectures now at
Woodham, and I have to study hard in order to get all the good that I
can from them."
An impatient frown came to the old man's face.
"Lectures! Pshaw! What good can they do you?"
"A great deal, I think, uncle," said Aldyth, cheerfully; "I am learning
many things I did not know before."
"Rubbish. You know enough. Did you not go to a first-class school?"
"Yes, uncle; but whilst I was there, I had little time for studying
poetry."
"What do you want to study poetry for? It will only put ideas into your
head that are better out of it. I never studied poetry or attended
lectures, and I have got on very well without doing so."
It was difficult to reply to this emphatic statement. Aldyth left it
undisputed, and turned to caress one of the dogs.
Miss Lorraine received but a cold greeting from her uncle; but she
expected no other. Their intercourse had never been cordial since
the time when he thought fit to disinherit the brother whom she
passionately loved. Miss Lorraine took her brother's part, and had
tried to make peace for him with her uncle; but she had only received
the not infrequent reward of the peacemaker—her uncle's displeasure had
been extended to her.
His love for Aldyth, and Miss Lorraine's love for both the children
who claimed her affection, had tended to patch up this breach; but
the patching was frail, and Miss Lorraine was ever aware that her
uncle regarded her with coldness and suspicion. But for Aldyth's
sake, she strove to preserve a friendly footing at the Hall, and was
punctiliously attentive to her uncle's wishes.
These visits to the Hall were seldom agreeable to her. She was not
afraid of the old man, but she could not enjoy his society. She
believed that he took a secret pleasure in annoying her. He certainly
had a knack of "rubbing her the wrong way," and sometimes he irritated
her to such an extent that it was all she could do to resist the
temptation to give him "a piece of her mind."
During luncheon the talk was about the mare which Aldyth was presently
to mount. She knew that her uncle had purchased the animal entirely for
her benefit, and she was grateful to him.
"It is very good of you, uncle, to give me so much pleasure," she said.
"Pooh, pooh!" he returned. "One must have a decent horse or two in
one's stables, and as you like riding, you may as well ride her. Brown
Bess is getting a little too old and staid for your ladyship!"
It was the very day for a ride; Aldyth was longing to be in the saddle.
Soon after luncheon the horses were brought round. The new mare was a
beautiful creature, pale-chestnut in hue, with one snowy fore-foot.
Miss Lorraine, who flattered herself she knew something of horses, was
loud in her admiration of her uncle's purchase. Stephen Lorraine said
little in reply; but his face was bright with pleasure as he caught the
look of Aldyth's. He came down the steps and assisted Aldyth to spring
into the saddle.
"It is your right, I know, Guy," he said; "but you let an old man
forestall you for once."
Guy laughed carelessly as he mounted his own steed.
Aldyth was a good rider, and she looked her best on horseback. The dark
blue habit showed to perfection her graceful figure, and set off the
pure paleness of her complexion. Her eyes shone with happiness, and
there was a glad ring her voice as she bade good-bye to the two who
stood on the steps to watch her ride away with Guy. Miss Lorraine felt
less cheerful as she looked forward to spending the afternoon alone
with her uncle.
"She is a dear girl," he remarked as his eyes followed two riding down
the drive; "and she is growing a handsome girl. They make a fine pair.
There will not be a better-matched couple in Essex."
Miss Lorraine turned a startled look upon him.
He met her glance, and arrested it for a moment with his keen old eyes.
"Yes," he said, significantly, "I mean it. Of course those two will
marry. You cannot suppose that I contemplate anything else?"
Miss Lorraine grew hot and then cold. She was not exactly surprised. It
was rather the realization of a dread that had long haunted her mind.
"The question is rather—what does Guy contemplate?" she said, quickly.
"Oh, as to that," said her uncle, coolly, "where could he find a more
charming wife than Aldyth would make him? And would it not be the best
thing possible for her?"
Miss Lorraine did not reply. As she followed her uncle across the
wide oaken hall, she said to herself that many women would like to be
the mistress of such a fine old house. What better position could she
desire for Aldyth than that which she would win if she married her
cousin, the heir of Wyndham? And yet there was something repugnant to
her in the idea. Guy did not seem to her to possess the qualities that
could make him a good husband for Aldyth.
They went back into the dining room. It was a large, handsome room; but
its dark oaken furniture, dark hangings, and dark carpet made it appear
gloomy. The whole house, indeed, had the dingy, uncared-for look that
a home generally gets that has no lady as its presiding genius. The
drawing room, a long, narrow room facing the garden, was rarely used.
Old Stephen stirred the fire into a blaze, seated himself in his
armchair, folded his hands before him, and looked deliberately at his
niece.
"You do not like the idea, it seems; but what better thing could there
be for Aldyth?"
"That depends on how she would regard it," said Miss Lorraine, drily.
"She has no fortune," he continued, without heeding his niece's words.
"Her mother has given her up; but if she had not done so, she has
nothing to leave her daughter."
"Aldyth will not be penniless," said her aunt, quietly. "All that I
have to leave will be hers when I am no more."
Stephen Lorraine made no comment on this statement. Evidently he
thought the £300 a year Miss Lorraine had inherited from her father a
poor thing in comparison with the joint possession of Wyndham and the
fortune he had accumulated.
"It seems to me," said Miss Lorraine, with sudden boldness, "it seems
to me a dangerous thing to make plans of this kind. If the two are
drawn to each other, all well and good; but you cannot be sure that
Aldyth would be Guy's choice, or, supposing it were so, that she could
love him."
"Nonsense!" said the old man sharply. "I tell you she does love him.
She'll be all right if you do not stuff her head with rubbish. What's
all this about the literature lectures? Who's that young fellow they
tell me is constantly at your house?"
Miss Lorraine coloured.
"Oh, Tabitha Rudkin!" she said within herself. "This is your doing."
But she replied calmly—
"I suppose you mean Mr. Glynne, the gentleman who is giving the
lectures. He is not more often at my house than he is at other
people's. He is a young man of good family, well-bred and highly
cultured. I went to school with his mother."
"Whose nonsensical idea was it having these lectures? What good can
they do?"
Miss Lorraine thought it vain to argue that question with her uncle.
"Aldyth enjoys them," she said; "she is very fond of poetry."
"More's the pity," returned the old man. "I don't approve of stuffing a
girl's head with poetry and rubbish! There's Byron, for instance. Now
what good can it do a girl to read Byron, I should like to know?"
Miss Lorraine was silent. She thought it probable that Byron was the
only poet with whose writings her uncle was acquainted; but she did not
dare to hint that he was perhaps hardly competent to judge of the value
of poetry.
"No," he added; "I object to those lectures. They will do her no good.
Tell her so from me; tell her that I wish her to give them up."
"Uncle!" His niece looked blankly at him. She could hardly believe that
he was in earnest.
"I mean it," he said; "I wish her to give them up. Guy does not care
for them; he does not attend them, and I would rather she did not."
"But Aldyth cares very much for them," said her aunt. "You cannot think
what a disappointment it would be to her."
"Nonsense!" he said impatiently. "Aldyth is a good girl; she will do
what I wish. You tell her what I say—do you hear?"
"I hear, certainly," said Miss Lorraine, greatly annoyed, "but I think
you had better speak to her about it yourself."
"You refuse to do so?"
Miss Lorraine hesitated.
"I would rather not," she said; "but if you insist upon it, I will."
"Very well, then; I do insist upon it. Now I shall see whether Aldyth
really cares to please me. There has been talk about her at Woodham
which has displeased me. I wish to put it down."
"Oh, Tabitha Rudkin!" inwardly groaned Miss Lorraine.
Stephen Lorraine said little more to his niece as they sat together.
Presently he took up his newspaper, and nodded a little behind it,
though he would have scouted the idea of sleeping in the afternoon.
She sat knitting diligently, but stealing many a glance the while at
the clock on the mantelpiece. She hated the disagreeable task imposed
on her. What would Aldyth say? At last the long, dull afternoon wore to
its close, and she heard Aldyth's happy voice as she dismounted at the
front door.
CHAPTER VI.
DISAPPOINTMENT.
ALDYTH came in fresh and bright from her ride, and her entrance seemed
to bring a breath of new life into the dreary old house. She was
delighted with the mare, and declared that she had never enjoyed a ride
more. Guy, too, seemed in the best of spirits.
"We mean to ride twice a week, Cousin Lucy," he said. "We must get the
Blands to join us sometimes. Hilda could ride Brown Bess."
"Hilda is nervous on horseback," said Miss Lorraine. "Kitty would enjoy
it more."
"Kitty—oh, Kitty is afraid of nothing!" said Guy, lightly. "We could
easily find a mount for her. But Hilda is not so nervous as you think.
I am sure she would not be afraid to ride Brown Bess."
"I dare say not, if you were at hand to take care of her," said Aldyth,
merrily.
Guy coloured slightly.
The evening passed pleasantly away. Nothing more was said about the
lectures. The cousins were in the gayest mood, and old Stephen's eyes
twinkled with amusement as he listened to their merry talk. It seemed
to him that things were just as they should be, and he had not a doubt
that the last, and perhaps the strongest, desire that his imperious
will had conceived would be realized without difficulty.
Miss Lorraine was unusually silent during the remainder of her visit,
but only her uncle, who had reason to know that she was not well
pleased, observed her silence.
The night was so chill that the closed carriage—a very antiquated
vehicle, which Guy was wont to designate as the "bathing machine,"—was
ordered to convey the ladies back to Woodham.
"Let us see you again soon, Aldyth," said her uncle, in the best of
humours as he kissed her. "Remember that your steed will need frequent
exercise, or she will get too skittish even for so good a horsewoman as
you are. What are you going to name her, by the by?"
"Oh, am I to give her a name? You should do that, I think, uncle."
"Not I; she is yours to all intents and purposes. You do not expect me
to mount her?"
"No, indeed; I think she would hardly carry you," said Aldyth, smiling.
"But you are too good to me; you spoil me with kindness. Well, I must
think of a name for her. I have a great mind to call her Pansy; she is
so glossy and bright."
"Pansy! That's the same as Heartsease, is it not? Not a bad name for
her mistress, eh, Guy? But come, sir; surely you are going to escort
these ladies to Woodham?"
"Oh, I don't mind if I do," said Guy, who had evidently not intended to
accompany them.
"Mind, indeed!" repeated his uncle.
"I mean, I shall be happy to do so," he said.
"Ah, that's more like it," returned the old man.
"Pray do not trouble yourself to be so polite, Guy," said Aldyth.
"It is absurd to talk of an escort, when we have old John on the box
to take care of us," called out Miss Lorraine, who had taken her place
within the carriage.
But Guy seemed now to wish to come. "Wait one moment," he cried, and
ran back into the house. In a minute he returned, carrying a long,
odd-shaped bundle, wrapped in newspaper, which he laid carefully on the
seat before him as he took his place.
"Whatever precious thing have you there, Guy?" asked Aldyth, as they
drove off.
Guy looked slightly embarrassed by the question. He unrolled the paper
a little, and displayed a number of fine bulrushes.
"I thought I would leave these for Hilda Bland," he said, awkwardly.
"She was wanting some the other day, and asked me where they could be
found. I got these down Pentlow way; there's some marshy land there."
"It is good to be Hilda," said Aldyth. "You never get bulrushes for me,
Guy."
"I did not know you cared about them," he said.
Aldyth laughed mischievously. Guy's colour rose. Miss Lorraine looked
from one to the other with an air of bewilderment.
"Don't forget to leave the bulrushes," were Aldyth's parting words to
her cousin, as she sprang out of the carriage at her aunt's gate.
"I believe you want me to give you some of them, but I will not," he
said. He got back into the carriage, having declined an invitation to
enter the house, and drove off.
Aldyth came in, looking highly amused.
"What is it?" asked her aunt, seeing the fun sparkling in her eyes.
"What is all this about Hilda and Guy? You surely do not think that
there is anything between them?"
"What do you mean by anything, auntie?" asked Aldyth, laughing.
"Anything serious—anything more than silly trifling."
"It is difficult to imagine Guy serious about anything," said Aldyth;
"but he really seems to have a great fancy for Hilda, and, what
surprises me more, she appears to be falling in love, or fancies that
she is, with him."
"Goodness me! You do not mean to tell me that, Aldyth?" exclaimed Miss
Lorraine.
"Why, auntie, you look quite shocked. Do you think it would be a bad
thing? I certainly think Hilda might do better. I cannot help being
amused by it—Guy is odd and Hilda so romantic; still, it is not a thing
to make fun of, I know."
"Certainly it is not," said Miss Lorraine, with a severity of tone that
surprised her niece. "There would be a terrible to-do if such a thing
were to happen. No, no, depend upon it, Guy is only trifling, Aldyth.
Don't you do anything to encourage it."
"I should not think of doing so," said Aldyth, looking troubled in her
turn. "Do you suppose that uncle would dislike it?"
"Dislike is not the word," replied her aunt; "he would be simply
furious. But why do you say that Hilda might do better, Aldyth? Guy
would make a good husband."
"Would he?" said Aldyth, doubtfully. "But surely not for Hilda. They
have scarcely anything in common. I cannot understand how she can care
for him."
"That is hardly a kind thing to say of your cousin, Aldyth."
"Oh, I do not mean it unkindly. I am fond of Guy," said Aldyth,
innocently; "but I cannot help wishing he were rather different. I do
not think he is the one for Hilda."
"How about yourself?" thought Miss Lorraine. And she sighed, feeling
oppressed by a sense of coming troubles, which she had no power to
avert.
Aldyth was busy arranging in a vase some flowers she had brought from
Wyndham. She looked so happy as she bent over them, her long, slender
fingers giving a touch to this stalk, or a pull to that leaf till she
had got just the effect she desired, that Miss Lorraine shrank more
than ever from the task of communicating Uncle Stephen's wish. But it
had to be done.
"Aldyth," she said at last, "you will be dreadfully vexed at what I
have to tell you; but it's not my fault. Your uncle has taken a strong
dislike to the idea of these lectures, and he wants you to give them
up."
"To give them up?" exclaimed Aldyth, flushing deeply in her surprise.
"To give up the literature lectures because he dislikes them? That is
most unreasonable."
"So I think," said Miss Lorraine; "but it was no use talking to uncle.
He thinks the only knowledge desirable for girls is how to make
puddings and keep a house in good order." And she repeated what Stephen
Lorraine had said about poetry.
Aldyth was too hurt to find amusement in his words, as under other
circumstances she might have done.
"And he asked you to tell me that he wishes me to give up the lectures?"
Her aunt nodded.
"I cannot see that he has any right to expect that I shall yield to his
wish in this matter," said Aldyth, decidedly. "It is not as if he had
any good reason to give. Why he wishes it I cannot imagine."
Miss Lorraine could understand it very well, but she was not going to
enlighten her niece.
"I do not care," said Aldyth, giving her head a little toss; "I shall
not give up the lectures. You cannot expect me to, aunt?"
"My dear, it would be very hard; but it is not wise, you know, to cross
your uncle's will."
Aldyth's face said plainly that she did not care whether it were wise
or not. She rose to bid her aunt good-night. All the brightness had
gone from her manner.
Miss Lorraine kissed her with more warmth than usual.
"I am as sorry as I can be," she said. "I felt quite angry with uncle.
It is a great pity, for Mr. Glynne's lectures are so good and you enjoy
them so much."
"But, I am not going to give them up," said Aldyth. "You need not speak
as if I were."
She went hastily from the room, that her aunt might not see the tears
that had risen in her eyes. Whether she continued to attend the
lectures or not, she felt that her enjoyment of them was spoiled.
As she entered her room, the sight of her writing-table reminded her
of the essay she had meant to finish on the morrow. Would it ever be
finished now? Oh, she wished she had not gone to Wyndham! The thought
of her uncle's kindness in giving her the beautiful horse grew bitter
to her. Since he had done so much to give her pleasure, had he not a
right to expect that she would do as he desired?
Yes; in her secret heart, Aldyth knew that she could not adhere to
her resolve and defy her uncle's anger. She knew it, but it came home
to her forcibly as she glanced at her mother's portrait. It was her
mother's wish that she should please her uncle. This was the most
severe test to which Aldyth's love for the mother she did not know had
ever been put. Her lips quivered as she looked at the beautiful face,
and the tears which had been slowly gathering, began to fall fast. Ah,
she was learning something now of the inexorable demands of duty! She
turned away, sobbing to herself—"If only I could tell her all about it,
if we could talk it over together! She would understand; she would help
me."
But Aldyth needed no further incentive. Her love had stood the test.
The voice of duty had not spoken in vain.
She came down to breakfast the next morning looking languid and
heavy-eyed. "Auntie," she said, directly they had greeted each other,
"I spoke too hastily last night. I was angry, but it is of no use to be
angry; I shall have to submit. Mother would not like me to do anything
that would vex uncle."
"No, she would not," said Miss Lorraine. "She thinks it of great
importance that you should keep in favour with your uncle. You are
acting in the way she would wish; but I am very sorry for you, my dear
child. I know it is a great disappointment."
Aldyth was silent. She did not care to talk about the disappointment.
What to many girls would have been but a trifling sacrifice of
inclination, was to her, with her keen intellectual tastes, a very
great loss.
"I suppose uncle would like me to give up the lectures also," said Miss
Lorraine, with a little laugh; "but happily he did not suggest such a
thing, for I am too deeply committed to the undertaking to abandon it
now. I expect he owes me a grudge for starting the idea."
"I think you may attend them with safety," said Aldyth, making an
effort to speak lightly. "There is little fear that the study of poetry
will unfit you for practical life, render you incapable of making a
pudding, for instance, if cook should fall ill."
Miss Lorraine laughed. "Men attach great importance to cookery," she
said. "Perhaps if Mr. Glynne were lecturing on that subject, uncle
would not object to your attending the lectures."
An hour later Kitty and Hilda Bland came in.
"Have you finished your essay, Aldyth?" Hilda asked.
"No," replied Aldyth.
"No? You are behindhand. I have written eighteen sheets. What length do
you think yours will be?"
"I do not know," said Aldyth, quickly; "I shall finish it for my own
satisfaction, but I shall not send it to Mr. Glynne. I am not going to
any more of the lectures."
"Aldyth! What do you mean?" exclaimed the sisters together. Their
astonishment could not have been greater.
"It is uncle's doing," said Aldyth, speaking with an effort. "He does
not approve of the lectures; he has desired me to give them up."
"I am sure I would not give up the lectures if I cared for them as you
do, Aldyth, for any cross-grained old uncle in the world," said Kitty,
warmly. "I call Mr. Lorraine a thorough tyrant."
"It is not for his sake so much as for my mother's," said Aldyth. "She
would not like me to vex uncle."
"I am afraid I should not respect my mother's wishes if she were all
those miles away," remarked Hilda. "You might write and ask her about
it, and by the time you got her reply, the lectures would be over."
Aldyth smiled. "Nonsense, Hilda," she said; "you would not do so if you
were in my place."
"But you could write the essays and send them to Mr. Glynne, if you did
not attend the lectures," said Hilda. "You shall have the benefit of my
notes. Come, you might do that, Aldyth."
Aldyth shook her head. "It would not be straightforward," she said. "It
would be obeying uncle in the letter but not in spirit. And I ought to
treat him better than that, for he is very good to me. Do you know he
has bought a beautiful chestnut mare on purpose for me to ride?"
"You don't mean it!" exclaimed Kitty. "Well, you are a lucky girl,
Aldyth. I would gladly give up the lectures if any one would give me
a horse—would not you, Hilda? Oh, I forgot you are such a goose on
horseback."
"Hilda must conquer her fears," said Aldyth, smiling, "for Guy has set
his heart on our making a riding party one of these days, and Hilda is
to ride Brown Bess."
Hilda's face flushed with pleasure. "Oh, I am not so nervous as I
used to be," she said, quickly, "and Brown Bess is such a steady old
creature. It is very kind of Guy to think of it. He is kind. Did you
see the lovely bulrushes he brought us last night, Aldyth?"
"Yes, they were fine ones," said Aldyth; "but now, Hilda, please
remember that since I am debarred from attending the lectures, I shall
rely on you to tell me all you can about them. I am afraid aunt's
memory is not very trustworthy where literature is concerned."
"I wonder what Mr. Glynne will think of your keeping away," said Kitty.
Aldyth winced at the remark. It was a thought which had occurred to her
many times already.
"Never mind," said Kitty, good-humouredly, as she read her face; "if I
have a chance, I will let him know that it's not your fault."
CHAPTER VII.
A MISCHIEF-MAKER.
ALDYTH was feeling more out of temper than perhaps she had ever
felt before. It was Thursday evening, and Miss Lorraine had gone to
the lecture, leaving her alone. She had yielded to her uncle's wish
from a sense of duty; but it was impossible to feel resigned to the
deprivation his absurd crotchet was causing her. The absurdity, the
unreasonableness of it struck Aldyth more and more as she sat dismally
picturing Kitty and Hilda and her other friends enjoying the lecture
from which she was shut out. She could settle to no occupation. It
was impossible to feel her former interest in the course of reading
prescribed by the lecturer. Needlework was still more distasteful. She
began a letter to her sister Gladys, the beautiful daughter of whom
her mother wrote with pride that she was creating quite a sensation
in Melbourne society; but Aldyth dropped her pen in the middle of a
sentence, and, springing up, began to poke the fire with far more
vigour than its condition demanded. It was of no use trying to think of
anything except the lecture from which she was so provokingly excluded.
Would Mr. Glynne observe her absence? she wondered, with a little sigh.
"Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice."
What brought the words to her mind at that moment? Truly she had little
of the spirit of self-sacrifice. Perhaps it was well that her will for
once should be thwarted, that she might learn to sacrifice her own
wishes without murmuring. John Glynne had been wise when he reminded
her that Duty would not always wear a smile upon her face. He was one
to obey Duty under any circumstances without a murmur. He was a strong
man. She knew instinctively that he had already sacrificed his own
inclinations many times for the sake of his mother. Would he, with his
rare abilities, have taken such a post as that he held in the Woodham
Grammar School, had he not been anxious by means of his salary to
increase the comfort of his mother's life?
Aldyth felt ashamed of herself as she thought of one so much nobler.
She turned to the piano, and began to practise diligently a difficult
passage in a sonata, but her thoughts were at the lecture the while.
The clock struck nine. Aunt Lucy should return soon, but she was one
of those persons on whose punctual return to their homes it is never
possible to depend. She would be sure to have much to say to everybody
when the lecture was over, and various things might happen to detain
her.
The neat little housemaid—Miss Lorraine was famous training young
housemaids, whom, when their education was completed, she passed on to
her friends—came to lay the supper, full of wonder why Miss Aldyth had
remained at home instead of going out with her aunt, as she usually did
on Thursday evenings. Just then the door-bell rang. Sarah hastened to
open the door, and returning, ushered into the room Mr. Glynne.
Aldyth was so taken by surprise that she coloured deeply as she
advanced to welcome the visitor. He was last person she expected to see
at that hour. He too seemed surprised to find her there alone, having
evidently passed the evening in solitude.
"Good evening, Miss Aldyth," he said, regarding her with grave,
searching eyes. "Have I arrived before Miss Lorraine? I thought I
should overtake her. She had left the hall when I came away."
"Perhaps she went into Mrs. Bland's," said Aldyth. "It is never certain
that aunt will come straight home. But she will be in directly, no
doubt, if you wish to see her."
"Oh, I was only going to ask her kindly to give you this," he replied,
producing from his coat-pocket a small, rather ancient-looking book;
"you said you would like to see it."
It was a copy of the first edition of the Lyrical Ballads, of which he
had become possessed. Aldyth was very pleased to see it, but she felt
rather shame-faced as she turned over the leaves.
"You were not at the lecture to-night," he said, a minute later. "There
is nothing amiss, I trust?"
"I am quite well, if that is what you mean," she replied, with nervous
quickness. "I am very sorry, Mr. Glynne; it is a great disappointment
to me; I shall not be able to attend any more of the lectures."
"Indeed!" he said, surprised in look and tone.
"Yes," said Aldyth, colouring deeply. "It is not my fault. I cannot
help myself in the matter. It is uncle—he thinks it is not good for
girls to study poetry. He thinks we should devote ourselves entirely to
cooking and housekeeping."
"What a barbarian!" he exclaimed, so seriously that Aldyth burst into a
laugh, and all her discontent seemed to melt away.
"Excuse me," he added, the next moment. "I ought not to speak so of
your uncle. But are you obliged to renounce the study of poetry because
he thinks in that way?"
"Yes," said Aldyth, firmly; "at least, I feel that I must give up the
lectures. It will seem strange to you, but there are reasons why I am
peculiarly bound to defer to Uncle Stephen's wishes."
"Is it so? Well, I am very sorry," he said, with sincere regret in his
tones. "Your papers were so good. Miss Hilda Bland took charge of the
one I returned this evening. It is marked 'Excellent,' like the others."
Aldyth's face glowed with pleasure.
"And now, I suppose, I must expect no more papers from you?" he added,
in a tone of vexation.
Aldyth hesitated, as she thought of Hilda's suggestion. It would have
been so easy to arrange still to write the papers. But after a moment
she answered "Yes."
He observed her closely for a few moments, then he said—
"Well, I shall know that you still take an interest in the lectures,
and I shall hope to see you sometimes and talk things over. But I wish
very much that your uncle were—different."
There was something so droll in the way he uttered the last word that
Aldyth laughed. She was feeling very happy just then, despite her
uncle's prohibition. Ere her laugh was over, Miss Lorraine came in, and
was surprised, and perhaps not altogether pleased, to find the lecturer
entertaining her niece. It was not that her liking for John Glynne had
diminished, but she had an uneasy consciousness that her uncle would
strongly object to Mr. Glynne's being there on such friendly terms.
Yet Miss Lorraine's hospitable feelings made it impossible for her to
refrain from asking the young man to remain and take supper with them.
The invitation was given so cordially that John Glynne accepted it
without hesitation, and Aldyth enjoyed a talk with him, which, she told
herself afterwards, was as good as hearing the lecture.
How Clara Dawtrey knew that John Glynne supped with the Lorraines
that night it would be difficult to say. But by some species of
espionage she discovered the fact, and reported it to her Aunt Tabitha.
Clara's powers of observation were on the alert where John Glynne was
concerned. She had set her heart on fascinating him, and pursued her
end with an unmaidenly freedom of action which excited disgust rather
than admiration in the mind of that gentleman.
But vanity rendered Clara obtuse in judging the effect of her
attractions. Mr. Glynne's grave politeness did not check her hopes;
his quiet, reserved manner did not restrain her from asking questions,
or making flattering personal remarks, which he found particularly
disagreeable. Clara had not a doubt that Mr. Glynne would find her
society as attractive, if not more so, as that of Aldyth Lorraine and
the Blands, if only she had more opportunities of impressing him with
her wit and gaiety and the charms in which she so confidently believed.
She certainly lost no chance of bringing these to bear on him.
She always contrived to secure a seat close to the platform and to
speak to him after each lecture, compelling him sometimes, when
there were students waiting to consult him, to break away from her
trivialities with scant courtesy. She managed to meet him almost every
day as he passed to and fro between his lodgings and the Grammar
School; she questioned his landlady concerning his habits; she
frequented every place where there was the least chance of seeing him.
In short, she pursued him to such an extent that John Glynne became as
anxious to avoid her as she was to meet him.
It was a sore vexation to poor Clara Dawtrey to see how quickly John
Glynne formed a friendship with Aldyth Lorraine and the Blands, whilst
towards her his manner continued only distantly polite. Her dislike for
these girls became more bitter. She had a malicious desire to annoy or
injure them in revenge for the indifference with which they regarded
her and the way in which, as it seemed to her, they monopolized John
Glynne.
One afternoon, Clara Dawtrey was at Cartmell's, the stationer's, one
of the most important shops in the High Street, and a grand centre for
gossip. There was a circulating library in connection with it. Clara
had just obtained a fresh novel, and was leaning on the counter in easy
conversation with Mr. Cartmell, when she saw John Glynne go past on his
bicycle. It was the Wednesday half-holiday, and he was off for a run
in the country. She saw him too late for any chance of a greeting, and
she was vexed with herself for lingering to talk with Mr. Cartmell, and
thus missing John Glynne, whom she must have met had she quitted the
shop a few minutes earlier.
She hurried out in time to see him go rapidly down the hill, almost
as far as the old church, and then turn to the right. He was going
down "the Hundreds," as the flat, uninteresting district lying to the
east of Woodham was termed, through which ran a good, level road.
Well, he could not be going far in that direction, and the November
afternoon was short. She might yet manage to meet him, and give him an
opportunity of admiring her appearance in the smart little crimson hat
she had lately received from London.
Clara's father was a solicitor, a man of somewhat ill-repute in his
profession, but well-to-do, and Clara, his favourite daughter, and
the only one who remained unmarried, had a liberal allowance for
her personal expenses. Yet, large as it was, her dressmaker's and
milliner's bills often outran it. Clara's mother had died when she was
a child, a fact Aldyth always remembered when others were disposed to
judge Clara harshly. Her father had not married again, and the girl
had grown up with little control save that of sisters as flighty and
heedless as herself. If she considered herself to have any duties,
they were such as made but the slightest demand upon her time, and she
seemed to have no idea of any higher aim in life than that of her own
gratification. Aldyth was perhaps right when, in her gentle charity,
she spoke of Clara as one to be pitied rather than blamed.
It was a mild November afternoon. Clara sauntered slowly down the hill,
and, turning to the left, came on to the bank of the river. It was a
tidal river, and when, as now, it was high water, the red roofs of the
houses and the barges on the river with their large ochre-coloured
sails gave to the little town somewhat of the appearance of a Dutch
village. The sky was grey but clear, and the subtle; melancholy charm
of autumn pervaded the scene; but Clara was not conscious of its
beauty as was Aldyth, who had just come out of one the cottages on
the shore, and stood gazing up the river. So true is it that the eye
perceives beauty only as the mind inspires its vision. Clara lacked the
imagination that can behold—
"A light that never was on sea or land."
[Illustration]
Aldyth heard a step on the shingle, but not till she turned rather
suddenly, remembering that she had several cottages to visit that
afternoon, did she see Clara. The girls came face to face within a few
feet of each other. Aldyth moved by with a bow and the words:
"A lovely afternoon, is it not?"
"Very," responded Clara, coolly.
She was annoyed that Aldyth passed without saying more.
"She need not avoid me as if I had the plague," she said to herself.
She looked after Aldyth with a dislike that was born of envy. Aldyth in
her simple serge suit and little felt hat looked such a lady that for
a moment Clara hated her new adornments, and felt that they were gaudy
and vulgar.
She wandered rather drearily by the river. In summer, when boating was
general, its banks presented a lively scene; but now there were few
boats out, the sunlight had faded, and a grey mist was beginning to
gather over the distant marshes. Clara hardly knew how to fill up the
time till she might expect John Glynne to be on his way home. She went
back into the High Street and made a large purchase of sweetmeats at
the chief confectioner's. Then a thought struck her. A road branched
off from the Hundreds into the Longbridge Road. Mr. Glynne would very
likely return to his lodgings by that. How annoying if she missed him
after all! There was nothing for it but to walk as far as the junction
of the two roads, and she started at once, much fearing she might be
too late.
She walked briskly, but ere she had reached the turning into the
Longbridge Road, she saw the individual she was anxious to meet. Could
anything be more provoking? He was not one. He had alighted from his
bicycle and was walking by the side of a lady. Could it be—yes—actually
it was—Aldyth Lorraine!
There she was walking by Mr. Glynne's side on the quiet country road,
and he was talking so earnestly to her that, despite the crimson
hat, Clara had almost passed ere he saw her, and then he clutched
mechanically at his cap, without seeming to have any clear notion to
whom he was bowing.
Aldyth had seen her. Clara felt sure that she coloured as she met her
glance, and no wonder.
Clara was scandalized. That Aldyth should be walking with Mr. Glynne in
that lonely part of the road was shocking to her, though assuredly had
Mr. Glynne overtaken her when she was there alone, she would not have
hesitated to walk back to Woodham with him.
Aldyth Lorraine, who was so good and proper! Who would believe it?
Of course it was a planned thing. Aldyth had seen him go down the
Hundreds, she had waited about and come down that road for the chance
of seeing him. Or else they had arranged to meet. Perhaps there was
some secret understanding between them. It became increasingly clear
to Clara that such must be the case, as, full of jealous rage and
mortification, she walked on, it being impossible to turn back and show
that she had been pursuing that road without a purpose.
After a few minutes, Clara ventured to look round. The straight, level
road was visible for some distance. The two she wished to watch had
almost reached the cottages. Ah, yes, they would part now. He was
remounting his bicycle; he was off, and Aldyth was left walking alone.
There was a gleam of malicious satisfaction in Clara's eyes as she
hastened back to Woodham by the Longbridge Road. It brought her out at
the head of the High Street within a stone's throw of the dwelling of
her amiable relative, Miss Tabitha Rudkin. Clara remembered that she
had not visited her aunt for many days. She would call on her now; she
had something to tell the old lady that would be sure to interest her.
Miss Rudkin's reception of her grand-niece was never gracious. Her
greeting was generally a string of reproaches for past neglect.
"You don't mean to say it is you, Clara?" she exclaimed, with affected
surprise. "I began to think I should never see you again. It would be
a poor thing for me if I depended on you to comfort and cheer me. I am
sure it is a month since you were here."
"Well, I'm here now, any way," said Clara, in a matter-of-fact tone,
debating with herself how quickly she could impart her intelligence and
make her escape. "How is your cough, aunt?"
"Much you care about my cough!" retorted her aunt. "What's that thing
you have on your head? Another new hat! Dear! Dear! Your father need be
rich to support your extravagance."
After a little of this delightful intercourse, Clara came to her point
by saying, "By the by, aunt, have you seen your friend Stephen lately?"
"Of whom do you speak in that disrespectful way?" demanded Miss Rudkin.
"Oh, you know," returned Clara, coolly, "Mr. Stephen Lorraine."
"I cannot see that it concerns you whether or not I have seen Mr.
Lorraine."
"No?" said Clara, indifferently. "Well, perhaps not. I only wanted to
know whether he had told you of Aldyth's engagement."
"Aldyth's engagement! Aldyth Lorraine engaged! Who says so?" asked the
old woman eagerly.
"I say so," boldly replied Clara; "I met her just now with Mr. Glynne
down in the Hundreds, and if they are not engaged, I do not know what
to think. You ask old Stephen, when next you see him, if Aldyth is not
engaged to Mr. Glynne."
"I shall ask him no such question. Mr. Glynne, indeed! She is to marry
Guy."
"So you've said before; but I do not believe it," returned Clara. "Of
course I only know what I saw this afternoon, but that is enough for
me."
She laughed gleefully as she spoke. She believed that she was getting
Aldyth into a scrape, and the thought revived her spirits. She bade
her aunt good-bye, and left her to ponder the matter. She had not a
doubt that what she had said about Aldyth would be repeated to Aldyth's
grand-uncle.
An hour later, Aldyth, as she sat drinking tea with her aunt, said
quietly: "I went down the Hundreds this afternoon to see old Adam
Drake. You know he likes me to call once a month for his club money. As
I was coming back, Mr. Glynne overtook me on his bicycle. He got off
and walked a little way with me. He has had bad news from home. His
sister is ill, and they are afraid it is scarlet fever."
"Scarlet fever!" exclaimed Miss Lorraine, in dismay. "What a trouble
that will be for poor Mrs. Glynne!"
"Yes; he seems very troubled on her account," said Aldyth; "and he is
afraid it may prevent his going home for Christmas."
"I should not wonder," said Miss Lorraine. "He must run no risk of
infection. And if he is wise, he will keep the matter to himself. The
very mention of scarlet fever by a school master is enough to raise a
panic amongst the parents."
"I said something of the kind to him," replied Aldyth with a smile,
"and he promised to be prudent. As he was telling me about it, we met
Clara Dawtrey, and she stared at me in such an insolent manner, that I
felt quite uncomfortable."
"Oh, my dear, you don't mean to say that Clara Dawtrey saw you with Mr.
Glynne!" exclaimed Miss Lorraine, in distressed tones. "Then your uncle
will hear of it."
"What if he does?" asked Aldyth, drawing herself up, whilst her eyes
suddenly flashed with pride. "Do you think I mind that uncle or any one
should know that I have been walking with Mr. Glynne?"
CHAPTER VIII.
GOSSIP AND MISCONCEPTION.
"MOTHER, is it true?" asked Charlie Bland, one afternoon in the
following week, as he burst into the dining room, swinging a strapful
of books. "Is it true that Mr. Glynne going to marry Aldyth?"
"My dear Charlie!" exclaimed his mother, looking up from her
letter-writing in the greatest astonishment. "Whoever told you such a
thing?"
"Oh, all the boys are talking about it. Tom Rudkin says he knows it's a
fact. And old Glynne is in an awfully jolly temper to-day."
Kitty dropped her novel, and burst into a fit of laughter.
"Oh, you ridiculous creatures!" she exclaimed. "What will you boys
conjure up next? You might have known it was not true, Charlie. If
Aldyth were engaged, should not we know it as soon as any one at
Woodham?"
"Well, I thought it could not be true," he replied, "but Tom Rudkin was
so positive."
"Here comes Aldyth," exclaimed Kitty, who was seated in the window.
"What fun! I shall ask her what she means by concealing her engagement
from us."
Mrs. Bland was looking vexed—too vexed to be amused. Tom Rudkin was
Clara Dawtrey's cousin, so it was easy to see in what quarter the
report had originated.
"Take care how you tell her, Kitty," she exclaimed, as Kitty rushed to
the door. "It will annoy her, I know."
"Talk of an angel, and her wings are heard," said Kitty, laughingly, as
she opened the door to her friend.
"You were talking of me? What have you been saying, I wonder?" said
Aldyth, as she came in. "Now, Charlie, you must be my friend, and tell
me all. What have they been saying about me?"
"That you are engaged to Mr. Glynne," blurted out Charlie.
Aldyth looked amazed for a moment, then her face flushed.
"Oh, Charlie! How can you?" cried Kitty. "We never said that, I'm sure.
It was your astonishing piece of news."
"What does he mean?" asked Aldyth, looking from one to the other in
embarrassment.
"You must not mind it, Aldyth, dear," said Mrs. Bland, kindly. "I do
believe boys are as fond of gossip as old maids. He has just brought us
that surprising piece of intelligence from school."
"Tom Rudkin declared it was true," said Charlie, sturdily.
"After that, my declaration that it is not will go for nothing, I am
afraid," said Aldyth, trying to laugh off her vexation, which was
evidently great. "I wish people would not be so wise concerning me."
"It is most annoying to have such things said," observed Kitty.
"Really, Woodham is a most detestable place for gossip."
"Come, come, child!" said her mother. "Don't run down your native
place. All little towns are pretty much the same, as far as gossip is
concerned."
"Of course it is easy to see who started this report," she added, as
Charlie disappeared from the room. "It originated over the way, no
doubt."
"That horrid old Tabitha!" exclaimed Kitty. "She is the bane of the
town. She ought to have been born a century earlier, when she might
have been drowned as a witch! Ne that I should wish her to be drowned:
but, you know, there really is something witch-like about her."
Aldyth could not help laughing at Kitty's ideas respecting Miss Rudkin.
"It's Clara Dawtrey's doing," Aldyth said. "She met me the other
day walking with Mr. Glynne. That was foundation enough for this
fabrication. Oh, dear! I should like to tell her what I think of it.
But it would do no good."
"No, no!" said Mrs. Bland. "The best way is to take no notice, and let
the report die a natural death."
The talk turned to other matters; but Mrs. Bland could see that
throughout her visit, Aldyth's mind was dwelling on the unpleasant fact
she had learned. Mrs. Bland was sorry for her, and indignant with Clara
Dawtrey. She knew that nothing is more trying for a girl, nothing more
prejudicial to her happiness, than to have her name thus coupled with
that of a gentleman whose friendship she values.
Two evenings later Kitty came in from attending a meeting of the
Woodham Sewing Club in a state of considerable excitement.
"What is the matter, Kitty?" asked her mother, for Kitty's face was
crimson, her eyes sparkling, and she burst into the room in a way which
showed no respect for the nerves of those who occupied it.
Hilda, who had been dreaming rather than reading as she sat by the
fire, looked up with a startled face.
"Oh, nothing," said Kitty, calming down as she saw the surprise she was
causing; "nothing, except that I have had it out with Clara Dawtrey,
and prevented her from telling any more stories about Aldyth."
"Kitty!" exclaimed Hilda. "Have you? Oh, do tell us!"
"Well, Clara, if you please, was at the meeting to-night. It is not
often she troubles herself to attend. She was helping Mrs. Rayner to
give out the work, and Miss Phipps was there too. The girls had gone,
and we were putting things away when I saw their heads all close
together, and heard Aldyth's name. Miss Clara did not mean me to hear,
but I caught a word or two, and I spoke out at once, and said there
was not an atom of truth in the report that Aldyth was engaged to Mr.
Glynne. I looked straight at Clara, and said that I believed the report
had originated with her; would she kindly tell me from whom she had
received the information? You should have seen how taken aback she
looked! She turned as red as possible, and could only say she was sure
she thought it was true, or she would not have repeated it.
"'As an intimate friend of Aldyth's, I can assure you,' I said, 'that
she is engaged to no one, and it is preposterous that such a thing
should be said. I shall be obliged if you will contradict it, if you
hear it again.'"
"Oh, Kitty!" exclaimed Hilda, with admiration in her tones; but Mrs.
Bland looked uneasy.
"I do not wonder that you spoke so, Kitty," she said, "but I doubt, my
dear, if it were wise."
"Oh, I do not believe in letting people say just what they like,"
replied Kitty. "Anyhow, I've killed that rumour; but I dare say a fresh
one will be started, for Miss Phipps began to say that she had always
understood Aldyth was to marry her cousin."
"Poor Aldyth!" exclaimed Mrs. Bland, whilst Hilda hastily took up her
book, to hide the hot colour that was mounting in her cheeks. "Why will
people talk about her so?"
"Mother, do you think that Aldyth will marry Guy?" asked Kitty.
"My dear, how can I say whom she will marry? I am no oracle. But I am
sure that nothing would better please Stephen Lorraine. And in many
respects it would be a good thing for Aldyth."
"Yes, of course," said Kitty, in a comfortable, matter-of-fact tone,
"she would be the mistress of Wyndham; she would have plenty of money,
and could keep as many horses as she liked; but still I cannot fancy
that Aldyth would care to marry Guy."
Kitty quitted the room as she spoke. Hilda bent over her book,
apparently absorbed in its pages, but it was long ere the unwonted
colour in her cheeks faded.
Needless to say, Kitty's encounter with Clara Dawtrey did not tend to
soften the feelings with which that young lady regarded the Blands and
their friend.
A few days later, Clara, who occasionally called on Mrs. Greenwood,
although the banker's wife did not admit her into the inner circle of
her friends, entered that lady's drawing room to find John Glynne there
talking to her. Clara was delighted to meet him thus; and immediately
began to display all the coquettish airs and graces by which she
believed that she rendered herself charming to gentlemen.
Mr. Glynne would have retired after a few minutes, but as he rose, the
servant appeared, carrying the tea-tray, and Mrs. Greenwood would not
hear of his going before he had taken a cup of tea. Just then other
visitors were announced, who engaged Mrs. Greenwood's attention, and
Glynne found himself drawn into a talk with Miss Dawtrey. They were
seated within the bow-window which commanded the High Street.
Clara, talking rapidly, looked up at her companion with what she
believed to be an arch glance, when she perceived that he was paying
little attention to what she said. His eyes did not meet hers; they
were looking beyond her, down into the street. Clara turned quickly to
see what was interesting him there. Her chagrin did not lessen when she
saw that Aldyth Lorraine was riding past, accompanied by her cousin.
The girl-rider looked trim and graceful in her dark blue habit and
little felt hat with white plume.
"Aldyth Lorraine looks well on horseback," remarked Clara, studying
Mr. Glynne's countenance with an intentness of which he became
uncomfortably aware. "Some people call her pretty. Do you think she is
pretty?"
"Really, Miss Dawtrey, that is hardly a fair question," he replied,
laughingly. "Is not a gentleman bound to admire every young lady he
meets?"
"Oh, that's rubbish," she said. "You can't admire ugly girls. Now,
I call Guy Lorraine a very handsome fellow; you don't think so, of
course; you men are so jealous of each other; but he is. He ought to
have a pretty wife. Of course you know—" She paused, and looked at him
significantly.
"Please do not take my knowledge for granted," he said, his heart
beating more quickly as he spoke; "do you mean that Miss Aldyth will
marry her cousin?"
"Oh, hush!" she said, putting her finger to her lips with a warning
look, and then glancing at the other visitors. "I would not have said
anything about it, but I made sure you knew."
"But surely—if they are engaged—Is it an engagement?"
"That is an awkward question, Mr. Glynne," said Clara, dropping her
eyes. "I do not wish to tell you a story, and I am not at liberty to
answer in the affirmative. Though really it is absurd to make a secret
of it, for every one at Woodham has known since they were children
that Guy and Aldyth were intended for each other. My great-aunt, Miss
Rudkin, is in Mr. Stephen Lorraine's confidence, and he has told her
that he looks forward to their union. But pray do not repeat what I
have said; I should not have told you."
"It is safe with me," he said, quietly.
He was on his guard, and could maintain an air of indifference.
"There has been an absurd fuss lately," said Clara, in a carefully
subdued tone, "because a rumour arose that Aldyth was engaged to
another gentleman. I understand that she has been most indignant about
it, and the Blands call it a preposterous idea. Aldyth is very proud;
I suppose it does not please her that her name should be coupled with
that of any one save her cousin."
"Naturally," said John Glynne, rising to put down his cup. His tone was
cold and hard. With all his self-control, he could not help the colour
rising in his face as Miss Dawtrey spoke.
It was impossible that in such a place as Woodham, he should fail to
hear what people were saying about him and Miss Aldyth Lorraine. It
had annoyed him almost as much as it had annoyed her; but his vexation
was entirely on her account. He could not blame himself: He had done
nothing that could give colour to such an assertion. He was certain
that Clara Dawtrey meant to annoy him by her words. She could not have
supposed that he was unaware that it was his name that people had
linked to that of Aldyth. But for that he cared not. What stung him in
her words was their suggestion that some disdain of him had mingled
with Aldyth's indignation. He took his departure hastily, and went back
to his lodgings in a depressed frame of mind.
His little sitting room, with its hard, horsehair furniture, its
brilliantly coloured pictures, its quaint decorations of seaweed and
shells, had never seemed so distasteful and unhomelike as it did
to-night. His landlady's shoes had never creaked so horribly as when
she was laying on the table his evening meal; the conversational
efforts she made in her nasal monotone had never been so tiresome.
So Aldyth Lorraine was to marry her cousin! For he did not for a
moment imagine that he was mistaken in the inference he had drawn from
Miss Dawtrey's words. Well, it was not surprising, and yet he was
surprised. They were so different. What he had seen of Guy Lorraine
had led him to regard him with a sort of good-natured contempt. A fine
human animal, he had thought him, a clever sportsman, and not without
good qualities, but empty-headed and primed with the self-conceit that
often accompanies a vacant mind. Aldyth Lorraine, with her intellectual
tastes, her delicate perceptions, her exquisite refinement of mind, to
share the life of such a man! What had they in common, except their
horsemanship and their love of out-of-door life—in Guy's case it could
scarcely be termed "love of Nature?"
Having taken his supper hastily and with little appetite, Glynne
plunged into work, and tried to banish these thoughts from his mind.
After all, it was no concern of his whom Aldyth might choose to marry.
And yet—and yet—one thing had been made clear to him by the talk of
the gossips—the fact that had he been in a position to contemplate
marriage, Aldyth was the girl he would desire to win. Was she making a
free choice in the matter? he asked himself with a sudden thrill.
He remembered how she had said, "I am peculiarly bound to defer to
Uncle Stephen's wishes." Could it be that she was being forced into
this marriage? No; impossible! She was not the woman to marry under
compulsion. The words must have referred to her engagement. They were a
confirmation of what Miss Dawtrey had said. Glynne's spirits sank lower
as he thought this. Vainly he tried to absorb himself in his work;
thoughts of Aldyth would come between him and it, and mingling with
them came to mind scraps of "Locksley Hall."
"He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force,
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse."
CHAPTER IX.
MR. STEPHEN LORRAINE COMES TO AN UNDERSTANDING WITH HIS HEIR.
JOHN GLYNNE would have been surprised could he have known how little
Aldyth had enjoyed that ride with her cousin. She had been conscious
of something unusual in Guy's manner towards her. He had been more
assiduous in his attentions to her than he was wont to be, yet at the
same time he had vexed her by contemptuous allusions to John Glynne,
and the report that had been circulated in Woodham.
It had become a sore subject with Aldyth, and she was far from
appreciating the witticisms in which Guy indulged at her expense. Yet
Guy had no intention of annoying her. On the contrary, he meant to try
his best to please his cousin. But it was not easy to substitute for
the old, free and easy, cousinly intercourse, the new rôle he had taken
upon himself. He had not succeeded in his endeavours, and he felt that
he had not.
"I shall never be able to do it as I should," he said to himself, as he
rode back to Wyndham, after lingering a while in the High Street, in
the hope of seeing the Blands. "I wish I had not promised; but Wyndham
is worth a sacrifice; though it is hard that a fellow may not choose
his own wife." And Guy felt anything but comfortable as he surveyed the
position in which he found himself.
A few days earlier Stephen Lorraine had ridden back from Woodham in the
worst of humours. He had never accustomed himself to put any kind of
restraint on his irritability, and he had no sooner returned, than his
household had cause to know that something had "put him out."
Guy, who came into dinner a few minutes late, received his share of his
uncle's wrath.
"You will be good enough to remember, sir, that my dinner hour is six.
It is doubtless disagreeable to you to conform to my habits; but it
cannot be for long now, and I think I have a right to expect that you
will pay me that degree of respect."
Happily Guy, who was tolerably easy of temper, did not encourage his
uncle's quarrelsome tendency.
"I am sorry to be late, uncle," he said. "I assure you I like my dinner
at six; but that fellow Ames detained me. Is there any soup coming for
me?"
"I believe so; but if you have any consideration for your throat, you
will have nothing to do with it," said the old man, grimly. "Cook
evidently considers pepper the chief ingredient in making soup."
"It is rather highly seasoned, certainly," said Guy, as he tasted
the soup the servant placed before him. "How did you find things at
Woodham? Much as usual, I suppose?"
An impatient sound escaped old Stephen's lips, but he said nothing,
and Guy did not pursue the inquiry, though he was full of wonder as to
the cause of his uncle's ill-temper. The few carefully-chosen remarks
on which he ventured being ungraciously received, Guy finished his
dinner in silence. As the dessert was placed on the table, the old
man's manner brightened somewhat. He sent for a bottle of special port
from the cellar, and having filled his own glass, pushed the black,
cob-webbed bottle towards Guy.
"Fill up; you'll find it worth drinking," he said. "It's almost as good
as the '54 will prove, I trust, which I am keeping for your wedding."
Guy laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
"Time enough to think of that, sir," he said, lightly.
"Nay, not so," said the old man, with repressed eagerness; "it is time
you began to think about it seriously, my lad, if I am to have the
pleasure of drinking the health of your pretty bride."
Guy coloured, and fell to studying his wine-glass to hide his
embarrassment.
"I should be sorry to think that you would not see my wedding, sir,"
he replied, with becoming seriousness; "but happily you are a rare man
for your years, and will, I trust, see many more, for I am but a young
fellow to think of marrying."
"Nonsense," said the old man, sharply; "you are twenty-four, and in
your case there is no reason why marriage should be delayed. Now, do
not smile, Guy, if you please. I am in earnest, and I wish you to be."
"Certainly, uncle, I will consider what you say; but a fellow can
hardly get married at a moment's notice."
"Pshaw! How you talk!" cried old Stephen, impatiently. "One would think
you had to go far to seek a bride. Come, sir, do you know what is being
said about Aldyth at Woodham? Do you know that the gossips will have it
she is going to marry that jackanapes in cap and gown—the fellow who
lectures—tush! I've forgotten his name, but you know whom I mean."
Guy had turned a startled look on his uncle, and his face grew a shade
paler as he caught the drift of his speech; but he said, coolly—
"Mr. Glynne, you mean. Well, why should not Aldyth marry him if she
fancies him?"
"Guy, are you beside yourself? Do you know what you are saying? How
dare you suggest that such a marriage would be suitable for Aldyth?
A beggarly usher—a fellow of no social position whatever! Would you
tamely submit to see her throw herself away upon such an one?"
There was growing passion in the old man's tones. Guy was alarmed, but
he took refuge in sulky indifference.
"I do not know what you mean by 'tamely submitting' to it. Of course it
would be a pity. I should not admire Aldyth's taste; but I could not
interfere in the matter."
"It is absurd for you to affect to misunderstand me," said Stephen
Lorraine, growing more angry. "You must know perfectly well that I have
always looked forward to your marrying Aldyth."
"Indeed, sir!" said Guy, looking blank. "This is the first time you
have acquainted me with the fact."
"You should not have needed information. You might have seen it was the
only thing to be thought of."
"But I have never thought of it," said Guy; "and I must confess that I
do not like the idea. Aldyth is my cousin."
"Your second cousin," said his uncle.
"Second or first," said Guy, "it is the same. We have grown up together
almost like brother and sister. I am fond of Aldyth, but I tell you
honestly, sir, I have no wish to make her my wife."
"You will find that it is to your interest to do so," said his uncle,
with a calmness born of intense passion. "Listen to me, sir. Aldyth
is every whit as dear to me as you are. When I have looked on you as
the heir to Wyndham, it has been with the thought that she would share
your inheritance. I do not choose to divide my property between you;
but neither do I mean that Aldyth should suffer loss. If you resolve
to disregard my wish in this matter, I shall have to reconsider the
disposition of my property. Now, I have given you fair warning."
Guy heard his uncle with feelings of the utmost dismay. "I don't know
about the fairness of the matter," he muttered, then added in a louder
tone: "You must allow that this has come upon me very suddenly. It is
hard for a man to have it dictated to him whom he is to marry."
"Not at all," interrupted his uncle, "when the girl is such a fair,
sweet girl as Aldyth."
"I don't believe she will have me," said Guy, with the air of having
hit upon a happy solution of the difficulty. "You will not blame me,
uncle, if she refuses me?"
"Yes, I shall," returned old Stephen, grimly. "If she refuses, it will
be because you have wooed her in a sorry fashion. You ask her properly,
and tell her that I wish it, and she will have you fast enough."
Guy devoutly hoped that his uncle might be mistaken in this belief. But
he lacked the courage to withstand him, and boldly claim his right to
act as he would in a matter that so closely concerned his happiness.
Guy believed that Hilda Bland was the girl who could make him happy;
but he was not one to deem the world well lost for love. The heirship
of Wyndham was dear to him. Not for any girl's sake could he bear to
be disinherited. So he temporized, and drifted into a sort of tacit
promise that he would seek to win Aldyth for his wife.
It was with poor spirits that Guy set himself to carry out his purpose.
He had little hope that Aldyth would really refuse his brilliant offer.
A woman, he told himself in his youthful wisdom, regards marriage from
a very different point of view from that of a man. Was it likely that
one whose matrimonial chances were so limited and uncertain would
reject, in one breath, himself and Wyndham?
But somehow Guy was not very successful in his efforts to act the
part of a lover. He found it impossible to convince Aldyth of his
sincerity. She would take purely as a joke his pretty speeches and the
devoted airs he tried to assume. She laughed at him, and bantered him
on what she believed to be mere affectations. The chief result of his
endeavours was to raise doubt and jealousy in the mind of Hilda Bland,
towards whom his friendliness was marked by strange fluctuations, and
who was quick to perceive that Guy was more attentive to his cousin
than he had formerly been. One day he would treat Hilda with such
apparent indifference that her thoughts would turn with sympathy to
Mariana in "The Moated Grange," and she would dream of dying early of
a broken heart; then again he suffered himself to be betrayed into the
old tenderness of voice and look, and Hilda's heart would beat with
tumultuous delight, and life seemed to stretch before her again as a
long, bright vista.
Meanwhile, poor Hilda grew daily more dreamy, and unpractical, more
neglectful of home duties, more oblivious of all that lay outside the
rosy curtains which screened her own inner world of self-conscious
emotion. Even Aldyth felt impelled to take her to task sometimes.
"You are getting lazy, Hilda," she exclaimed one day when she was at
Mrs. Bland's, and heard Hilda refuse to carry a soup ticket to a poor
woman whom Mrs. Bland was desirous of helping.
Kitty, who was present, had at once volunteered to do the errand, and
was now buttoning her boots by the fire.
"Oh, it is really too cold to go out this morning," said Hilda,
lounging in her easy-chair by the fire, with her pretty little feet on
the fender. "Kitty does not mind the cold, but I hate to go out before
I have had time to get thoroughly warm."
"There is one kind of poetry Hilda does not appreciate," remarked
Kitty—"the poetry of motion."
"And she has yet to learn that one should occasionally sacrifice one's
own inclinations for the sake of helping others," said her mother, in
rather a severe tone, as she quitted the room.
As soon as she was alone with her friend, Hilda burst into tears.
"That is always the way now," she said. "Mother is for ever finding
fault with me. Kitty is her favourite daughter, and nothing that I do
is right."
"Nonsense, Hilda," said Aldyth; "you fancy such things. I do not
believe Mrs. Bland has a favourite, but Kitty is of course a great help
to her."
"Yes; but then Kitty likes doing all sorts of things," said Hilda,
vaguely. "She is so different from me. I do not get any sympathy from
her. She laughs at my love of poetry; and as for mother, I am sure she
grudges me the time I give to self-improvement. I suppose she wishes I
were like Kitty, who scarcely ever reads anything except a novel."
"Now you are wronging your mother," said Aldyth, quickly. "I am sure
she was very pleased that you and I should study together for the
lectures. But talking of novels, what were you doing when I came in? Is
not that a novel I see in your lap?"
"Certainly it is," said Hilda, "but such a novel!" And she held up
"Romola" to view.
"Ah! That is a grand book," said Aldyth; "terribly sad, yet as true as
it is sad. I can never lose the impression made on me by its revelation
of the slow but sure decline into evil of Tito—so bright, and lovable,
and unsullied as we see him at first that we love him almost as Romola
does, and share the bitterness of her disappointment."
"Yes, it is very sad," said Hilda; "but what a splendid woman Romola
is. I have just been reading how she devoted herself to those poor
people dying of the pestilence. They might well take her for the
Madonna. Oh, to go amongst the poor and suffering like that would be a
life worth living; I often wish that I could be trained as a nurse, but
mother would never hear of my leaving home. It is horrid to live in a
place like Woodham, where there is nothing to be done."
"Only some poor people to be visited and supplied with soup tickets,"
said Aldyth, mischievously.
Hilda coloured. "Oh, that is nothing," she said.
"It is only a small thing, certainly," said Aldyth. "But I think the
small duties may prepare us for great ones, if we should ever be called
to undertake them. 'He that is faithful in that which is least, is
faithful also in much.' But, Hilda, I had no idea that you had any
leaning towards a nurse's vocation. I should have thought that kind of
work would not have been at all to your taste."
"Perhaps not," said Hilda, looking piqued; "but you do not know all the
thoughts that I have."
And she said to herself that Aldyth understood her no better than did
her mother and sister.
There was a pause, then Hilda asked, "Are you going to ride to-day?"
"No," said Aldyth. "Guy has gone to Colchester, but he proposes that we
should all have a ride on Saturday—you on Brown Bess. You feel quite
comfortable on her now, do you not?"
"Yes, indeed, I am not a bit afraid of her now," said Hilda, her face
lighting up with pleasure. "I shall enjoy another ride. And oh Aldyth,
what do you think? Mother says we may have a party on my twenty-first
birthday. Won't that be lovely? Mind you keep yourself disengaged for
the twenty-third."
"No doubt of that," said Aldyth. "Parties are not so numerous at
Woodham that I am likely to have another invitation for that date. I
will tell Guy to keep himself free, for I suppose you mean to invite
him?"
"I dare say mother will send him an invitation," said Hilda, demurely.
Then she laughed. "Perhaps he will not care to come; but I do hope it
will be a nice party. Mother talks of sending out fifty invitations."
"Your parties always are nice," said Aldyth. "And this is the mother
with whom you are not a favourite! Oh, Hilda, Hilda! You do not deserve
to have such a mother."
As the days passed by and Christmas drew near, the proposed party in
honour of Hilda's attaining her majority became a matter of absorbing
interest to the three girls—an interest which, when the invitations had
been issued, was shared by many others at Woodham.
Would Mr. Glynne accept or decline? Was there any possibility of his
remaining at Woodham for Christmas? Aldyth could not answer these
questions. She knew that Mr. Glynne's sister was recovering from her
fever, but whether her convalescence had advanced to such a stage as to
render it safe for him to return home for the holidays, she could not
say. Somehow during the last few weeks, John Glynne had fallen out of
the habit of paying frequent visits to Miss Lorraine's cottage; nor had
the Blands seen much of him of late. But the examinations were taking
place at the Grammar School. It was a busy time for the masters; there
was no difficulty in accounting for the fact that Mr. Glynne had little
leisure to bestow upon his friends.
CHAPTER X.
HILDA BLAND'S PARTY.
THE party given in honour of Hilda's coming of age was an evening party
of the good old-fashioned sort. Mrs. Bland's guests began to arrive
about seven, and they knew that they were expected to retire shortly
after midnight. The dining room was given over to the young people, who
had planned some tableaux vivants for the entertainment of the company.
The older and graver guests gathered in the drawing room. Supper was to
be served in the breakfast room, part of the hall being curtained off
cleverly as an addition to its limited space.
The evening passed brightly away. The tableaux proved a grand success.
Kitty persuaded John Glynne, who was present, to take part in them, and
his perfect self-control and remarkable immobility of feature made him
a valuable addition to the actors. The tableaux in which he appeared
as Charles VII., whilst Kitty made a spirited-looking Joan of Arc, was
the most successful of the series. Sundry amusements succeeded to the
tableaux, and no one looking on the gay, animated scene could have
imagined that care lurked in a single bosom there.
Hilda, the heroine of the occasion, looked charming, attired in white
with a necklace of pearls, her mother's gift, adorning a throat
scarcely less milky in hue. Her slight form, in its snowy drapery, had
a fairylike prettiness, and her mother might be pardoned if her eyes
sometimes rested upon this fair daughter with looks of pride.
Hilda wore, pinned to her gown, a bunch of Christmas roses and azaleas,
and her delight in these flowers, which Guy had sent her with his
congratulations, was unbounded till she saw that a lovely cluster of
Maréchal Niel roses adorned Aldyth's black lace bodice, and knew that
they also were a gift from Guy. The sight of them caused her a throb
of pain, and with it came a dreadful presentiment that the evening to
which she had looked forward with such eager anticipation was to yield
her only pain and disappointment.
As the evening passed on, Aldyth became aware that Guy was paying
but slight attention to Hilda, whilst, rather to her annoyance,
she found him constantly beside herself. What did it mean? Had any
misunderstanding arisen between him and Hilda? If so, it was a pity,
for Aldyth, who had the sympathetic insight of a loving soul, could
see that Hilda, though she did her best to maintain a gay demeanour,
was not really enjoying herself. She felt certain that she should hear
the truth, sooner or later, from Guy, who was to stay the night at
Miss Lorraine's. Meanwhile she made an attempt to rid herself of his
unwelcome attentions.
"Nonsense, Guy," she said, when he came to ask her hand for a dance.
"I am sure you would rather have Hilda for your partner. Why do you
keep aloof from her to-night, of all nights? Surely you two have not
quarrelled?"
Guy coloured and looked confused.
"I have danced once with Hilda," he said. "Politeness does not require
more."
Aldyth was amazed. Then they must have had a quarrel. But she said no
more, knowing that words are worse than useless in such cases.
There could be no doubt that Kitty was having a good time, and Miss
Lorraine, whose capacity for enjoying such gatherings did not wane with
advancing years, entered into the fun with scarcely less zest. She was
an excellent performer of cheerful music, and she sat at the piano
playing one lively air after another, pausing only to instruct the
young folk as to the manner in which the old country dances should be
executed.
Aldyth was conscious of some wonder that she herself did not find the
evening more enjoyable. She was not over fond of dancing, and she soon
wearied of the heat and bustle. Aldyth had rather a poor opinion of
the young men of Woodburn, and this evening's experience did not raise
it. She felt impatient of the vapid talk of some who engaged her in
conversation, whilst John Glynne remained at a distance. She would have
liked to talk with him, but he apparently had nothing to say to her.
Later in the evening, Aldyth, thoroughly wearied, slipped into the
drawing room. Mrs. Bland welcomed her with a smile. Old Captain Clear,
a retired naval officer, and one of the oldest inhabitants of Woodham,
came across the room to ask her if it were possible that she was
already weary.
She saw John Glynne at the further end of the room, playing at
chess with Mr. Greenwood. As she watched them, he made a move which
checkmated his adversary. Then he rose to make way for another player.
His eyes fell on Aldyth, and he came down the room, as it seemed to
her, with the intention of addressing her. But ere he reached her
side, he suddenly halted, and began to study a Swiss view hanging
on the wall, and at the same moment Aldyth, not without some secret
irritation, heard Guy's voice beside her.
"So here you are at last, Aldyth. I have been hunting for you
everywhere. What made you come in here?"
"I was tired, Guy. I do not wish to be there any longer: All right;
then we'll stay here," he said, and seated himself by her side with an
air of proprietorship which was not lost upon one person present.
Guy thought he was acting his part well that evening. It cost him
something to keep away from Hilda, and he took credit to himself for
thus sacrificing his inclinations. He had received some powerful hints
from his uncle with respect to this party.
Old Stephen Lorraine had suggested that it was Guy's duty to provide
some choice flowers for Aldyth to wear. He was not responsible for the
fact that his suggestion had also conveyed to Guy's mind the idea of a
birthday bouquet for Hilda, for of that he knew nothing.
Guy had been given to understand that his courtship was proceeding too
slowly, and that his uncle would expect to hear something decisive
by the beginning of the New Year. So he was trying to bring himself
to make the necessary sacrifice of his happiness; and, strange to
say, it never occurred to him that he had no right to sacrifice also
the happiness of another, and that the action he contemplated might
possibly have that result.
At midnight the guests began to depart. Mr. Glynne and the Greenwoods
were amongst the first to go; Miss Lorraine, and consequently Aldyth,
stayed to the very end. The elder lady was fresh as a flower and full
of talk to the last. She stood on the doorstep saying good-night to
friends, and Aldyth, just within the hall, was hastily fastening her
fur-lined cloak when Guy detained her.
He had caught a rosebud falling from her gown.
"See, Aldyth, I shall keep this," he said; "it is precious to me since
you have worn it."
"Oh, please don't be ridiculous," said Aldyth, conscious, as he was
not, that Hilda stood within hearing, half-screened by the heavy
curtain that had been drawn across the hall.
But Guy had his back towards the curtain. Having secured the flower, he
laid his hand on Aldyth's cloak, saying, with an air of solicitude, as
he drew it more closely about her, "Are you sure this is enough? It is
a very cold night."
"Oh, really, Guy!" cried Aldyth, making a dash at the door, and then
turning to utter a general "good-night" to those who yet lingered in
the hall. As she did so, she caught sight of Hilda peeping round the
curtain, her face white as her gown, her eyes full of trouble.
"Evidently they have fallen out," she thought; "and Guy, silly fellow,
is trying to make her jealous by devoting himself to me. But how absurd
of Hilda to let it trouble her for a moment!"
And Aldyth walked on quickly, feeling out of humour with Guy.
"Don't be in such a hurry, Aldyth," he said, and made an attempt to
draw her hand within his arm; but Aldyth found that she required both
hands for the management of her gown. "I scarcely ever get you to
myself now."
Aldyth laughed in a way most suitors would have found discouraging.
"We see as much of each other as most cousins do," she said, the next
minute, in the most matter-of-fact tone.
"Do you never think of me except as a cousin?" he asked.
"Why, no," said Aldyth, in as cold a tone as before. "I cannot say that
I do. Why should I?"
"Aldyth," he said, quickly, "it is unkind to answer me so. You must
know that I care very much how you think of me."
She looked at him in amazement; but the light of the clear frosty night
did not enable her to read his face.
"Really, Guy," she said, "don't you think you have carried this
nonsense far enough? Hilda is not here to be piqued by your pretended
devotion to me."
"Pretended devotion! What can make you say that?" said Guy. "I do
not know why you should bring in Hilda's name; it is you I desire to
please. My happiness depends on my winning your love."
"Guy!"
"Why should you be so surprised, Aldyth? You must know that I love you,
and that uncle and every one believes that we shall be married."
"Indeed!" said Aldyth, in a strange hard tone. "How long has it been
so, I wonder? Was it uncle suggested the idea to you, Guy?"
"What do you mean, Aldyth? Of course it is my own wish."
"Oh, it is satisfactory to know that," replied Aldyth in a cold tone,
not without a touch of sarcasm. "But uncle has spoken to you on the
subject?"
"Why, yes, he has," answered Guy, at a loss what to say. "He told me
how much he wished it."
"And it is at his dictation that you honour me with this expression of
his and your wish?" persisted Aldyth.
"Well, yes—no—I should not put it in that way," faltered Guy; "I wish
it very much indeed, Aldyth."
"I dare say," replied his cousin, coldly. "Uncle has a way of making
other people's wishes concur with his own. But, Guy, I should have
thought you would have been too manly to yield to him in such a matter
as this. Perhaps you think there is no harm in asking a woman to marry
you whom you do not love; but I can tell you, I look on the words you
have spoken to me to-night as little less than an insult."
"An insult! Aldyth, what a word to use! And I do love you; you know I
do."
"As a cousin, perhaps; but not as a husband should love his wife. Guy,
do you think I have been blind to all that has been going on between
you and Hilda Bland? Do you suppose I cannot see that her society has
more attraction for you than mine?"
For a moment Guy was at a loss how to reply. He was confused and
irritated under the consciousness that Aldyth understood him too well.
He had hoped that she would reject him, yet now that she did so, he was
vividly conscious of the annoying consequences that must ensue for him,
and felt an obstinate desire to change her mind.
"You need not be jealous of Hilda," he began, but Aldyth checked him
indignantly.
"How can you say such a thing? I 'jealous of Hilda,' indeed! You
mistake me utterly if you think I could entertain such a feeling for a
moment."
"Then I hope you will believe how much I care for you, and say that you
will be my wife. Nothing would please uncle more; he told me to tell
you so."
"As if that could make any difference," said Aldyth, impatiently.
"But you have always been anxious to please uncle," remarked Guy,
feebly. "You gave up the lectures at his wish."
"Do you think the cases are parallel?" asked Aldyth, with scorn in her
tone. "I will endeavour to please uncle in all that is right; but I
will not do wrong for the sake of him or any one, and I should be doing
a great wrong if I consented to marry you, feeling towards you as I do."
"You cannot love me?"
"Not in that way, certainly," replied Aldyth. "Please say no more about
it, Guy. It is quite out of the question."
"Uncle will be very angry," said Guy.
"Let him be angry," said Aldyth, warmly. "And, Guy whatever you do,
never try to make love to me again."
They were at the gate. Miss Lorraine stood at the open door looking for
them. They hurried up the path and went inside. Guy lingered in the
hall, divesting himself of his overcoat. Aldyth lighted her bedroom
candle at once.
"You must be tired, auntie," she said; "we will talk it over
to-morrow—good-night, Guy."
And she went up stairs without saying snore.
A bright little fire had been kindled in her room. Aldyth threw off
her cloak and sat down before the fire. Her mind was in a confusion
of shame and indignation, and a pain she could not understand. It was
horrid of Guy to say what he had. He might have known better. Her face
burned as she thought of the indignity she had received. She felt
keenly annoyed both with Guy and with her great-uncle.
"But it can never be," she said to herself. "Uncle cannot settle that
for me. Thank God, no one can force me into a marriage. Marry Guy!
Never! I would rather die! Nothing shall make me marry a man I cannot
love and reverence. I will content myself with no union that falls
short of my ideal of what marriage should be. Rather than that I will
remain single all my life. I am not afraid of being an old maid like
auntie. Hers is by no means an unhappy life."
Here Aldyth's eyes, looking upwards, met the glance of her mother
looking down on her from the portrait on the mantelshelf. The next
minute a mist of tears dimmed Aldyth's vision.
"If only she were here, I could tell her," she murmured. "I shrink from
speaking of it to auntie, but to mother it would be so different. I
know she would feel as I do about it. One can always be sure of one's
mother."
CHAPTER XI.
CHRISTMAS AT WYNDHAM.
ONE of Aldyth's chief thoughts when she woke in the morning was that
the morrow would be Christmas Day, and that she and her aunt were to
dine, as usual, at Wyndham Hall. The prospect was far from agreeable
to her. She was too annoyed with Guy to wish to see him again so soon,
and she dreaded that her uncle might make some attempt to persuade her
to do as he wished. She knew too well the iron strength of his will to
suppose that he would easily resign himself to the frustration of his
hopes.
But though Aldyth felt that it would be intensely unpleasant to have
any words with him on the subject, she had no fear that anything her
uncle might say could move her. She, too, was a Lorraine, and was not
to be lightly coerced. She was certain that her feelings towards Guy
could never change. Nothing could make it right for her to marry him;
no argument could convince her of the contrary.
"I will do everything I can to please uncle," she said to herself; "but
this is impossible. Mother could never wish this."
Christmas Day after all passed more pleasantly than Aldyth expected.
She went to church with her aunt in the morning, and on coming out of
church they walked a few steps with the Blands and Mr. Glynne, whom
Mrs. Bland had invited to dine with her family. Hilda seemed out of
spirits, and Aldyth fancied there was a difference in her friend's
manner towards her. The thought made her uncomfortable. She hoped Hilda
would never know of Guy's foolish conduct with regard to herself.
"She would be so hurt," thought Aldyth; "and, after all, he cares far
more for her than for me. But I wish she did not think so much of him,
for I doubt if he really deserves her love."
Soon after Aldyth and her aunt returned from church, the carriage
arrived to take them to Wyndham. Miss Lorraine thought it strange that
Guy had not come up to Woodham to fetch them. But Guy was otherwise
engaged. He had had the forethought to invite his friend Captain Walker
to come from Colchester to spend Christmas Day at Wyndham. He had
given the invitation without consulting his uncle, and Mr. Lorraine
was secretly annoyed at the introduction of this guest into the family
party, though his pride would not suffer him to withhold from the
captain a hospitable welcome.
To Aldyth the presence of Captain Walker was a relief. It made it easy
for her to meet Guy as if nothing had happened. The long evening passed
not unpleasantly for her. The captain was musical; he had brought his
violin, and he was thoroughly happy as he accompanied Aldyth's playing
on the piano. The same could not be said of the others who were present.
Stephen Lorraine was incapable of appreciating music, and he did not
like the way in which Captain Walker monopolized his young niece. Guy
had refrained from telling his uncle that Aldyth had rejected him; but
old Stephen's keen eyes saw enough that evening to convince him that
the matter was not progressing as he wished. He could hardly control
his impatience, and Miss Lorraine grew uneasy as she observed the dark
ill-humour that was settling on his countenance, and the irritable
tones in which he addressed Guy.
That young gentleman was not slow to perceive that a storm was brewing;
but he hoped to avoid having any words with his uncle that night.
Aldyth and her aunt were to pass the night at Wyndham. When they had
retired, Guy and his friend bade Mr. Lorraine "Good-night," and went
off to the former's "den" for a smoke.
Guy congratulated himself that he had managed well; but there had been
a peculiar grimness in his uncle's tone as he bade him "Good-night"
which augured ill for the time when they should have to come to an
understanding. Guy thought he had succeeded in deferring that evil hour
at least till the morrow; but when, about midnight, having conducted
his friend to his room, he was on his way to his own at the extreme end
of the corridor, he perceived a stream of light radiating the darkness
from his uncle's door, which stood ajar, and, as he approached it,
heard his name called in sharp tones—
"Guy, Guy!"
"Yes, sir," said Guy, pushing back the door.
"It is not so late but that you can spare me a few minutes. Come in, if
you please, and shut the door. I have something to say to you."
Guy, with a disagreeable prevision of what was coming, did as he was
told.
His uncle, wrapped in an old red dressing-gown, his velvet cap still on
his head, sat in a high-backed chair by the fire. The candles burning
on the mantelshelf threw their light on his face, and showed it more
yellow, sunken, and furrowed than it appeared by daylight.
Guy stood at the other side of the fire-place, tall and erect, looking
down on him.
"Take a chair, can't you?" said the old man, irritably.
Guy drew up a chair.
"I want to know," said his uncle, going at once to the point, "whether
anything is yet settled between you and Aldyth?"
"Yes, sir," said Guy, "it is so far settled that Aldyth has declined to
be my wife."
"You have asked her, and she has refused you?"
"In the most decided manner. It is out of the question, she says."
Old Stephen's brow darkened.
"Bah! You have done your wooing badly," he said. "You must not take
any notice of that. The next time you ask her, she will respond
differently."
"I cannot ask her again," said Guy.
"Cannot! You must, I tell you."
"Excuse me, sir," said Guy. "She has told me the thing is impossible;
she has even said that she regards my proposal as an insult. After that
I cannot repeat it."
"Ah, you have let her see that you are a half-hearted suitor," said the
old man, shrewdly. "That will never do. You must manage better next
time."
"There can be no next time," said Guy, his temper and courage rising
together. "To please you, I have asked my cousin to marry me, but since
she refuses, I now claim a right to choose a wife for myself."
"And whom would you choose, pray?" asked his uncle, regarding him with
a narrow, penetrating glance. "Come, tell me, for I can see you have
some one in your mind."
Guy hesitated; but having dared so much, it seemed to him that he might
as well dare all. Perhaps if he showed some spirit, and made it clear
that he was determined to do as he liked, his uncle would yield to the
inevitable.
"You are right, sir," he said. "Since Aldyth has refused me, I will own
that Hilda Bland is the girl I should like to make my wife."
"Hilda Bland! That white-faced girl, hardly bigger than a full-sized
doll! What folly!" exclaimed Stephen Lorraine, his indignation blazing
forth at this confirmation of his suspicion. "Let me hear no more
of this, Guy. Hilda Bland is, not one whom I could think of as the
mistress of Wyndham."
Guy's face grew hot. He naturally resented his uncle's remarks. An
angry reply rushed to his lips, but the mention of Wyndham checked it.
Here was a thought that bid him pause.
"If you knew Hilda better, uncle, you would appreciate her more
highly," he said, forcing himself to speak, calmly. "It is hard that
you will not think of my happiness."
"I do think of your happiness, and I think of Aldyth's also," said his
uncle, significantly. "You can, of course, make Hilda your wife, if you
choose, but she will not be the mistress of Wyndham."
Guy had risen, and stood looking blankly at his uncle.
"Yes," said the old man, "I mean it. There is no need to say more. You
understand me now. Good-night."
"Good-night," said Guy, mechanically, as he turned away, having
received a poor preparation for a night's rest. He felt that he was
being very hardly treated. It was characteristic of him that one effect
of his uncle's opposition was to intensify his desire to wed Hilda.
Another consequence of his present embarrassment was that he was
beginning to feel towards Aldyth something like dislike in place of his
old cousinly affection for her.
The remembrance of the words she had uttered, and the scorn she had
been unable to conceal when he made his proposal, rankled in his mind,
and he told himself that nothing should ever induce him to approach the
subject with her again. And now his uncle's words respecting Wyndham
had suggested a jealous dread of the old man's affection for Aldyth.
Did they not mean that in the event of his marrying Hilda, Aldyth would
be made heiress of Wyndham? Was ever the course of true love more
blocked and barred? Guy did not doubt that his was a case to which the
familiar quotation might be aptly applied.
Stephen Lorraine was content to visit his chagrin solely upon Guy. His
manner towards Aldyth could not have been kinder than it was on the
following day. He was indeed never really cross with her. The very
sight of her seemed to charm away his ill-humour, and he was at his
best when she was present. In spite of the strain to which it was often
subjected, Aldyth had a genuine affection for her grand-uncle, and
never failed to show him the tender reverence youth owes to age, so it
was little wonder she exercised a softening influence on him.
The morning was clear and cold. A silvery rime sparkled on the grass
and on the bare boughs of the trees; the pond was frozen so hard that
skating seemed a near possibility; the tame birds fluttered to and fro
before the house, eagerly picking up the crumbs scattered for them on
the hard, glittering gravel. It was just the morning for a walk, and at
a hint from her uncle, Aldyth ran to put on her strong boots, and the
cosy sealskin jacket and cap which had been his present to her on the
previous Christmas.
Old Stephen, fresh and ruddy despite his four-score years, minded the
cold no more than a young man. Followed by his dogs, he made the round
of the grounds with Aldyth, inspected the stables, and visited the
stack-yard and farm buildings, which were at some distance from the
Hall. She asked questions which drew forth long explanations from him;
he pointed out sundry improvements he intended making, talking of his
plans with the freedom of one who knows he has an interested listener.
He told Aldyth much that she had heard before; but she was willing to
listen to it again, especially when he began to go back, as old men
are wont to do, to his early days and tell her tales of his boyhood,
mingled with recollections of the mother whom it was evident he had
tenderly loved.
"The old place looks well to-day," he remarked, as, returning by a side
walk through the shrubbery, they came in view of the house shining in
the full radiance of the morning sun; "there can be no place like it
for me. Boy and man, I've known it for eighty years. There are not many
men, I imagine, as old as I am, who can say they have lived in the same
house all their days."
"No, indeed," said Aldyth, to whom such an unvarying experience seemed
by no means desirable.
"My father and his father lived here before me," continued her uncle.
"I should be sorry to think of any but Lorraines dwelling under that
roof. Aldyth, I hope you will never change your name. I have always
looked forward to your making your home at Wyndham some day."
Aldyth coloured hotly. Listening to talk of the kind familiar to her
from her uncle, she had forgotten her dread of his touching upon this
subject. She longed to say something that should make him understand
how impossible was the idea he cherished, but no suitable words
suggested themselves.
They entered the house by one of the drawing room windows which stood
open. A fire had been kindled in the grate, and lent a little cheer to
the melancholy, forsaken-looking room, with its faded drab furniture.
There were no curtains to the windows; the room was guiltless of
drapery of any kind, and lacked all the pretty, dainty decorations with
which a lady adorns her sitting room. Old Stephen, glancing round,
seemed suddenly to become aware of the barrenness and inelegance.
"Ah," he said, with an air of regret, "it was a pretty room once, but
now it wants a little refurbishing badly. Somehow, only a woman seems
to understand what a room requires to make it look right. And there has
been no mistress at Wyndham since she passed away, and that's nigh upon
fifty years now."
He pointed, as he spoke, to the portrait of his mother, hanging above
the mantelshelf—a handsome, motherly woman, in the high mob-cap and
snowy kerchief worn by matrons of her day. Aldyth had often looked at
the picture of her great-grandmother, but she turned her eyes on it
again with unfeigned interest.
"She was a good woman," he continued, his voice a little husky. "I
should like to think that Wyndham would have another such mistress.
She looked well to the ways of her household, and ate not the bread of
idleness. Sometimes I fancy I see a resemblance to her in you, Aldyth.
Well, well, if Guy wins a wife worthy to succeed her, she shall make
what changes she likes in the old house. This room shall be refurnished
for her, and made a pretty room again."
Aldyth's heart beat quickly. She was touched and pained, and at a loss
what to say.
"Dear uncle," she said, hurriedly, "I am sure it would pain you to turn
out the old furniture you have known all your life."
"Maybe it would," he admitted; "but what of that? My time here is
almost over. We would have a new piano, Aldyth. Did not that fiddling
man find fault with this?"
"He said it was below concert pitch," replied Aldyth, understanding her
uncle to refer to Captain Walker.
"Well, then, we would have that set right. And, Aldyth, I have things
in my keeping that I wish should come into no hands but yours. There
are some trinkets my mother used to wear—jewels of real value, I
believe. You could have them reset, I suppose, to suit your fancy."
"Oh, uncle, please do not speak of that!" cried Aldyth, in distress.
She could not help seeing what her uncle had in his mind; but he
expressed himself so vaguely that it was impossible for her to meet his
words with a decided statement concerning herself.
"Do you not care for jewels?" he asked. "I thought all women loved
them."
"Oh, I admire them, certainly," said Aldyth; "but there are many things
I care more for."
"You are a good girl," said her uncle. "You care to make others happy,
I know. You will try," he added significantly, as he kissed her on the
forehead, "you will try to do what will add so greatly to the happiness
of my last days on earth."
The colour mounted to Aldyth's forehead; her lips quivered; there was a
nervous tremor in her voice as she spoke.
"Anything that I can do, uncle, anything that is right; but you might
wish what would be impossible for me."
"Nonsense, Aldyth," returned her uncle, with his quick, impatient
frown. "You should know me better, child, than to suppose that I could
wish you to do anything that is not right. My wish is only for your
happiness."
"I know, uncle, I know," Aldyth began; "but—"
He checked her with an impatient gesture, and hurried out into the
hall, as though determined not to hear her words.
Aldyth lingered for a few moments by the drawing room fire, feeling
baffled and helpless. Her uncle's ideas of what was right for her, of
what would make her happiness, differed widely from her own. How could
she make him understand? Was it not all but impossible that he, whose
life had lacked the most tender ties, and into which, as far as she
knew, no romance had entered, should comprehend how sacred a thing
marriage appeared to her, and how she dare not desecrate the highest
instincts of her womanhood by joining herself by that closest of all
bonds to one who could never win her supreme love?
But Stephen Lorraine had gone away satisfied that his words would not
fail to have the effect he desired.
"She is all right," he said to himself; "she does not mean to give
herself to Guy too easily; that is all. It is his own fault that he has
failed. Of course, she sees that he does not care enough about her. But
I'll find means to make him care; I'll bring him to book somehow."
And the old man pondered fresh plans, convinced that his blundering
efforts at matchmaking would be crowned at last with success.
Later in the day, at her uncle's suggestion, Aldyth took ride with her
cousin and his friend. Assuredly the presence of a third person was
never found more convenient. Captain Walker was bent on making himself
agreeable, and succeeded so well that Guy's unusual moodiness did not
spoil the pleasure of the ride. Pansy was so exhilarated by the keen
air that it was all her mistress could do to restrain her sportiveness,
and in the excitement of the exercise, Aldyth forgot every cause of
uneasiness.
But troubled thoughts returned to her. As they drove home that evening,
her aunt wondered that she was so grave and still.
"Is anything troubling you, Aldyth?" she asked at last.
"Yes," said Aldyth, "I am thinking about uncle. Do you know what is his
wish concerning me—and Guy?"
"Yes, dear, I have known it for some time. You don't mean to say that
uncle has spoken to you about it?"
"Not directly; but I could not help knowing what he meant. He asked me
to try to do what would add so greatly to his happiness. But how can
one try in such a case? If only he would see that it is impossible!"
"You think it so, then?" said her aunt, quickly.
"Auntie, do you need to ask the question? You might know me better than
to suppose that I could marry Guy."
"Well, I thought not," said Miss Lorraine. "It does not surprise me to
hear you say so. And yet—and yet—I am very sorry. This will make a deal
of trouble."
"I can bear my share of the trouble," said Aldyth, "but I am sorry to
disappoint uncle. He desires it so much, that for his sake, I almost
wish it were possible."
Miss Lorraine sighed. Various aspects of the affair presented
themselves to her which never entered into Aldyth's thoughts. She
wondered whether the girl's mother would approve of the decision to
which she had come. To Aldyth, the question was perfectly simple, and
it never occurred to her as possible that her mother's opinion on the
subject might not coincide with her own.
CHAPTER XII.
MR. LORRAINE SENDS FOR HIS SOLICITOR.
IT was the last day of the year. A thaw had set in and disappointed
the skaters, but now the ground was again hard with frost, and a cold,
grey sky seemed to presage snow. Early in the afternoon, Aldyth went
down to the Brands, to see if the girls were inclined for a walk, but
found neither of them at home, so after a brief chat with their mother,
she started alone, and turning into the Tolleshunt Road, set off for a
brisk walk.
It was very cold, but to Aldyth's vigorous young frame, the cold
brought only enjoyment. She was not sorry to take a solitary walk. The
close of the year gave her much to think about. She liked to look back
over its months, and recall all that had happened. There was pleasure,
too, in conjecturing as to the coming year, for Aldyth's past had known
no shadows that could make her look forward with dread to the unknown
future. She did not cherish melancholy thoughts, and indulge in gloomy
imaginations, like Hilda Bland. Aldyth's inner life was healthy and
glad. She did not magnify her girlhood's trials, nor brood over past
vexations. Already she could smile at Guy's folly on Hilda's birthday
night, and persuade herself that her grand-uncle would soon learn how
unreasonable was his expectation with regard to her. It was not in the
power of such considerations to depress her long.
They seemed of such slight moment in comparison with all the beautiful
things of life, which for her had still the "glory and the freshness
of a dream." It was by virtue of her childlike joy in life that Aldyth
helped to make life beautiful to others, who scarcely knew to what they
should ascribe the charm they found in her sweet, genial presence.
Aldyth's mind in its retrospection had travelled along the year to
the time of John Glynne's coming to Woodham. She was recalling her
annoyance at having to give up the lectures, when, raising her eyes,
she perceived the lecturer within a few yards of her. She smiled
involuntarily. It seemed so strange that he should appear at that
moment.
Mr. Glynne had several boys with him, Charlie Bland amongst the number,
and they seemed to have had a long tramp in the country. He was a great
favourite with his pupils, and even in the holidays they gathered about
him. It was by no laxity of rule that he had won their liking, for he
had the character of being the strictest of all the Grammar School
masters. In no other class was such perfect discipline maintained as in
his. A look, or at most a word, from him was sufficient to check all
unruliness. The boys knew that he was not to be trifled with, for John
Glynne had the sternness which, in a strong character, counterbalances
gentleness and goodness of heart. No one could be more severe when the
occasion was one which demanded severity. The boy detected in cramming
or shamming was likely to receive a lesson he would not soon forget.
John Glynne met Aldyth's recognition with one of the full, sweet smiles
which gave to his face, homely enough otherwise, a rare attraction. He
paused to speak to her, and the boys trooped on, all except Charlie
Bland, who felt as if Aldyth belonged to him, and he had a right to
linger by her side.
"I am glad to meet you, Miss Lorraine," he said. "I was thinking of
dropping in presently to say good-bye to your aunt. I am going up to
town by the five o'clock train."
"Oh, are you really going home?" said Aldyth. "Then your sister is
better?"
"She pronounces herself quite well now. She was to return with my
mother from Brighton this morning. The house is ready, so we meet again
as a united family to-night to begin the New Year together."
"Oh, that is nice," said Aldyth, heartily; "I am very glad your sister
is all right again. You know I feel as if I knew her, although we have
never met."
"I wish very much that she could meet you," said John Glynne,
earnestly; "I am sure you two would be friends. Well, I must say
good-bye, Miss Lorraine, though not for long. We shall soon be at work
again, eh, Charlie?"
Charlie made such a comical grimace that Aldyth laughed.
"That is not a pleasant anticipation for Charlie, I am afraid," she
said. "Do not trouble to call on aunt, Mr. Glynne; you would not find
her at home."
"No? Then I must ask you to tell her of my intention. Good-bye, Miss
Aldyth; I wish you a happy New Year."
"Thank you," said Aldyth. "And I wish you and your mother and sister
the same. Somehow, I think it must be a happy New Year."
"For you, no doubt," he replied, looking a little enviously at the
girl's glad face, glowing with health and happiness. "You have a bright
prospect before you."
"Oh, I don't know," said Aldyth, a little sigh escaping as she spoke.
"I begin every year with hope—the hope that it will bring my mother
home to me. It seems to me that she will surely come next year; but
I may be disappointed again. You cannot understand what it is to be
separated from your mother all your life."
"No, I cannot," he said, his tone full of sympathy. "It must be hard. I
do hope the New Year will bring you the great joy of her return."
Aldyth smiled; but her eyes grew moist. The very thought of that joy
affected her like pain.
"It is a pity you are going away just as there is a chance of some
skating," remarked Charlie to his tutor as they walked on. "You should
see Aldyth skate. I think she is as clever on her skates as Kitty;
though every one says Kitty is the best girl skater at Woodham. Guy
was trying to teach Hilda last winter; but she is a duffer! She is too
afraid of falling to do anything."
Glynne scarcely heard his words. He was lost in thought. Surely it
was more than the hope of her mother's return which made Aldyth
Lorraine speak so confidently of a happy New Year. Well, Guy Lorraine
was a happy fellow. If only he had seemed a little more capable of
appreciating the treasure he had won!
Finding his remarks met with no attention, Charlie ran on to overtake
the other boys. His company was not missed. John Glynne walked slowly,
and his vacant glance took no notice of two persons who were to be seen
coming along a narrow lane which ran between the fields and led from
the London Road to the Tolleshunt Road. In summer, the overhanging
trees made the narrow walk delightfully shady, and wild flowers grew
luxuriantly on either side; but now, when the trees were bare and
not a flower to be seen, the lane had no attraction save such as its
loneliness offered.
Glynne received an impression that the two walking there must be
lovers; but he did not recognize the tall, squarely-built form nor
the petite, girlish figure, which was such an extreme contrast to its
height and strength. He could not suppose it to be of any consequence
to him who the two were who found such pleasure in each other's society.
But a pair of eyes, very much on the alert to mark all that passed
before them, had observed the two at the other end of the lane ere they
passed into its shelter. Guy had been far from thinking, when he asked
Hilda to meet him at Wood Corner that afternoon, that his uncle was
likely to be anywhere in that neighbourhood. But Stephen Lorraine owned
a farm not far from Wood Corner, and driving homewards from another
direction, he remembered that his tenant had spoken to him about
repairs. No time like the present, he decided, though to call at the
farm would take him several miles out of his way.
Thus it happened that he suddenly appeared in the London Road, near the
spot where Guy and Hilda had met. He was quick to recognize the tall,
handsome form of his nephew, and the diminutive size of his companion
revealed her identity. As soon as Guy perceived his uncle's gig coming
along, he tried to escape observation by hurrying down the lane, an
action which increased his uncle's displeasure.
What might have passed for a chance meeting had thus the appearance of
a clandestine appointment.
"Little minx! Why does not her mother look after her?" he said to
himself. "Well, I'll let her know, and she shall hear my mind on the
subject, too."
"Straight down Woodham;" he said to the servant who was driving. "I
have a call to make there."
Guy reached home before his uncle, who arrived late for dinner, after
paying Mrs. Bland a visit that had greatly astonished and disturbed
her. It was with some uneasiness that the young man took his place at
the table. He had tried hard to persuade himself that it was impossible
his uncle could have recognized him that afternoon, but he had not
succeeded in dismissing every fear. His uncle's bearing afforded him no
sure ground of confidence.
The old man ate his dinner in grim silence, broken only by brief but
caustic rejoinders to the few remarks on which Guy ventured. He was
obviously in an unamiable mood; but a variety of causes might have
conduced to that not infrequent occurrence. Guy endeavoured to behave
himself circumspectly, and avoid every reference likely to fan the
smouldering flame. He seemed to have succeeded, and it was with rising
spirits that he was about to leave the dining room, when a word from
his uncle stayed him.
"Have you any engagement for to-morrow morning, Guy?"
"No, sir; I have nothing particular in hand to-morrow."
"Then I will trouble you to ride to Woodham for me the first thing. I
want a note carried to Mr. Greenwood, and if you go, you can wait and
bring back his answer."
"Certainly, sir. Mr. Greenwood at the bank, I suppose?"
"No; you are mistaken. It is Mr. Greenwood, my solicitor, I wish to
see."
The emphasis put on the word solicitor made Guy uncomfortable.
"Very well, sir," he replied.
"I hope it may prove well," said old Stephen, suddenly breaking forth
in anger. "I send for my solicitor, sir, because you have made me aware
it is necessary I should reconsider my will. After what I have seen
this afternoon, I have no alternative. I will not have your cousin's
feelings trifled with; I will not have her made to suffer on your
account. There are more ways than one of making her the mistress of
Wyndham, and mistress of Wyndham I intend that she shall be."
Guy flushed and then paled. This revelation of his uncle's intentions
was a shock to him. But he controlled himself, and after waiting for a
few moments to see if his uncle had more to say, quietly left the room.
The two breakfasted together the next morning as usual. It was not a
pleasant day for a ride. It had been snowing in the night, and a sparse
white covering lay on the ground; every now and then the keen north
wind would bring a shower of sleet. Neither of the gentlemen, however,
remarked upon the weather as they took their breakfast. The squire gave
his whole attention to the "Times," and Guy occupied himself with a
sporting journal, and with a favourite dog that sat "begging" by his
side and shared his meal.
On rising from the table, Stephen Lorraine went to his desk. Guy
watched him as he selected a sheet of notepaper and then began to write
in his small, neat hand. The servant entering to clear the table, Guy
gave orders that his horse should be ready for him in half an hour.
"Ah," said old Stephen, half-turning as he spoke,—"it is rather a rough
morning; perhaps you would prefer to have the carriage. You could put
it up at Woodham, and wait till Mr. Greenwood was at liberty to return
with you. You would have no difficulty in passing the time agreeably
with your friends."
There was a sting in the last words for Guy. He coloured angrily as he
replied—
"Thank you, sir, I prefer to ride. I shall be back in a little more
than an hour, and I can bring you word what time will suit Mr.
Greenwood if you like to send the carriage for him."
"Oh, very well," returned his uncle; and he proceeded slowly with his
letter-writing, whilst Guy went off to prepare for his ride.
Guy would not have minded the biting wind had his errand been an
agreeable one; but as it was, the ride could hardly have been more
unpleasant. He stole a glance at the Blands' house as he went down
the High Street; but no one was visible at the windows. Hilda,
complaining of a headache, was still in bed. She had lain awake,
crying and imagining herself the most unhappy of heroines, till long
past midnight, and the morning found her weary in mind and body, and
convinced that an early death would close her miserable life.
Mr. Greenwood had just arrived at his office, and welcomed Guy
genially. He was a little man, with black hair and black "mutton chop"
whiskers, small, shrewd, dark eyes, and a brisk, pleasant manner.
"Good morning, Mr. Guy. The New Year begins roughly, does it not? How
is the weather at Wyndham? You do not find it too warm to-day, eh?"
"Scarcely," said Guy, who at that moment was by no means inclined to
be effusively friendly. "My uncle asked me to bring you this note. He
wishes to speak with you on business, I believe; but you will see what
he says."
"And how is Mr. Lorraine?" inquired the lawyer, with an air of anxious
interest. "How does he bear this severe weather, eh? It is very trying
for elderly persons. They tell me that poor old Adam Drake—down the
Hundreds, you know—was found dead in his bed this morning."
"Was he? Poor old chap!" said Guy, indifferently. "My uncle is all
right, I believe, Mr. Greenwood. The cold does not seem to make any
difference to him."
"No? But it may in the long run; he should be careful, indeed he should
be careful, Mr. Guy. I was surprised to see him driving in his open gig
yesterday. It was not the day for it, indeed."
Guy shrugged his shoulders with some impatience. It was anything but
agreeable to him just then to be reminded of the uncertainty of his
uncle's life. If he should alter his will and then die without giving
him a chance of reinstating himself in his favour!
Mr. Greenwood had opened the note and was reading it. "Hem," he said,
"Mr. Lorraine begs me to go out to Wyndham to-day. That is awkward. I
happen to be particularly engaged to-day."
"Perhaps uncle could wait till to-morrow," suggested Guy, not without a
gleam of hope.
The lawyer shook his head.
"I am afraid not," he said. "He speaks of 'a matter that admits of no
delay.' You are sure, by the way, all is right with your uncle? He did
not take a chill yesterday?"
"If he did, I have heard nothing of it," said Guy, impatiently. "If you
can say at what hour you will be ready, we will send the carriage for
you, Mr. Greenwood."
"Thank you," said that gentleman; "let me see."
He paused, stroking his chin meditatively. "Suppose we say four
o'clock; I can hardly be ready before that hour."
"Very well," said Guy, "the carriage shall be here at four. Good-day
for the present, Mr. Greenwood."
Mr. Greenwood was ready punctually at the hour named, and in due time
arrived at Wyndham. Stephen Lorraine was awaiting him, and the two were
closeted together until dinner-time, when the lawyer sat down at his
client's table.
Guy, who then joined them, could scarcely conceal his restless
irritation, and the squire contributed little to the conversation; but
Mr. Greenwood's cheerful flow of small talk never failed.
And yet the solicitor, with whom Guy was a favourite, was anything
but pleased with the business he had been called upon to effect. Ere
leaving the house, he managed to draw Guy aside and say a few words to
him.
"Look here, young man, whatever is wrong between you and your uncle, my
advice to you is—patch it up as quickly as possible."
"That is more easily said than done," replied Guy, moodily.
"Oh, I don't know. I have known your uncle a good many years now, and
he is not bad to deal with, if you only take him the right way."
"You mean if you let him have his own way," returned Guy.
"Well, surely you can humour an old man. I can tell you, Mr. Guy, it is
worth your while to do so. I have said all I dare for you; but, but—it
lies with you to set matters right."
"But suppose my uncle requires me to do something that I cannot do?"
said Guy.
"Well, then, I can only say it is a very great pity. But surely you
can find a way out of the difficulty. Depend upon it you make a great
mistake if you quarrel with your uncle now. There, I must not say more,
but I hope you will so manage things that I may soon be called to
repeat my visit with a happier result. Do you understand?"
Guy understood too well for his peace of mind. How could he make things
right? He could not and he would not marry his cousin, nor could he
bear the thought of giving up Hilda Bland.
Mr. Greenwood passed on to the library to take his leave of Mr.
Lorraine, and presently departed from Wyndham, carrying with him a
rough draft of the new will his client had desired him to draw up.
CHAPTER XIII.
SORROW AND JOY.
ON the afternoon of New Year's Day, Aldyth, coming down the London
Road, met Kitty Bland and Gwendolen, then at home for her holidays, on
their way to the river, carrying their skates.
"Oh, Aldyth, we were thinking of calling for you," said Kitty. "Charlie
brings us word that the ice is splendid, so we are going to try it. Do
come with us!"
"Oh, do," implored Gwen. "It will be so jolly to have you with us."
Aldyth hesitated. The sleet had long ceased, and the sun was making
attempts to break forth. The prospect of skimming over the ice was very
tempting.
"I was going to see Hilda," she said. "How is it she is not with you?"
"Oh, Hilda is good for nothing," replied Kitty. "She will not stir out
to-day."
"Do you mean that she is ill?" asked Aldyth.
"Well, no, not exactly—she has a headache," said Kitty.
Gwen moved on a few paces; it was not pleasant to stand in the keen
wind.
"The fact is, Aldyth," said Kitty, hurriedly, in lower tones, "Hilda
has been crying till she is worn out. Your uncle came to see mother
yesterday afternoon, and made a grand commotion. I never saw mother so
upset. You know she does not often get put out, but when she is angry,
she can be very warm, and I can tell you mother was angry with Hilda
last evening."
"With Hilda!" said Aldyth, in surprise. "Why, what has Hilda done?"
"Oh, do not ask me," said Kitty; "you had better hear the story from
her own lips. I must say I am disgusted with Hilda. Do try, Aldyth, to
put a little common sense into her, if you see her. But won't you get
your skates and come with us?"
"I think not, thank you," said Aldyth. "I had better go to Hilda, if
she is in trouble. I suppose she would like to see me?"
"Of course she would," said Kitty; "she will get some sympathy perhaps
from you. I am afraid I have not given her much. She says I cannot
understand her, and really she is right."
In spite of a warm protest from Gwen, Aldyth went on her way, full of
wonder as to what had occurred to disturb Mrs. Bland and make Hilda
unhappy.
Mrs. Bland was engaged with visitors, so Aldyth went at once to her
friend's room.
Hilda had risen by this time, but she wore her dressing-gown, which
was a very becoming one of pale blue, so that she looked charmingly
invalidish as she sat in her easy-chair by the fire. It would not be
correct to say that she looked ill. Her face was not more colourless
than it always was; but she leaned back in her chair with a listless,
languid air, and her expression was melancholy in the extreme, whilst
her reddened eyelids testified to past weeping. She uttered a faint
exclamation of pleasure as her friend entered the room.
"Oh, I am glad to see you," she said; "how good of you to come!"
"Why, Hilda dear, what is the matter?" Aldyth asked. "I met Kitty, and
she gave me a most bewildering account of you. Do tell me what it is
all about."
"Oh, Aldyth, I am the most miserable girl in the world!" Hilda
exclaimed, and again burst into tears.
"But why?" asked Aldyth, surprised and grieved. "Why do you speak so of
yourself?"
"Because it is true," sobbed Hilda. "Oh, Aldyth, you do not know how
unhappy I am. And four days ago I was so happy! I little thought the
New Year was going to bring me such misery."
[Illustration]
"But what is it, Hilda?" asked her friend. "Do tell me!"
Then, as Hilda continued to sob and utter incoherent ejaculations,
Aldyth added, "Has it not something to do with Guy?"
"Yes, Aldyth; I thought you must guess it," replied Hilda, brokenly;
"that you must see how he cared for me; though I did not know myself,
for certain, till last Thursday. He came to call after the party, you
know, and mother and Kitty had gone to Chelmsford, and I was alone,
practising, and he told me that he could never care for any one but me,
and he asked me to promise to marry him. But we were not to tell any
one about it at present."
A startled exclamation broke from Aldyth.
"Ah, you think it was wrong!" said Hilda.
"I think it very wrong of Guy," said Aldyth, warmly; "I call it most
dishonourable conduct—if I understand aright that he asked you to
engage yourself to him without seeking your mother's consent."
"We only meant to keep it to ourselves for a little while," said Hilda.
"Guy knew his uncle would be so angry; but we were most unfortunate.
Guy asked me to meet him at Wood Corner yesterday afternoon, and
unluckily Mr. Lorraine drove to the farm just at that time and saw us
together. Ah, you are shocked at me, Aldyth."
"I really am surprised," Aldyth felt obliged to say; "I wonder you
could do such a thing, Hilda."
"Oh, do not you find fault with me, please!" said Hilda, beseechingly.
"If you only knew what I have gone through! Mr. Lorraine came here
in such a rage, and told mother she did not look after her daughters
properly. You should have seen how angry mother was. She told me I had
no self-respect, that my deceit was detestable, that I had disgraced
her, and, what pains me most, she will not hear of my being engaged to
Guy. Mr. Lorraine told mother he meant to disinherit his nephew if he
did not give me up, and mother declares she will never let me marry him
unless his uncle gives his consent. And I know he never will do that.
Oh, I feel as if my heart would break!"
Aldyth listened to her friend's confidence with mingled feelings. She
was sorry for Hilda, but it was a shock to her friendship to discover
that she could be so easily led into crooked conduct. Aldyth could feel
some sympathy with Mrs. Bland in her indignation at the revelation of
her daughter's duplicity. It was with a curious sensation, too, that
she heard of Guy's profession of attachment to Hilda. What would be the
effect upon her friend, she wondered, if she told her how recently Guy
had asked her, Aldyth, to be his wife? But she had not the heart to
inflict such a blow on Hilda.
After a minute she said, in a rallying tone—
"Nonsense, Hilda; hearts do not break so easily, and I am sure I would
never break my heart for such a one as Guy."
"Aldyth," said Hilda, reproachfully, "why do you always speak so
slightingly of your cousin? You seem unable to appreciate him."
It was impossible for Aldyth to resist laughing.
"Do I?" she said. "Well, truly, at the present moment I am vexed with
Guy. I think he has behaved very badly to you, Hilda. A man has no
right to ask a girl to engage herself to him without the knowledge of
her friends."
"But he loves me," murmured Hilda. "It was because he loved me so. You
do not know what love is, Aldyth."
"I am very glad I do not, if that is the kind of thing it does," said
Aldyth, stoutly. "But I do not believe in the saying that all things
are fair in love. A true and noble love, it seems to me, should make
man or woman act worthily."
"Now, I will not have Guy found fault with," said Hilda. "He is dear to
me, if not to you. Such a strong, brave fellow as he is!"
"Strong?" repeated Aldyth. "Ah, physically you mean; for although he is
my cousin, and I have an affection for him, I cannot say that I think
Guy is at all a strong character."
"Aldyth, it is too bad of you! I will not hear you!" protested Hilda,
showing a disposition to relapse into tears. "You are not fair to your
cousin."
"I hope I am not unfair to him," said Aldyth, thoughtfully. "I do not
deny that he has good qualities. He is very kind-hearted and generous;
and he is good-tempered too. I am often surprised to see how much he
will put up with from uncle. The servants at the Hall are very fond of
him. Hilda, dear, forgive me if I have vexed you; but I do wish you
would try to look at this matter sensibly."
Hilda put up her hand to check Aldyth's words.
"It is of no use speaking so," she said. "You do not understand me;
you do not know how deep my feelings are. Listen to me. I shall never
cease to love Guy: and if my love is disappointed, I shall die. Now
do not smile like that, Aldyth, for I shall. My father's sister died
of consumption, and I shall go into a decline too, if I am made so
unhappy. Indeed, I should not wish to live!"
All this was a great strain upon Aldyth's power of sympathy. She felt
for her friend; but she could not avoid some secret amusement at the
idea that it was Guy who had inspired such desperate feelings.
Hilda sank back into her chair, saying to herself, with a new pang of
disappointment, that Aldyth understood her no better than Kitty.
"Why do you not find something to do, Hilda?" asked Aldyth, as she rose
to take her departure. "It is a pity to sit there brooding over what
has happened. Does your head ache too much for reading?"
"Oh, I cannot read!" said Hilda, wearily. "As soon as I begin, my
thoughts fly off in one direction. Aldyth, mother is very unkind."
"I cannot think so," said Aldyth, loyally; "I cannot imagine Mrs. Bland
unkind. She may seem so to you; but, depend on it, she has your real
good at heart."
"I hate to hear about my 'real good!'" said Hilda, impatiently. "What
good can life have for me if I am separated from Guy?"
It was vain to argue with her. Aldyth kissed her, begged her not to
imagine herself more unhappy than she was, but to hope that the future
might brighten; and then left her, with an uneasy sense that she had
failed fully to meet Hilda's expectations in the matter of sympathy.
"I certainly do not understand what love is," she said to herself; "it
may well be called blind, for Hilda can perceive none of Guy's faults.
It has transformed him into a hero. Oh, dear! I shall never be able to
love in that fashion."
It was too late to join the skaters. Aldyth did a little shopping in
the High Street, and then turned homewards. As she entered the house,
a letter lay on the hall table awaiting her. Aldyth recognized with
delight the thin foreign envelope addressed by her mother's hand. She
went into the dining room, and sat down to read her letter. She had not
read far ere her heart gave a wild bound, and her face grew pale with
sudden vivid emotion. The words which caused it were these:—
"Our long-talked-of visit to England is at last to be realized. We
have arrived at a decision rather rapidly, and sail in a week's time,
so that we shall be actually on our way home when you receive this.
Mr. Stanton's health has of late caused me anxiety, but we hope the
voyage will set him up. It is on his account that we start with so
little preparation. We propose taking a furnished house in London as
soon as we arrive, and shall probably remain at home for two years. I
cannot tell you, my dearest child, how I look forward to our meeting,
so long-deferred. You must come to us as soon as we arrive in London.
We are all coming. Cecil is to study medicine at one of the hospitals.
Your sisters are counting on seeing you at last."
There was much more in the letter, which Aldyth read again and again,
and yet seemed unable fully to grasp. All her being was thrilled with a
shock of joy. Could it be true that her mother—her beautiful mother—the
mother she had missed and yearned for through so many years—was coming
home to her at last? There was awe mingling with her joy. She was glad
beyond measure to think of her mother's return, and yet she was half
afraid of her happiness. The unknown brother, and sisters too—she was
to meet them at last. Was it any wonder that Aldyth's heart throbbed
with a tumultuous emotion that had fully as much pain in it as
pleasure? She was glad, and yet the tears would come. Faster and faster
they came, till they rained down her cheeks.
"Why, Aldyth, my dear child! What is the matter?" cried Miss Lorraine,
coming in briskly from the cold.
"Oh, auntie, such news!" exclaimed Aldyth, holding out the letter.
"Mother is coming; she is on her way now."
"You don't mean it? Really coming at last! Well, it is startling,
certainly; but I would not cry about it," said Miss Lorraine.
She laid her bag and her muff deliberately on the table, and took the
letter from the girl. Any one less excited than Aldyth would have seen
that the news did not give her aunt unmixed satisfaction.
"So," she said presently, "they are coming at last, and you will have
your heart's desire, Aldyth; though no one would think it, to see you
crying like that."
"Oh, aunt, I cried because I was so glad," said Aldyth, hastily drying
her eyes. "You cannot think what it is—after so many years, to know
that my mother is coming to me."
"I suppose not," said Miss Lorraine, drily. "Well, child, I am glad
that you are so pleased."
But as she spoke her face had a wistful, pained expression. Aldyth,
since her babyhood, had been her care, and the feelings of a mother
had grown up in her heart towards the child she had cherished. Could
Eleanor Stanton, simply because she had given her birth, be so much
more to Aldyth than the aunt who had comforted her childish sorrows and
nursed her through all her childish ailments? Would she be as likely to
understand the girl? Miss Lorraine felt aggrieved by the emotion Aldyth
displayed, even whilst she told herself it was wrong and unreasonable
to feel so.
But Aldyth, thrilled and excited, had no thoughts to spare for her
aunt, and failed to see that she was hurt.
And Miss Lorraine was thankful that for once her niece was so
unobservant.
CHAPTER XIV.
A LONG-DEFERRED HOPE IS REALIZED.
A FORTNIGHT later, on a raw, gloomy afternoon, Aldyth and her aunt
stepped from a train on to the platform of Liverpool Street Station. A
telegram received late on the previous evening had acquainted them with
the fact that the Stanton family had arrived in London, and Aldyth was
now on her way to meet her mother.
Aldyth's face was white and eager, and Miss Lorraine, too looked
excited. Aldyth had been disposed to maintain silence all the way, and
the journey had never seemed to her so tedious; but excitement had had
the contrary effect on her aunt. Unchecked by her niece's reluctant
rejoinders, she had talked the whole time, chiefly on matters of little
or no importance. But when they were in a cab, driving to the West-end
hotel where the Stantons were to be found, Miss Lorraine, too, became
silent, and her eyes were often turned upon her niece with a rather
anxious expression.
It was no new thing to Aldyth to be in London. She and her aunt not
seldom came up for a day's shopping in town, or gave themselves a
few days' enjoyment of sight-seeing. They found such delight in the
pleasures of town as only country people can, to whose ordinary
experience it offers so sharp a contrast.
But to-day Aldyth had no eyes for the shop windows, nor for the
beautiful equipages they met as they drove westwards. She saw nothing
that they passed. There was a strange combination of thoughts—if
thoughts they could be called—in her heart. Every now and then tears
would rise to her eyes as she told herself how happy she was going to
be. Life must be different for her from henceforth. All she had known
or read or dreamed of a mother's love was to be realized at last. She
started as from a dream and flushed crimson when her aunt suddenly laid
her hand on her arm.
"We are almost there, Aldyth. See, this is Charing Cross."
And, still with a dreamy sense of unreality, Aldyth recognized the
wide space before her, the fountains, the lions, the statues, with the
omnibuses taking up passengers, the carriages dashing to and fro, and
all the bustle and stir of London life.
"Oh, Aldyth! Oh, my dear child!" said Miss Lorraine, taking the girl's
hand in hers, and speaking in agitated tones.
Aldyth looked at her wonderingly; but whatever Miss Lorraine was about
to say—if indeed she knew—was never said.
Their cab was making its way through a crowd of vehicles. There was a
bump and a jar which startled Miss Lorraine, always somewhat nervous
when driving in London. Happily there was no cause for alarm; all was
right in a moment. But ere Miss Lorraine had recovered from her fright,
they were at the door of the hotel, and an obsequious servant stood
ready to help them to alight.
Aldyth made an effort to subdue her excitement as they followed a
waiter up the steps; but in spite of her will, her heart beat uneasily,
and she felt quite faint as the man threw open a door and announced
them. She need not have experienced any nervousness, however. The
room they entered was a large one, with three windows overlooking the
Embankment, and at first sight it appeared to be empty; but a young
lady rose hastily from the depths of a great easy-chair by the fire,
and came forward with outstretched hand.
"Aldyth! Do we meet at last?" she said, and kissed her affectionately.
"How strange it is to think that you are my sister, and we have never
seen each other till now! And this is your aunt, I suppose? How do you
do, Miss Lorraine? I cannot claim you as an aunt, although Aldyth is my
sister. Pray come near the fire; you must be dreadfully cold. I never
knew anything like the cold of London."
Aldyth sat down, but her eyes were fixed upon the door which
communicated with the next room. Was her mother there? Why did she not
come to her?
"You are Gladys, I suppose?" said Miss Lorraine, pitying Aldyth's
suspense. "Mrs. Stanton is quite well, I hope?"
"Oh, perfectly well, thank you," said Gladys. "She will never forgive
herself for not being here to welcome Aldyth; but papa wanted her to go
out with him. I think they were going to inquire about a house, and of
course we did not know exactly when you would arrive. But mamma will be
very vexed."
Aldyth said nothing. She could not have spoken without betraying how
disappointed she was. All the way to London she had had a vision of her
mother awaiting her, eager for her coming, longing to clasp her in her
arms. This reality was so different from her anticipations that she
experienced a painful revulsion of feeling.
"Do come nearer the fire," said Gladys Stanton, seeing her turn pale
and shiver. "And you will like some tea—tea is always refreshing after
a journey." She rose and rang the bell as she spoke.
Aldyth now looked more attentively at her sister. She was very fair,
with large blue eyes, and an abundance of pale, silky hair twisted in
a sort of picturesque confusion about her head. Her tall, willowy form
was almost too slim, but it was a pleasure to watch its easy, graceful
movements. The small, oval face, framed by the masses of bright hair,
had faulty features; but its expression was winsome, and the long
blue eyes had a way of looking and the mouth a trick of smiling, the
fascination of which Aldyth soon began to feel.
When the waiter appeared, she ordered tea, and then inquired where the
ladies' rooms were, and if their luggage had been taken up.
"Did the ladies want rooms in the hotel?" asked the man, with an air
of surprise. "I am afraid that is impossible; I believe every room is
taken."
"Oh no, that cannot be," said Gladys; "Mrs. Stanton has engaged the
rooms. You are making a mistake. Please go and inquire about them."
"Of course he must be mistaken," she said, when he had gone. "I know
mamma meant to engage rooms for you."
But when the waiter reappeared with the tea, he brought word that there
were indeed no rooms to be had. The clerk declared that no extra rooms
had been engaged for Mrs. Stanton's party.
"Oh, dear! Then mamma must have forgotten it. How tiresome of her!"
said Gladys. "What will you think of us?" she added, turning with
a pretty, deprecating air to Aldyth. "But you know we only arrived
yesterday, and mamma has had so much to think of. She lost one of her
trunks, too, and that has put her out very much. What is to be done
now, I wonder?"
"We must go to another hotel, of course," said Miss Lorraine, promptly;
"there are several others in this neighbourhood."
Here the waiter interposed, and said that the ladies could have rooms
in a private hotel on the opposite side of the street.
"Oh, that might do," said Gladys, as she poured out the tea; "you would
be close by, and could be with us all the time. Would you mind that so
very much?"
"Not at all; we should do very well there," said Aldyth, who by this
time had conquered her wounded feelings and regained self-control.
"We must see the rooms before we agree to take them," said Gladys,
promptly, with a business-like air. "Now do drink your tea whilst it is
hot, and then I will go across with you and see if the place is fit for
you."
Aldyth was beginning to feel much interested in her pretty sister.
There was something surprising to her in the self-possession and
savoir-faire of this girl of nineteen. She could have imagined that
Gladys was older than herself, for Gladys' rich dress and the jewellery
with which her person was lavishly adorned gave her a mature air. Her
gown of ruby silk was more gorgeous than anything Aldyth ever wore, and
had she possessed such a one, she would have deemed it only suitable
for a dinner or evening party.
Aldyth was still on the watch for her mother's arrival; but Gladys did
not appear to expect her immediate return.
"We are to dine here at seven, as a family party," she said, glancing
round the room. "Mamma thought it would be nicer than going to the
table d'hôte to-night. Perhaps you would like to go to your rooms now;
you would wish to change your dress, I dare say—not but what you look
as nice as possible."
Miss Lorraine assented with some eagerness. She was anxious to be
assured of comfortable quarters for the night before it grew later.
Gladys caught up a handsome travelling cloak and a large hat with
drooping feathers which lay on a chair, hastily arrayed herself in
them, thrust her jewelled fingers into a tiny muff, and declared
herself ready to accompany her visitors. They had but to walk a few
steps, across the street, and they were in the other house.
The rooms were very nice. Gladys found some fault with them, perhaps
because she felt duty bound not to be too easily satisfied on behalf
of her friends. She lingered for a while, offering to help Aldyth to
unpack and evidently anxious to do all she could for her new-found
sister.
When at last Aldyth assured her there was nothing more she could do,
Gladys threw her arms about her a gave her a loving little hug and kiss.
"I am sure I shall like you," she said, impetuously. "I am sure we
shall get on well together, although you are older than I am."
"I should be very sorry to think that we should not get on together,"
said Aldyth, her heart going out in warm response to this welcome
affection. "You do not know how I have longed for a sister. It has
seemed so hard to have sisters whom I could never see."
"Oh, I hope you will not be disappointed," said Gladys, impressively.
"I do hope you have not romantic ideas about sisterly affection; for,
if so, I am sure we shall shock you, since Nell and I are for ever
quarrelling. But now I will leave you. Be sure to come over as soon as
you are ready."
"She seems a nice girl, although so over-dressed," said Miss Lorraine,
popping her head into Aldyth's room as soon as her sister had gone; "I
hope you will like her."
"I do like her; I am sure it will be easy to love her," said Aldyth,
warmly.
"I wish you would come and see if you can open the register in my
room," said her aunt; "I fancied the room felt stuffy when I entered,
and now I find that the chimney is fast closed."
Aldyth went at once, soon had the chimney open, and rendered several
other little services to her aunt. Miss Lorraine refrained from any
comment on the fact of Mrs. Stanton being absent when her daughter
arrived, and Aldyth was grateful for her silence.
When she went back to her room, Aldyth bolted her door, sat down and
burst into tears. She was so disappointed; there was no disguising the
truth, though she tried to persuade herself that she was unreasonably
disappointed. It was but too clear that her coming was not to her
mother what her mother's coming was to her. And how should it be?
Aldyth asked herself, trying hard to rally her common sense Had not
her mother three other children, and was there not for her all the
excitement of returning to England after an absence of twenty years?
And yet—and yet, Aldyth could not argue away her pain. Something within
her heart would say that their meeting should have been more to her
mother than all beside. The one ray of pleasure that lightened Aldyth's
disappointment came from the kindness of her sister Gladys. The warmth
of her loving caress and frank, impulsive words seemed to remain with
Aldyth.
Aldyth did not long give way to tears. She remembered that time was
passing, and that she must prepare for the meeting with her mother.
Slowly and with more deliberation than she often bestowed on it, she
began to make her toilet. She took down and shook out her long, dark
hair, brushed it till it shone like satin, then combed it straight back
from her brows, and plaited it into a beautiful coil at the back of her
head.
As she surveyed the effect, she smiled to think what a contrast her
appearance presented to that of Gladys. "I should feel so untidy if I
wore my hair in such a tangle," she thought; "and yet she looks very
pretty so. I wonder if that is an Australian fashion."
With some anxiety, Aldyth put on her gown—a soft grey cashmere with a
vest of pale pink. It had won much admiration from Hilda Bland, but now
Aldyth felt doubtful about it. She looked wistfully at herself in the
mirror.
"Shall I look old-fashioned beside Gladys?" she asked herself. "Oh, I
do hope mother will like the look of me."
She smiled at the absurdity of the thought, but with the smile came
tears. Were not mothers generally disposed to like their children's
looks?
There was a tap at the door, and she opened it to admit her aunt. Miss
Lorraine wore her best black silk and a dainty little head-dress of
lace.
"Ah, you are ready," she said; "then we had better go across. It is
half-past six."
"Shall I do, auntie?" asked Aldyth, anxiously.
"Do! You will always do, child," said Miss Lorraine, playfully. "Yes,
indeed, you look very nice—far more suitably dressed than Gladys, in my
opinion." And she kissed Aldyth.
After all, she told herself with secret pleasure, Aldyth was her child,
and belonged to her far more truly than to that strange mother, just
come across the sea.
Aldyth was trembling again as she went up the stairs of the hotel.
Gladys met them in the corridor, took Miss Lorraine to their private
sitting room, but drew Aldyth back as she was about to cross the
threshold.
"Come with me," she said; "mamma hates scenes, and she would rather see
you alone first. We will go to her room."
They passed along the corridor; but Aldyth was aware of nothing till a
door was thrown open, and she found herself in the presence of a tall
and handsome lady. Then she had a momentary bewildering sense that the
photograph had deceived her, and this was not the form she had imaged
to herself. But ere she could receive any distinct impression, the lady
had folded her in her arms, and a voice exquisitely sweet, and full,
and caressing said, tenderly—
"My dear child! Can it indeed be my little Aldyth come back to me like
this?"
For a few moments Aldyth could not speak. It Was like a dream-the
tender pressure, the soft kisses, the caressing tones, and mingling
with them the subtle, sweet perfume that pervaded her mother's dress.
In that brief interval, Aldyth tasted the bliss for which she had
yearned. But the next minute, Mrs. Stanton's arms loosened their
clasp; she drew back a step or two, and stood looking at her daughter,
evidently awaiting her inspection.
Aldyth looked at her mother with eager, wondering eyes. She could see
a likeness to the portrait now; but she saw also great differences.
The rich waving hair, abundant as ever, was now silvery grey—a change
which gave a striking effect to the handsome, clear-cut features and
the large, flashing dark eyes, which had lost little of the brilliancy
which in youth had made them so irresistible. Few women of her years
could have borne to wear their hair rolled high up above the brows as
hers was; but, despite her grey hair, Mrs. Stanton had no look of age.
Her cheeks were well rounded, her complexion fresh, and her full, red
lips closed over perfect teeth. She had the appearance of a full-blown
beauty of the period when it was the fashion for ladies to powder
their hair, by way of accentuating their bloom. Her figure was full
and well-formed; and the daring simplicity of her black velvet gown,
with square-cut bodice showing the round, white throat, set it off to
perfection. Her beautiful arms were bare from the elbow, and adorned
with heavy gold bracelets.
A glow of admiration might well kindle in Aldyth's eyes as she observed
her mother.
"Well," said Mrs. Stanton, at last, not ill-pleased with the expression
she read on Aldyth's face; "am I at all what you expected? What do you
think of me?"
"You are not what I expected," Aldyth replied, slowly, in a low,
fervent tone; "but—you are very beautiful."
Mrs. Stanton laughed. She was well pleased with her daughter's simple,
ingenuous remark.
"Ah, you are a flatterer, I fear," she said, lightly; "but really your
appearance is not altogether flattering. I did not expect to see such a
woman. You make me feel quite old. Let me see—what is your age, by the
by?"
"I was twenty-one last March," said Aldyth, a little surprised that her
mother should need to ask.
"Ah, to be sure, I had forgotten," said Mrs. Stanton, carelessly, "and
Gladys is just nineteen. But now Mr. Stanton will be impatient to see
you, and you have yet to make the acquaintance of Cecil and Nelly.
Come, darling."
So saying she led the way to the sitting room.
Mr. Stanton did not look as if he were impatient to see Aldyth or any
one. He was a weary-looking man, with bald head and stooping shoulders.
His manner was singularly nervous and shy, and though he greeted Aldyth
not unkindly, he seemed to have nothing to say to her. But his wife was
well able to supply his lack of words. She talked both for him and for
herself.
"I have been telling Aldyth how anxious you were to see her, Robert.
Now, is she what you expected? Not at all like me, is she? No, she
resembles her father. It is very strange that not one of my girls is
really like me. Gladys resembles me most; but then she is fair, like
your family, and her features are not like mine. I often wonder how
it is that people will persist in saying she is like me. Oh, here is
Nelly! Come, Nelly, and let me introduce you to your sister Aldyth."
Nelly appeared by no means desirous of the introduction. She was
a big, awkward girl of fifteen, dark, heavy-browed and somewhat
sullen-looking; but with good eyes, and a certain resemblance to her
handsome mother, although she was undeniably plain. She seemed to have
inherited her father's nervous, shy manner. She shook hands with Aldyth
without looking at her, and rushed away to the further end of the room,
where, hidden by a curtain, she leaned on a window sill and watched the
outer world.
Cecil did not appear till dinner was on the table. He was a
good-looking lad of seventeen, bright and pleasant in manner, though
somewhat foppish in his person, and not without the conceit common to
youths of his age. Still, Aldyth felt that she should like him when she
knew him better. But all her impressions that evening seemed vague and
unreal. She felt like one in a dream as she sat listening to the talk
that went on, and replying to the remarks addressed to her.
Mrs. Stanton, as seemed to be her habit, not only spoke for herself,
but said everything that her husband should said, whilst he, sitting
opposite to her, silent and melancholy, occasionally murmured an
assent. She had many questions to ask respecting Woodham and various
families residing in the vicinity, to which Miss Lorraine was only too
pleased to make full replies.
Gladys, whose vivacity seemed inexhaustible, chatted fast with her
brother and Aldyth; Mr. Stanton and Nelly were the only silent ones.
The latter, seated opposite to Aldyth, made good use of her opportunity
of observing the appearance of her half-sister.
If Aldyth's glance met hers, she looked away hurriedly; but her
eyes returned to the inspection, and Aldyth was conscious that they
travelled over her, and that, apparently, no detail of her person
escaped their notice. But as soon as dinner was over, Nelly buried
herself in a book and made no attempt to converse with Aldyth.
"Aldyth," said her mother, coming up to her and laying her hand on her
shoulder, "I am glad to hear that your uncle, at his great age, keeps
so hale and well. To-morrow we must, have a quiet talk together, and
you shall tell me all about him and your cousin Guy."
"Yes, I will," said Aldyth, her heart throbbing with joy at the thought
of that confidential talk. "Oh, mother! I am so happy to think that I
can talk to you at last."
"Darling!" said her mother, pressing her hand. "But don't call me
'mother' in that solemn way, Aldyth. It makes me feel so—I don't know
what. Say 'mamma,' as Gladys does."
The lightly-spoken words jarred on Aldyth in her vivid emotion. But
nothing could be more tender and caressing than her mother's manner to
her throughout the evening; and when, on parting for the night, Aldyth
found herself again folded in her mother's arms, her heart was too full
of happiness to have any doubt.
"You are sure that you and your aunt will be quite comfortable
there—you are sure you have everything you want?" asked Mrs. Stanton,
with an air of maternal solicitude. "Mr. Stanton was so vexed—were you
not, Robert? That he forgot to order rooms for you in the hotel."
Mr. Stanton looked slightly surprised at his wife's appeal to him, but
replied to her words in the affirmative. Then, at her suggestion, he
found his hat and coat, and escorted Aldyth and her aunt across the
street to their lodgings.
CHAPTER XV.
ALDYTH WAKES FROM A DREAM.
ALDYTH did not have the promised talk with her mother on the morrow.
Several days passed, all so full of occupation that Mrs. Stanton had no
leisure hour to spare for her eldest daughter.
"When we get into our own house, we shall have more time with each
other, darling," her mother would say with a smile and caress, and then
drive away with her husband and Gladys to visit friends or inspect
houses.
Aldyth and her aunt went about sight-seeing in London with Nelly and
Cecil. Aldyth tried hard to win the favour of her younger sister,
but for some time with poor success. Nelly's shyness was not to be
overcome. When they were out, she kept as much with her brother as
possible, and Aldyth thus often found herself her aunt's companion.
Nothing definite had been spoken on the subject, but the Stantons
seemed to take it for granted that Aldyth would remain with her mother
as long as she was in England. Miss Lorraine's appetite for town
entertainments was not easily sated; but when a week had passed, she
began to talk of returning to Woodham. Mrs. Stanton, however, begged
her to remain with Aldyth till early in the following week, when they
would move into the house which had been taken at Bayswater.
On the afternoon of the last day of her stay in town, Miss Lorraine
decided that she would like to call on one or two friends, and, rather
to Aldyth's surprise, did not invite her niece to accompany her. Aldyth
went across to the hotel to find out what her sisters intended to do.
She found Nelly by herself, hanging over the fire in the sitting room,
and looking far from amiable.
"What, all alone, Nelly?" she said. "Where are the others?"
"Oh, mamma and Gladys have gone shopping. I never knew anything like
their shopping; there is no end to it. And papa and Cecil have gone to
the hospital to make arrangements for Cecil studying there."
"So! And you are left all alone. Well, I am in the same lonely
condition, for auntie has gone off to pay visits, and never so much as
asked me if I would like to go with her."
"Oh, I am used to that sort of thing," said Nelly, forlornly. "Mamma
never cares to have me with her. I am too ugly and awkward."
"Oh, Nelly! How can you say such things of yourself?" exclaimed Aldyth.
"It is true," said Nelly. "Mamma feels that I am no credit to her,
and she is ashamed for me to be seen. Oh, you need not look shocked,
Aldyth. You do not know mamma yet."
"I hope you are mistaken in so judging her," said Aldyth, gently. "But
now, Nelly, what shall we do, since we are left to ourselves?"
"I don't care," said Nelly, indifferently.
"Would you like to go across to the National Gallery? We seem to have
neglected that just because it is so near. There are some of the finest
pictures in the world to be seen there. But perhaps you do not care for
looking at pictures."
"I care very much," said Nelly, brightening. "I really like pictures
more than Gladys, only I do not make such a fuss about them as she
does."
So they went to the Gallery, and spent a couple of hours there very
pleasantly. Aldyth found that Nelly took a real and intelligent
interest in the pictures. Aldyth, who was a devout disciple of Ruskin,
had a profound admiration of Turner, and she soon kindled in Nelly a
like enthusiasm for his paintings. Together they studied the slight
sketches, which give such interesting indications of the gradual
development of his genius.
As they talked them over, Nelly grew confidential, and told her sister
of her great desire to study art—a desire which would not be quenched
by the efforts of all her family to throw cold water upon it.
"I want mamma to let me study at South Kensington," she said; "but she
says it is of no use, for I should never do anything worth doing. She
is going to look for a school for me as soon as she can find time. I am
to go as a weekly boarder. Is not that horrid?"
"Perhaps you will like it better than you expect," said Aldyth. "No
doubt there will be a good drawing master."
"Ah, that would be nice," said Nelly. "But all mamma wants is to get me
out of the way. You know mamma means to get Gladys married whilst we
are over here."
"Nelly!" said Aldyth.
"Ah, you are shocked at my saying so; but it is perfectly true. Mamma
is determined that Gladys shall marry well. As for me, I don't know
what mamma will do with me. I am afraid no one will ever want to marry
me, and mamma will think it so disgraceful to have a daughter an old
maid."
Aldyth could not help laughing at the way her sister said this.
"Indeed, Nelly, there is no disgrace in being an 'old maid,' as you
call it," she said quickly; "it is far better to remain single than to
make an unhappy marriage. And there are many honourable careers open to
women. You might be all artist, perhaps."
"Ah, that would be delightful," said Nelly, her eyes kindling; "a great
deal better than being married."
When they returned to the hotel, Nelly declared that she had thoroughly
enjoyed the afternoon, and Aldyth was glad to feel that it had drawn
them closer together. But she herself was far from experiencing perfect
content. Day by day, in spite of her efforts to stifle it, a feeling of
disappointment was growing stronger within her.
"You do not know mamma yet," Nelly had said. Was it so indeed? Had
she yet to learn her mother's true character, and was it so totally
different from all that she had conceived it to be? The thought was
full of pain. Aldyth tried to put it away from her—tried to persuade
herself that she was attaching too much importance to the words of a
thoughtless, ill-tempered child; but with all her endeavours, the doubt
was not to be dismissed.
And yet, as she watched her beautiful mother and marked her queenly
movements, her graceful kindliness, Aldyth found it hard to believe
that her charming appearance masked a selfish, worldly spirit; for she
saw her mother at her best. Eleanor Stanton was delighted to be again
in London; her husband was completely under her sway; there was no one
to oppose her will, and she was enjoying herself thoroughly. It was
easy for her, as for many another woman, to be charming and lovable as
long as her life was what she wished it to be.
It was close upon the dinner hour ere Miss Lorraine returned from her
visits.
"You will be surprised when I tell you where I have been," she said as
her niece helped her to change her dress—"I have been to Highgate to
see Mrs. Glynne."
"Auntie!" exclaimed Aldyth in a tone of surprise.
"Yes, I thought I should like to see Susie again; we were great friends
at school, and now I know her son so well, I thought it would be nice
to go and see her. And I am glad I went, for she seemed very pleased. I
did not see Mr. Glynne, for he is at Woodham. The school reopened last
week."
"Yes, I know," said Aldyth.
"She is a sweet woman," said Miss Lorraine, talking as fast as the
exigencies of her toilet would permit. "They live in a tiny house; but
everything is as neat and as nice as possible. Aldyth, what are you
thinking of? Not that cap. And I saw the daughter, a pleasant girl, not
pretty, but clever-looking."
"Oh, auntie, I wish you had taken me with you," exclaimed Aldyth.
"Oh, my dear, that would not have done at all," said her aunt,
decidedly.
Aldyth coloured, and refrained from inquiring why it would not have
done.
It was not without regret that she saw her aunt start for Woodham on
the following day.
"It does seem strange that you should go home without me," she said.
"If it were not that I am to be with mother, I should be sorry."
"I shall miss you dreadfully," said Miss Lorraine. "Home will seem
strange without you. Now mind, you come down, Aldyth, whenever you can.
Bring one of your sisters with you, if you like; but be sure to come
when you want a little country air."
"Of course I will," said Aldyth. "Remember me to uncle and Guy, and do
not forget my message to the Blands. Good-bye."
Then the train glided out of the station, and Aldyth went back to her
new home and new life.
"Have you not a letter from your uncle?" Mrs. Stanton inquired of
Aldyth one morning, a few days later, as they sat at the breakfast
table.
By this time they were settled in the house at Bayswater, and beginning
to feel at home there.
Aldyth replied in the affirmative.
"I thought so," said Mrs. Stanton. "I thought I could not be mistaken
in the clear, old-fashioned writing, though it is, many years since I
have seen it. Does he send me any message?"
"No, he does not," said Aldyth, a little embarrassed by the question.
"Oh, I did not expect it," said Mrs. Stanton with a laugh. "I know he
is no friend to me. How is the poor old man?"
"He does not say how he is," replied Aldyth. "He tells me about the
horses and dogs, and the meet last week at Wood Corner."
"Do you ever hunt?" asked Gladys, eagerly.
"No," said Aldyth; "Guy has often tried to persuade aunt to let me, but
she does not like the idea of a lady's hunting. Kitty Bland has ridden
after the hounds once or twice, but her mother is very nervous about
it."
"I would not mind what your aunt thinks," said Gladys, coolly; "I would
go if I were you, Aldyth."
"My dear Gladys," said Mrs. Stanton, reprovingly, "I am glad that
Aldyth has a better notion than you of what is becoming conduct in a
young lady towards her seniors."
Gladys shrugged her shoulders and made a grimace.
"Does not your cousin Guy write to you, Aldyth?" asked Mrs. Stanton, in
so meaning a tone that it brought a quick flush to the girl's cheek.
"Oh dear no," she said, hurriedly, "that is the last thing Guy would
think of doing. He will never write to any one unless he is obliged."
"Indeed," said Mrs. Stanton, and let the subject drop. She watched her
daughter intently for a few seconds. She had already questioned Miss
Lorraine pretty closely as to the relations subsisting between Aldyth
and her cousin, and had drawn her own conclusions from that lady's
reluctant replies.
Some time later, as Aldyth sat writing a letter in the breakfast room,
her mother entered, her wool work in her hand, and settled herself in
an easy-chair by the fire, evidently intending to remain there.
"How cold it is!" she said, holding out her hands towards the blaze. "I
have sent Gladys to take a walk in the park with her father. He does
not like walking alone, and it is better he should have company, for
I am still anxious about him. To tell you the truth, Aldyth, he had
a slight stroke of paralysis before he left Australia, and that, you
know, is very alarming."
"Yes, indeed," said Aldyth, looking startled; "I had no idea his
illness was so serious as that."
"It was, and after that, you know, one cannot tell what may happen,"
said Mrs. Stanton, in an easy, comfortable tone as she warmed her
hands; "I am sure no one knows what anxiety I have gone through. He has
had so much worry in his business; the doctor insisted on his giving
up everything and coming away at once. He is in partnership with his
brother; but they don't work well together, somehow. But I must not
talk to you now, you are busy."
"Oh no; this letter is of no consequence," said Aldyth, laying down her
pen. "I am only too happy to listen to you, mother—mamma, I mean."
She rose from her place at the table, and took a seat opposite to her
mother.
"Thank you, dear," said Mrs. Stanton, sweetly, "that is right. Now we
can have a nice cosy talk; but we will not discuss my troubles. Tell me
about your life at Woodham, my dear child."
"I think you have heard all that there is to tell," said Aldyth; "you
know it is a very quiet place."
"Detestably quiet," said Mrs. Stanton; "I never could bear Woodham.
I always disliked it when as a girl I used to go over there from
Colchester, and my great dread when I became engaged to your father was
that he would want we to live at Woodham. Well, I have escaped that,
have I not? Do you often go to Wyndham?"
"Almost every week," said Aldyth. "Uncle always complains if I let a
week pass without his seeing me."
"Ah, you are a great favourite with your uncle; I am very glad of
that," said her mother, fervently. "Now tell me about your cousin—what
sort of a man is he?"
"He is tall," said Aldyth, with a sparkle of fun in her eyes, "and he
has broad shoulders, and he is very strong. His hair is light, and his
face ruddy; his eyes, I think, are blue; he has good features, and many
people consider him good-looking. He rides well, is a bold hunter, a
crack shot, and altogether a splendid specimen of a country gentleman."
"Oh, my dear! I don't want all these details," said her mother. "Tell
me, do you like him? Are you great friends?"
"Yes, we are good friends," said Aldyth, carelessly; "you see, I have
known him all my life; he is almost a brother to me."
"Now, that is nonsense, Aldyth," said Mrs. Stanton, quickly; "cousins
cannot be brothers, and, after all, he is only your second cousin. What
I want to know—and I think I as your mother have a right to ask—is
whether he has ever given you cause to suppose that he wishes to marry
you?"
Aldyth's farce grew crimson. She was silent. It was a curious proof of
the subtle change that had taken place in her feelings with regard to
her mother that whereas at the time of Guy's proposal, she had longed
to tell it all to her mother. Now that the subject was thus introduced,
she shrank from its discussion, and would gladly have evaded it
altogether.
"Surely you can tell me, dearest," said her mother, seeing her
hesitation. "Who can care for your welfare as I do? If your happiness
is bound up with your cousin's, tell me so."
There was something so ludicrous to Aldyth in the idea suggested by her
mother's words, that she could not help laughing.
"Oh, mamma, it is not so, I assure you," she said. "I should never care
for Guy in that way. He did ask me to marry him a little while ago, but
he quite understands now that it can never be."
"But why?" asked Mrs. Stanton, a look of vexation clouding her brow.
"My dear Aldyth, I do hope you have not been misled by the foolish,
romantic notions some girls have about love. How could you be so blind
to your own interests as to refuse your cousin? Do you forget that he
is the heir of Wyndham?"
"I do not see what that has to do with it, mamma," said Aldyth. "You
would not have me marry a man whom I cannot truly love?"
"But you say that you like him, that you are good friends," persisted
Mrs. Stanton; "what more would you have? What is this love you dream
of? It is all very well in novels and poems, but in real life, one has
to be guided by practical considerations. Does not your uncle desire
this marriage?"
"Yes, he would like it," said Aldyth, in a low, pained tone.
"Then, my dear, how can you be so foolish? Do you not know how ready
your uncle is to take offence? If you cross his will, you may lose your
inheritance, as your poor father did. Stephen Lorraine has never said
what were his intentions concerning you, but I always thought that he
meant you should share Guy's fortune. Oh, dear! I would not have had
you act so foolishly for the world; but perhaps it is not yet too late
to set things right."
"You do not understand me, mamma," said Aldyth. "I am sorry to
displease you, but I can never, never marry Guy. It would be most wrong
of me to do so, feeling as I do."
"Then there is some one else you care for," said Mrs. Stanton, sharply.
Aldyth flushed. "You are mistaken," she said, coldly, "there is no one
else; but I cannot see that makes any difference."
"Well, of all foolish, unpractical girls, you are the worst I could
ever imagine!" said Mrs. Stanton, indignantly. "Why, most girls would
jump at such an offer."
But Aldyth had risen, and was hurrying from the room. She ran up stairs
with hot tears in her eyes, and a choking sensation in her throat. She
was indignant with her mother for uttering such words.
It was a sore wound to find that the mother whom unknown she had loved
devotedly all her life was capable of giving her such low, worldly
counsel. It was no longer possible to hide from herself the keen
disappointment she was suffering. The truth was not to be disguised.
Her mother, beautiful, charming, gracious as she appeared, was not the
mother of whom she had dreamed through long years. The hopes she had
built on her home-coming were all delusive. The perfect sympathy, the
mutual confidence and help to which she had looked forward, were not to
be. As she recognized this fact, certain words of Christina Rossetti's
kept repeating themselves in Aldyth's mind—
"The hope I dreamed of was a dream,
Was but a dream; and now I wake
Exceeding comfortless, and worn, and old,
For a dream's sake."
Were other things dreams too? Was she indeed foolishly, romantic, as
her mother had said? Were her ideals mistaken? The glorious visions of
the poets, were they illusive? The grand possibilities that life had
seemed to her to hold, as she studied the inspiring utterances of the
great teachers of mankind, were they too phantasmal? Was there indeed
no poetry in life, and would she be wiser if she consented to follow
the dictates of vulgar, worldly prudence?
In the heart-sickness caused by the shock of her first real
disappointment, Aldyth questioned everything. What was the good of life
if it were so low and sordid, so barren of all that is truly noble and
elevating? But presently, healthier feelings returned to her.
She had taken refuge in her room, and was sitting gazing dully before
her, when a ray of wintry sunshine entering through the window
gleamed on a tiny bunch of violets which Nelly had placed on her
dressing-table. Aldyth caught them up, and their beauty and sweetness
comforted her. After all, the world was not the dreary place she had
been imagining it.
God was in the world, God, working ever for righteousness and purity
and loveliness, and God was love. Did not the poet Browning say that
the grand lesson of life was to learn love—what love had been, what
love might be?
"I believe in love and God," said Aldyth to herself; "and, God helping
me, I will be true to my ideal of what my life should be. I will not
love my mother less because she is not just what I had fancied she
would be. Is not a certain amount of forbearance necessary in every
human relationship? I will strive to be to my mother all that a
daughter should be, and perhaps in time she will come to think as I do
about things. I hope she did not see how impatient and angry I felt
just now."
And Aldyth dried her eyes, and seeing that the sunshine looked
inviting, put on her hat and jacket and set off to take her usual
remedy for depression—a good walk.
CHAPTER XVI.
CONTRASTS.
WHEN Nelly had been sent to school, Aldyth found herself more at
leisure.
Gladys was always good-natured and bright; there was something very
charming in her pretty, careless ways. It was impossible to help loving
her, and yet after she had lived with her for weeks, Aldyth felt that
she knew her no better than on the first day of their meeting. It
seemed impossible to have a quiet talk with Gladys; she was always
self-occupied, restless, eager about trifles. Apparently she did not
know what serious thought was. She had inherited her mother's gift of
fascination, and, like her, knew how to use it for the accomplishment
of her own ends.
Aldyth could never have said that her sister treated her unkindly;
yet again and again, she found herself gently pushed on one side that
Gladys might take the lead.
Gladys had been first in the family for too many years to be willing
now to resign her premiership in favour of Aldyth just because she,
too, was her mother's daughter and nearly three years older than
herself. But she did not assert her supremacy in any disagreeable
manner, and Mrs. Stanton endeavoured to veil her preference for Gladys.
"You do not care for dancing, Aldyth, so I must not take you to this
party;" or, "This entertainment is not intellectual enough for you,"
she would say, when invitations came in. And Aldyth, not without
heartache, yet in all sincerity, would reply that she would rather
remain at home.
Aldyth used to look forward to the Saturday of each week, for early on
that day Nelly would come home from school.
She and her young sister had become the best of friends, and found much
enjoyment in each other's company. It was good for Nelly to confide to
so sympathetic a listener the details of her school life. Her mother
had neither time nor inclination to interest herself in them. Her main
anxiety concerning her youngest daughter's education was that she
should learn to speak French and acquire a good deportment.
Nelly had good abilities, but she was naturally indolent. The training
she had received had not taught her to love knowledge; but now, under
Aldyth's influence, she began to take an interest in literature. She
was working well at her drawing, and cherished the hope of being an
artist; and when Aldyth pointed out to her the fact that every kind of
knowledge may be of service to a painter, she bestowed more pains on
her general school work.
Aldyth could not doubt that her stepfather was a man of wealth, for
Mrs. Stanton and Gladys spent money lavishly, and the style of their
home was most luxurious. There were so many servants that Aldyth could
find no domestic duties to perform. She was at no loss how to employ
her leisure.
Mudie's Library supplied her with the books she desired to read, and
all the varied means of culture that London affords were open to her.
But there were times when Aldyth's conscience smote her for leading a
selfish, aimless life, and she longed for her poor people at Woodham,
and the many occupations of her busy life there. However, work for
others always comes to those who are willing to undertake it, and ere
long it came to Aldyth.
One day, Gladys having a pleasanter engagement in prospect, Mrs.
Stanton took Aldyth to visit some friends at Blackheath. There was
a small party invited to meet them, and amongst the number were a
clergyman and his wife, in whom Aldyth soon felt considerable interest.
Mrs. Wheatley was a small, frail-looking woman, but full of life and
energy. Her features were plain, but her countenance had a charm which
beauties might envy, for it betokened rare intellectual power combined
with all that is good and sweet and womanly. Aldyth felt drawn to her
at once, and probably the attraction was mutual, for as soon as an
opportunity occurred, Mrs. Wheatley moved to a chair beside Aldyth and
began to talk with her.
How is it that half an hour's talk with some persons seems equal to
months of intercourse with others? In an incredibly short time Aldyth
felt perfectly at home with Mrs. Wheatley, and could talk to her as
if she were an old friend. To her surprise, Aldyth learned that this
delicate, refined-looking lady lived in one of the least desirable
localities of the East-end of London, having resolutely determined,
contrary to the advice of physicians and friends, that she would make
her home in her husband's parish, and live among the poor people she
desired to help and raise.
"You must not believe all that you hear about Whitechapel," she said
brightly to Aldyth. "People talk of the impossibility of getting fresh
air there; but even in Whitechapel there is a breeze sometimes, and
when it is close and heavy in the streets, there is fresh air at the
tops of the houses. Our rooms are on the fourth story of the house, and
there is the flat roof of a tenement on which I can take a walk when
I choose, and where I am trying to cultivate some plants. Nor is the
moral atmosphere so hopeless as some would make out. I could show you
brave men in Whitechapel, whose patient endurance of a hard and painful
lot is absolutely heroic, and women whose pure, noble lives, under
circumstances the most adverse, would put duchesses to shame. I know
they have often taught me lessons I needed to learn."
Aldyth was much interested. It was vexatious that just then the lady
of the house should come to her with a request that she would play
something; but she could not refuse. She went at once to the piano,
and played a bright little gavotte by Gluck; then, being urged to play
again, she gave one of Schubert's exquisite, entrancing melodies. Mrs.
Stanton was not without satisfaction in her daughter's performance and
the admiration it won. She wished that Gladys could have been persuaded
to give more attention to her practising.
Happily no one had taken Aldyth's place, so she was able to return to
Mrs. Wheatley's side.
"You play very well; it is a pleasure to listen to you," said that
lady, simply. "I wish you would come and play to my working girls some
evening."
"Your working girls?" said Aldyth.
"Yes; we have established a club for girls employed in factories and
workshops. It is open every evening from seven till ten. We have
various amusements for them, and we try to teach them sewing and
cooking. We have a good piano, and I am always glad to get some one to
give us some music. Besides, it is so easy for a girl like you to win
an influence over them."
"Indeed, I will gladly do anything I can," said Aldyth; "I should
really like to help."
"I am sure you would," said Mrs. Wheatley; "it is a work that appeals
to a girl's heart. These girls have to support themselves when quite
young. Many of them have left their parents, and live in poor lodgings,
sharing their room, perhaps, with several others, and when their
work is done, they have no place of recreation save the streets or
the music-halls. A warm, well-lighted room, where they can spend the
evening pleasantly, is a great attraction to them. We have some rough,
intractable girls to deal with; but we hope gradually to soften them by
kindness, and I am sure you would be a great help in doing so."
"I will try what I can do," said Aldyth. "I will come next week, if
mamma will let me."
Aldyth was sure that her mother would not allow her to go unattended
to Whitechapel, so before naming the matter to her, she spoke of it to
one of the servants, explained to her the kind of work in which she
had been invited to join, and asked whether she would be willing to
share it by accompanying her once a week to the East-end. The servant,
an honest good-hearted girl, was proud and pleased that Miss Lorraine
should seek her assistance, and gladly consented.
Mrs. Stanton made no objection to Aldyth's plan, though she thought
it an incomprehensible whim of hers to wish to go to such a horrible
place. It was a happy thing for Aldyth that her mother rarely
interfered with her wishes, except when they were adverse to her own.
So Aldyth went to her work in Whitechapel, and made acquaintance with
the factory girls of the East-end. It was work in which she soon became
deeply interested, and it inspired her with many new solemn thoughts
about life.
As Mrs. Wheatley had foreseen, the girls "took to her" at once, for
women of the lower classes are quick to recognize a "real lady" when
they see one, and to feel the charm of her gentleness and simplicity.
Aldyth's pleasant look, her smile, the sweet tones of her voice, her
fresh, pretty gowns, and the dainty, flower-like neatness of her
person, could not have charmed any male admirer more than they charmed
these girls. They clustered about her, they applauded the bright,
well-chosen music she gave them, and they watched eagerly for the
chance of a talk with her.
Aldyth had no difficulty in gaining their confidence. They could see
that she liked to hear all they could tell her about themselves, and
one by one they told her of the troubles and hardships of their lives,
not complainingly, but in a simple, matter-of-fact manner, that was
touching in its very unconsciousness.
One evening Aldyth, returning tired from Whitechapel, met Gladys
alighting from a carriage at the door of their home. She had been
spending the evening in a very different fashion at the house of some
friends. She followed Aldyth into the dining room, where a light supper
awaited her.
"I will sit with you while you take your chocolate," Gladys said,
throwing off her cloak and sinking gracefully into an easy-chair by the
fire. "The Andersons are so nice, Aldyth; I've had the most delightful
time. You were a silly not to come with me instead of going to those
stupid girls at Whitechapel."
Aldyth looked at her sister for a moment, ere she replied.
Gladys, dressed all in white, with her pretty neck uncovered and her
coronal of golden hair gleaming in the lamplight, never looked more
fair.
But Aldyth had a sudden painful sense of the contrast presented to her
sister by the girls she had left, as young as Gladys, and some of them
as fair, but with weary faces and thin, bent forms, whose clothes were
shabby and tawdry, and whose lives had so little of what was bright and
pleasant in them.
"Oh, Gladys!" she said. "Don't grudge our girls any pleasure I can give
them by going. If you only knew what their lives are! If I were one of
them, I think it would make me feel bad to look on a girl like you."
"And why, pray?" asked Gladys, with an air of surprise.
"Because you have so much to enjoy, and they so little," said Aldyth.
"Most of them are as young, if not younger than you, and a few of
them—forgive me, Gladys—are almost as pretty. I often long to try the
effect of dressing them in fresh, becoming frocks. But their lives are
hard and rough. Most of them toil from eight in the morning till eight
at night, and some of them, who call themselves 'shop girls,' work
till even later. There was a girl to whom I spoke to-night, a bright
young girl of fifteen, and when I offered her a book, she told me she
could not read because her eyes were so bad, owing to her having to do
her work—stitching babies' bibs—under a strong gaslight all day long.
Another girl, who has to go up and down many flights of stairs during
the day, could not join in a game because her ankles were so dreadfully
swollen. Does it not seem hard that some young girls should have to
live so, whilst others have everything that heart can wish, and nothing
to do but enjoy themselves? I am sure when I look on those girls, I am
ashamed to think what an easy, self-indulgent life I have always led."
There was a passionate quiver in Aldyth's voice as she spoke, which
showed that tears were not far from her eyes. Gladys was not unmoved by
her earnest words.
"But they belong to the working class," she said. "They cannot expect
to lead such lives as ours."
"Oh, they know that well enough," said Aldyth. "It is wonderful to me
how patiently they bear their hard lot. 'Ladies have fine times of it;
it is good to be born a lady,' I heard a girl say to-night; but it is
rarely we hear such remarks. And yet, human nature is the same in every
class, and these girls have the same feelings as you and I."
"Aldyth!" said Gladys, in a sceptical tone.
"Indeed they have," said Aldyth. "They yearn for happiness as we do,
they feel the same eagerness for every attainable pleasure; they love
things that are bright and pretty. Ah, you should have seen how eager
they were for a few flowers I took to-day. The bunch was gone in no
time, and the girls who could not get a flower were sadly disappointed.
I had to promise that I would bring some more next week. I shall ask
aunt to send me some from Woodham. The primroses must be coming out
there now."
"It is very good of you to take so much trouble," said Gladys.
"Oh, I think we more fortunate girls are bound to do all we can to help
and gladden our poor sisters," said Aldyth. "Do you know when I was
with them to-night, I kept thinking of those words in the Bible—'Who
maketh thee to differ from another? And what hast thou that thou didst
not receive?' I think we are apt to forget that all the good things we
have received—our education, accomplishments, personal attractions—are
all trusts, given to us to be used for others, and not simply for our
own enjoyment."
"Oh, don't be so dreadfully solemn!" exclaimed Gladys, suddenly
springing up. "Aldyth, you really must marry a parson, for at a pinch,
you could make his sermons for him, and it would be a great pity such a
talent should be wasted."
"Why not say at once that I should mount the pulpit and preach?" asked
Aldyth laughing. "But, Gladys, I do wish you would come to Whitechapel
with me some night. It would give the girls such pleasure to hear you
sing."
But Gladys held up her hands in horror at the idea.
"I could not really, Aldyth. You frighten me by proposing such a thing.
I should be afraid of catching smallpox or something dreadful if I went
there. Oh, surely one martyr is enough in a family! Ah, yes, you may
shake your head. I know I'm a sad girl—I know I care for nothing but
pleasure—but that's my way, and you must take me as I am."
"Oh, Gladys, you do not mean that. It would be a poor thing to live
only for pleasure," Aldyth said.
"I do mean it, you dear old mentor," said Gladys, stopping her mouth
with a kiss; "and I do not find it a poor thing either, so there! But
now it is time we got our beauty sleep, so, if you are ready, we will
go up stairs."
Aldyth found in her room a letter from Hilda, and, tired though she
was, she could not resist reading it ere she went to bed. The envelope
felt thick, so she might expect a good budget of news, and with
pleasurable anticipations, she tore it open and sat down to read the
contents. This was what Hilda had written:—
"MY OWN DARLING ALDYTH,—Am I not very good to reply to your dear
letter so soon? But you will not wonder when you hear the exciting story
I have to tell. You know, I dare say, that since Sultan went lame, and
the veterinary said he would need a long rest, your uncle has bought
a new horse for the gig. He is a splendid animal as far as appearance
goes, but Miss Lorraine said from the first that he had a vicious
look. However, your uncle thought he had got a good bargain, and he
must needs go out with John in the gig to try him. Guy wanted to drive
him for the first time, but your uncle would not hear of it. He was
still very displeased with poor Guy; nothing he did gave satisfaction.
However, Guy occupied the back seat of the gig, and came into Woodham
with them; but seeing that the horse was going all right, he got down
at the post-office, and said he would walk home. To tell you the truth,
Aldyth dear, he meant to linger about the town with the hope of seeing
poor little me.
"Well, Mr. Lorraine called on his dear friend, Miss Rudkin, and John
walked the horse up and down whilst he was there. Whether the delay
irritated him, or whether he took fright at a tramp who was coming
along the road with a sack on his back, it is impossible to say, but
Mr. Lorraine had hardly taken his seat ere the horse began to plunge
wildly, and when John whipped him, he bolted. Old John was powerless
to hold him in, and he went down town like the wind. Kitty was at the
window and saw the horse run away, and she says she shall never forget
it. Fortunately the road was clear.
"The horse tore down the High Street till close upon the corner where
the old church juts out, and what would have happened then no one dare
say, if Guy—dear, brave, noble Guy!—had not come to the rescue. He was
standing talking to some one outside the saddler's, and saw the horse
coming. In a moment he was in the road, gave one bound, and caught the
reins, and, hanging on with desperate strength, forced the animal to
stop. How he did it, I cannot imagine, it makes me tremble even now to
think of it; but you know how strong he is, and now he has proved that
he is as bold as he is strong.
"Oh, Aldyth, you can never laugh at Guy again, or run him down. You
ought to be very proud of your brave cousin. But I forget that you will
be anxious to know how your uncle was after such a fright. He really
bore it wonderfully well. He was a little faint at first, and they took
him into Hall's and gave him some brandy. In half an hour he seemed all
right, and oh, Aldyth! He thanked Guy before everybody, and said he had
saved his life, and called him a brave fellow. And, only think, the
next day he insisted on going for a drive again with the same horse,
only Guy drove, so no harm came of it. But would any one except Mr.
Lorraine have done such a thing?
"I met them as they were driving, and your uncle nodded to me quite
pleasantly, and Guy looked so pleased. Oh, I hope it is not very
foolish of me, but I cannot help thinking that perhaps after all,
things will come right for us. Surely, Mr. Lorraine must be kind to
Guy, now he has saved his life!
"Miss Lorraine has just been in on her way home from Wyndham, and she
says she believes that her uncle is more affected by the shock than he
will own. She thought him looking very shaky.
"Oh, Aldyth, how I wish you were here! There is so much I should like
to tell you, and it is impossible to put everything in a letter. Mr.
Glynne's sister has come to stay with him for a few weeks. She seems a
very nice girl, and we have invited her to spend Tuesday with us. But I
must not write more now. With fondest love, dearest Aldyth,—
"Your devoted friend,
"HILDA."
Here was news indeed! All desire of sleep vanished from Aldyth as she
read it. She was moved both to thankfulness and to self-reproach as she
thought of her uncle's danger and Guy's brave conduct.
"Perhaps I have been too hard on him," she said to herself. "Perhaps
there is more in him than I suppose. Anyhow it was a brave deed, and I
am glad, oh, so glad and thankful, that he had strength and courage to
do it."
One effect of Hilda's letter was to awake in Aldyth a longing to return
to Woodham. She had now been absent from the little town for several
months, and it was with somewhat of home-sickness that she recalled all
the varied interests of her life there. It was spring weather now, and
amid the London streets and squares, she yearned for the country lanes
and the woods and fields bright with primroses and cowslips.
And to think that Mr. Glynne's sister was now at Woodham! Aldyth would
have given much to make her acquaintance, and to join in the long walks
which she would be taking with the Blands. But she sagely reflected
that we cannot have everything at once in this life. She had—what for
years had been her heart's chief desire—the society of her mother and
sisters, and she must be content to resign her old life at Woodham,
which, as she now saw plainly, had been full of quiet happiness.
She was finding a niche in her new home, and learning daily that even
in London there were many who needed her. Her stepfather, who whilst
the days of his wife and Gladys were wholly occupied with gaiety,
seemed to grow more and more weary and depressed, often sought her help
in little matters for which his wife had no leisure and seemed glad of
her company. Cecil came to her with tales of his hospital experiences,
and found to his surprise that Aldyth knew more about surgery than most
girls, and could listen with intelligent interest to the "horrors" at
the very mention of which his mother and Gladys stopped their ears.
And Nelly looked forward with delight to the pleasant "outings" which
Aldyth contrived that they should have together almost every Saturday
afternoon. Even Gladys invariably sought Aldyth whenever she needed
assistance of any kind. But to her mother, despite tender words and
caresses, Aldyth could never feel that she was very near and dear. The
long years of separation seemed to have left between them a void that
could not easily be bridged over.
CHAPTER XVII.
HILDA IS HAPPY.
THREE days had passed since Aldyth received Hilda's letter. Her aunt
had sent her a full account of what had happened, and a few curt, but
not unkind, words from her uncle had assured her that there was no need
for her to feel any anxiety on his account.
It was about five o'clock on a bright afternoon, and Aldyth, having had
occasion to go to a shop there, was walking in Oxford Street. She was
near Regent Circus when, to her great astonishment, she perceived her
grand-uncle a few yards in front of her, stepping cautiously from an
omnibus. He did not perceive her, and she looked at him for a moment
or two, hardly able to believe her eyes. Her uncle, who professed to
dislike London so much, and had not been known to visit it for years!
Indeed, it was a great event for him at any time to go beyond twenty
miles of his home. But there he was, in his old velveteen coat, his
white hat, his drab gaiters, just as Aldyth was accustomed to see him
at Woodham, but looking strangely out of place on the London pavement.
She hurriedly made her way to his side.
"Uncle! I little expected to see you in Oxford Street."
He turned, surprised and pleased, yet his manner betrayed some
discomposure.
"Ah, Aldyth, is it you? Well, it is a happy chance that we should meet
thus. Yes, you may well be surprised to see me here; but business
brought me to town. I came up on business."
Aldyth could not remember that her uncle had ever come up to London on
business before. He was wont to manage all his business through the
agency of Mr. Ralph Greenwood.
"Were you coming to see me, uncle?" she asked.
"Well, no, I was not," he answered, still with a shade of embarrassment
in his manner; "I have finished my business, and I thought I would take
a little look about town before going home by the evening train."
"Then you will come and see mamma?" said Aldyth, eagerly. "She will be
so pleased to see you."
The old man did not at once reply. He only smiled a peculiar, grim
smile, which said, as plainly as words could utter it, "But I should
not be pleased to see her."
"Do you really think she would be pleased?" he asked sarcastically,
after a few moments. "Suppose she had some of her fashionable friends
with her, would she be delighted, do you think, to see a queer,
old-fashioned countryman like me come into her fine drawing room?"
"I do not believe that would make any difference, uncle," Aldyth said.
He laughed sceptically.
"Ah, my dear, you must excuse me," he said; "I knew your mother before
you were born."
Aldyth's cheeks were burning. She wished he would not speak of her
mother in that contemptuous tone.
"I am glad I happened to meet you," she said, "since otherwise I should
not have seen you at all. Shall we go into the Park and sit down for a
little while? It is quite warm, and I want to have a talk with you."
He assented with evident pleasure. In a few minutes they were at the
Marble Arch, and entering the Park found a quiet seat under some trees.
"Aldyth," said her uncle suddenly, "you will be good enough not to
mention to your mother that you have seen me to-day; and do not name it
when you are writing to Woodham. I do not wish my coming up to town to
be talked about there."
Aldyth promised; but she could not but wonder that her uncle should
think it possible to keep people at Woodham knowing that he had made a
journey to town.
Presently she expressed her thankfulness for his recent escape from
danger.
"Yes," he said, thoughtfully, "it was a narrow escape,—a narrow escape
indeed. And Guy acted like a hero. He saved my life at the risk of his
own; there's no denying that. How he hung on to that brute of a horse I
can't tell. His wrists feel the strain yet."
"Oh, uncle, I hope you do not drive that animal still," Aldyth said.
"Well, no, I suppose I shall have to give it up; he's not safe in the
shafts. Guy can ride him. Guy is a good rider. Sometimes I think that
perhaps I have been too hard on him; he is a good fellow, is Guy. I did
hope I should have seen you married to him, Aldyth; but I suppose it
cannot be."
"No, uncle, it can never be," Aldyth said.
"I had set my heart on it," he continued, sadly, not angrily; "but you
young people have a way of thwarting all my plans. You must have your
own way, however things go. I thought you cared for Wyndham; I thought
you would have taken a pride in the old place."
"I do love Wyndham," Aldyth said.
"Yes, but you do not care to live there—at least, not as Guy's wife.
Aldyth, tell me, you would not be one to pull down and alter the old
place, if it were in your power to retain it as it is?"
"Certainly not," said Aldyth, wondering at the question; "I am not one
to desire change. I like things to be as they have always been."
"Ah, yes," he said, musingly. "Well, there is no saying how things will
be. Perhaps some other girl will be the mistress of Wyndham. Would you
mind if it were so, Aldyth?"
"Why, no, uncle," said Aldyth, "I assure you, I have never thought of
such a thing as being the mistress of Wyndham. Guy and I are really not
at all suited to each other."
"Yes, but there are other ways," he said. There was a pause of some
minutes, and then he asked, abruptly, "Are you and Hilda Bland as good
friends as ever, Aldyth?"
"Oh, yes, uncle, indeed we are."
"Does she write to you?"
"Yes."
"Ah, well," he said, and his voice quavered as he spoke, "there is no
saying how things will be at the last. I change my plans, and then I
change them again. Sometimes I think I am getting old and weak, and do
not know my own mind. But I mean it for the best. However things are, I
mean it for the best. I suppose I have a right to do as I like with my
own? They'll find fault with me, no doubt, when I'm gone; but I mean it
for the best."
His voice had dropped, and as he rambled on thus it seemed to Aldyth
that he had forgotten where he was and that she was by his side. She
had fancied him unchanged when first she saw him; but now it seemed
to her that there was a change in him, though it was one not easy to
define.
She laid her hand on his, and he looked round with a startled air, but
recovering himself slowly, he said, "I don't know why I should talk
about going. I am not so very old. Several of my ancestors lived to
be ninety, and why should not I? I have always lived temperately. Why
should not I see ninety, please God?"
"I trust you will, uncle," Aldyth said, gently; "but now, at what time
does your train leave for Woodham?"
"Eh? The time; half-past six, to be sure. What's the time now? Oh, I
don't trust any of your London clocks." And he pulled out the huge gold
repeater familiar to Aldyth from her childhood. "Ah, I must leave you,
child. I am glad we met. When are you coming to Woodham again? You do
not look so well as when you left us. Tell me, are you happy with your
mother and sisters? Do they treat you properly?"
"Yes, indeed they are very kind to me; I have nothing to complain of,"
Aldyth said, but nevertheless there was a yearning in her heart for
Woodham and its peaceful, pleasant ways.
"Well, if they do treat you badly, you know where to come," her uncle
said.
As they walked through the Park to the nearest entrance, many a
passer-by looked curiously at the quaint old squire and the tall,
graceful girl by his side, whilst he on his part bestowed a fierce
scrutiny and more or less unflattering comments on every person or
equipage that met his gaze. When Aldyth had seen her uncle into a cab
for Liverpool Street, she hurried homewards, and reached the house
barely in time to change her dress and appear at the dinner-table as
usual.
Her mind was full of her uncle during the evening, and she found it
difficult to avoid mentioning him.
A few days later, Aldyth received a second letter from Hilda, the
contents of which gave her both surprise and pleasure.
"Oh, Aldyth," Hilda wrote, "you will hardly believe the good news I
have to tell you. I can hardly believe it myself, though it makes me so
happy—I cannot tell you how happy I am. But I must explain. On Saturday
mother had a most polite note from Mr. Lorraine, begging her to come on
Monday with her two daughters to spend the day at Wyndham. The carriage
should be sent for us at any hour that would suit our convenience. You
may imagine how surprised we were, for Mr. Lorraine had been barely
civil to us since the day he called here and behaved so rude, and I
do not think mother had forgiven him for telling her she did not look
after her daughters properly.
"However, I persuaded mother it was her duty to forget that now, and
Kitty wanted to see the horses at Wyndham, and I—Ah, I need not tell
you how I felt about it! Anyhow, mother accepted the invitation, and
about noon we started for Wyndham.
"The dear old man—yes, I can call him dear now—received us with
charming courtesy. He had arranged that Guy should take me and Kitty
for a ride in the afternoon; was it not good of him? You can fancy how
delighted Kitty was, nor was I less so; and as for Guy, I never saw
him in such spirits. Kitty rode Pansy, and the lovely creature was so
tricksy. She does not get exercise enough now you are away.
"But now for the most wonderful item of my news. It was easy to see
that the squire was in a very good humour with Guy. Well, whilst we
were riding, Mr. Lorraine had a long talk with mother, and told her he
had decided to let Guy take his own way with regard to his marriage,
and if he still wished to marry me, he was free to do so.
"And to make a short story of it, Aldyth, we are now engaged, and in
a day or two, all Woodham will know it. But, of course, you must be
the first friend to hear of it; I know how glad you will be. You can
sympathize with me in my happiness as no one else can. Oh, I am happy.
I can say with Juliet—
"My true love is grown to such excess,
I cannot sum up half my sum of wealth."
"I wonder what people will say when they hear of my engagement? It will
be a surprise, for it has always been said that you would marry your
cousin. But, talking of gossip, what do you think is Miss Rudkin's
latest piece of news? She declares that your uncle went to London by
the first train on Wednesday morning, and that he drove all the way to
Wickham, and took the train there, in order that people should not know
that he went! Did you ever hear anything so absurd? I suppose you have
not seen him in town?"
There was much more in the letter, which Aldyth read several times.
She was delighted to hear of Hilda's happiness, and inclined to esteem
Guy more highly than she had ever done before. It never occurred to
her that she had any cause to deplore the engagement, as likely to
be detrimental to her own prospects. Aldyth was not wont to concern
herself greatly about her future, and she had never felt anxious to
know her uncle's intentions with respect to his property. A healthy,
happy girlhood has no temptation to be greedy after wealth. It seemed
to her a fortunate circumstance that her uncle's horse had run away,
since Guy's gallant conduct had so softened the old man's feelings as
to make him for once renounce a cherished wish.
And so people had said that she would marry Guy! It was not surprising,
but it vexed her to think of it. Had Mr. Glynne heard it said? The
colour deepened in her cheeks as she asked herself the question. Well,
if so, he would now know that it was a mistake. Aldyth was glad to
think this; she did not like the idea of his supposing that she would
be willing to marry Guy.
Hilda's letter had put Aldyth into excellent spirits. But when she
hastened to share the news with her mother and sister, the brightness
of her mood was checked. Mrs. Stanton heard it with feelings that were
beyond control.
"You can pretend to be pleased at this, Aldyth?" she asked, in a tragic
tone.
"There is no pretence about it, mamma. I am unfeignedly glad that Hilda
is to marry Guy. I used to doubt if he were good enough for her; but I
think better of him now."
"You ought to be ashamed to talk so!" cried her mother, in tones sharp
and high. "I have no patience with you. To think that you might have
been the mistress of Wyndham! You should bewail your folly instead of
rejoicing. One would think you had no sense."
Aldyth stood silent; but it was not without a strong effort that she
kept herself from uttering hot, indignant words.
"Now you have crossed his wish, I dare say your uncle will not leave
you a penny," continued Mrs. Stanton. "You might, for the sake of us
all, have played your cards better than that. I hope you will not
infect Gladys with your stupidly romantic notions."
Here the flow of Mrs. Stanton's eloquence ceased abruptly, for Aldyth
turned without a word and quitted the room.
"You need not have dragged my name into the discussion, mamma," said
Gladys, with scorn in her tones. "You might know that I belong to
another order of being, and could never act like Aldyth."
"I hope not, indeed," said Mrs. Stanton, devoutly. "I trust you have
more wisdom."
"I don't know about that," said Gladys; "though the Bible does say that
'the children of this world are in their generation wiser than the
children of light.' You and I belong this world, mamma. I rather fancy
Aldyth must be one of the 'children of light.'"
"What do you mean by speaking in that absurd way? It is not like you,
Gladys."
Aldyth had hurried from her mother's presence that she might not be
over-mastered by an impulse to relieve her irritated feeling by quick,
passionate words. She had a great dread—born of the sacred idea of
motherhood she had ever cherished—of being driven to utter bitter,
unbecoming words to her mother. It was no uncommon thing for Gladys
to address her mother disrespectfully. Angry words sometimes passed
between them, though they were good friends as a rule. But if Aldyth
ever had a scene with her mother, she knew that the thought of it would
leave an indelible stain upon her consciousness, and turn to bitterest
irony the hopes of past years.
Mrs. Stanton did not again refer to Guy's engagement; but she treated
Aldyth with marked coldness during the next few days. But, as if
to atone for her mother's unkindness, Gladys' manner towards her
sister was more affectionate than usual. It was she who insisted that
Aldyth should accompany them to the Horticultural Gardens on Saturday
afternoon. Aldyth consented with some reluctance, for she would have
preferred to spend the time with Nelly, as usual. But she could hardly
regret that she had come when they reached the gardens, which were
looking their loveliest in the first fresh beauty of the spring.
Mr. and Mrs. Stanton seated themselves under the trees to listen to the
band, but the girls preferred to move about, admiring the flowers and
observing the well-dressed crowd. Some of the ladies were so fair and
so charmingly dressed that they seemed to rival the flowers in beauty.
Aldyth did not wonder that many eyes were directed towards her sister;
she saw no one prettier than Gladys in her gown of palest blue and
large white hat. But attractive as was the appearance of Gladys, Aldyth
did not suffer total eclipse as she walked by her side. Several persons
inquired the name of the tall girl who was Miss Stanton's companion,
and decided that though she might not be called beautiful, there was
something very interesting about her.
Aldyth went so little into society that she did not expect to meet any
one she knew. Gladys stopped now and then to chat with acquaintances,
and was careful to introduce her sister; but Aldyth felt herself amidst
strangers, till suddenly, as she stood on the outskirt of a little
group, a gentleman paused before her, bowing, and saying, in tones of
pleasurable surprise—
"Miss Lorraine! This is an unexpected pleasure. Somehow one seems to
forget that it is possible for Woodham people to come to London."
It was Captain Walker.
Aldyth greeted him with pleasure, and they entered at once into
an enjoyable chat over Woodham affairs. He had not heard of Guy's
engagement, and the news seemed greatly to please him. Aldyth was
amused at the warmth with which he expressed himself on the subject.
Presently Aldyth introduced him to Gladys, and a little later to her
mother, who, deciding at once that the young man had a distinguished
appearance, received him most graciously. Captain Walker remained with
them as long as they stayed in the gardens. As he saw them into their
carriage, Mrs. Stanton informed him that they were always "at home" on
Sunday evenings, and begged that he would give them the pleasure of his
company on the following evening.
Aldyth had always liked Captain Walker, and it was a pleasure to her
to see an old friend who knew all about Woodham and her life there.
She was sorry that her mother had invited him for Sunday evening; for
ever since her coming to London, she had made it a rule not to join the
party gathered in the drawing room on that evening. The Lord's day was
sacred and precious to Aldyth. She liked to feel that it was different
from every other day. It was no hardship, but a pleasure to her, when
at Woodham, to attend both services at the church, and to spend the
afternoon with her class in the Sunday school.
But Sunday observances were deemed irksome in her mother's home. In
her Australian life, Mrs. Stanton had forsaken the religious habits of
earlier days. She had learned to laugh at the old-fashioned Sabbath of
her childhood, and she considered that she had sufficiently recognized
the sacred character of the day if she attended a short service in the
forenoon. That over, the rest of the day might be given to pleasure and
self-indulgence.
Aldyth could see little difference between Sundays and other days in
her new home, but she could not bear so to waste the day she found so
helpful if rightly spent. She had the courage to avow her convictions
on the subject, and to make a point of attending an evening service.
Mrs. Stanton laughed at her Puritanical notions, but left her free to
do as she liked. Nor did she raise any objection when Nelly began to
accompany her sister. Mrs. Stanton found her youngest daughter not easy
to manage; she was apt to get cross and sulky if anything put her out,
so that her absence when visitors were expected was rather a relief
than otherwise.
Aldyth thought it probable that she would be urged to remain at home on
the following evening, but, rather to her surprise, no notice was taken
of the fact that Captain Walker was her friend. She went to church as
usual, and afterwards remained quietly in her room till the visitors
had departed. Coming down stairs then, she found her mother and Gladys
in high good humour.
"It was a pity you took yourself off," Gladys said. "We have had a
delightful evening. Captain Walker asked where you were."
"You never told me, Aldyth, that he was nephew to Sir Richard
Courtenay," said Mrs. Stanton in a tone of reproof; "for aught I knew
he might have been just anybody."
"I had forgotten it, mamma," said Aldyth. "Now you mention it, I
remember hearing Guy say that he was related to Sir Richard Courtenay."
"You should remember such things," said Mrs. Stanton, frowning. "Why,
Mrs. Gibson tells me it is not at all unlikely that the baronetcy may
fall to him."
"Well, I never heard that," said Aldyth.
"Whatever he may be in the future, he is very nice now," said Gladys.
"He understands music perfectly. He says my voice reminds him of
Antoinette Sterling. He is going to bring his violin with him when next
he comes."
It was not long ere the captain repeated his visit. Aldyth was at
home, and, much to his satisfaction, she accompanied his violin on
the pianoforte. As they played one favourite piece after another,
it seemed like a return of the old days at Wyndham. But Aldyth was
careful that Gladys should not feel herself excluded from the evening's
entertainment. It was found that her voice went charmingly with the
violin, and she was persuaded to sing several times. But however the
captain might applaud, a quick ear would have detected that Gladys'
musical performance lacked the accuracy and finish of Aldyth's.
It was a difference akin to that which distinguished the characters of
the two girls. Aldyth had studied music with the thoroughness which
marked her pursuit of every kind of knowledge; in her desire after
perfection, she had spared herself no pains, shrunk from no sacrifice
of time and pleasure, with the result that she had attained a beautiful
touch, and played with rare power and expression. Gladys had studied in
a superficial, half-hearted fashion, wishful only to acquire a certain
effectiveness. It followed in consequence that Captain Walker, although
he had likened her voice to that of Antoinette Sterling, was perfectly
aware that her singing was very faulty, and her choice of songs poor.
"Captain Walker," said Aldyth, leaning back from the piano to address
him when they had just finished a brilliant fantasia, in which he had
played his part with great skill, "I wish you would come to Whitechapel
some evening and play to my factory girls."
"To Whitechapel!" he repeated, with an air of surprise.
"My dear Aldyth!" exclaimed Mrs. Stanton, in a tone of rebuke. "How can
you ask Captain Walker to go to that dreadful place? If you choose to
go there yourself, you cannot expect that your friends will like to do
so."
"No place can be too dreadful for me to which Miss Lorraine goes," said
the captain. "I shall be only too happy to be of any service to her
there."
"Oh, thank you," said Aldyth. "It would be so kind of you to come and
play to the girls some evening. They are very fond of music."
"I call it a poor compliment to Captain Walker to ask him to play to
a lot of low factory girls," said Gladys. "What can they know of good
music?"
But Captain Walker did not appear to regard the request as
uncomplimentary. He looked pleased, and listened with interest as
Aldyth talked to him about the work at Whitechapel. He readily promised
to help, and a day was fixed for his visit.
But there was a cloud on Mrs. Stanton's face as she heard the
arrangement made, and Aldyth soon learned that she had given annoyance
to her mother and sister.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A SUMMONS TO WYNDHAM.
CAPTAIN WALKER came to help to entertain the factory girls—not
once only, but several times. He endured with a good grace hearing
himself described as "the man with the fiddle," and played his
best to a clamorous audience, who talked and squabbled through his
finest passages, but showed their appreciation of his performance by
applauding vociferously at the close.
Aldyth reflected that she had never given him credit for so much good
nature as he now manifested. Fond as he was of high-class music, he
could even condescend to play a festive jig for the amusement of the
girls. Aldyth felt much gratitude for his willing assistance, and she
was far from comprehending how sweet to him were her acknowledgments of
the same. It never occurred to her that she was the attraction which
drew him so often to Whitechapel. She gave him credit for feeling a
genuine interest in the work, for she did not suppose that it was for
her sake merely that he took so much trouble.
Yet in truth the motive which actuated Captain Walker was one which has
drawn many another man into a temporary performance of good works. He
had been charmed with Aldyth whenever he met her at Woodham or Wyndham;
but he had shared the common belief that she was destined to marry
her cousin, and had steeled his heart to resist the attraction she
had for him. But now he knew she was free, there was no resisting the
fascination of her society. He could hardly have explained wherein the
strength of that fascination lay.
He had been much in society; he had seen many women who were prettier
than Aldyth. He admired Gladys Stanton; it amused him to talk and
laugh with her; but she never excited within him a painful sense of
his own inferiority, nor caused him to approach her with timid, tender
reverence. But Aldyth was different from any other girl he had ever
known. She had all the freshness and brightness of girlhood, and yet
she was a woman in her exquisite sympathy and kindness, her strong
self-reliance, her unswerving pursuit of all that was good and true.
He had a new revelation of the gentleness and purity and kindness of
her nature when he saw her surrounded by the rough, coarse girls who
gathered about her at Whitechapel. Rough as they were, they grew gentle
in her presence. A word, a glance even, from her was often enough
to check a quarrel. Never had he felt more convinced of the womanly
sweetness of Aldyth's character; yet, at the same time, there swept
over him a feeling that his love was hopeless.
But the feeling did not last—how should it? Captain Walker's past
experience had not prepared him to expect disappointment, so he made
the most of his opportunities seeing Aldyth, and they were many;
for Mrs. Stanton lavished invitations on the distinguished-looking
captain, and seemed to think no party of pleasure complete without
him. But her efforts were not crowned with the success she desired.
As the hot, sultry days of July set in, and every one was planning a
tour or talking of the seaside, Mrs. Stanton began to feel seriously
dissatisfied with the result of her endeavours.
In vain she had thrown Gladys as much as possible into the company of
Captain Walker. Nothing seemed likely to come of it. Mrs. Stanton began
to suspect that it was Aldyth's fault. If only she had not that craze
for factory girls! It was too bad of her to drag the captain to that
horrid Whitechapel once every week.
One night, as Aldyth was brushing her hair preparatory to going to bed,
her mother, who with Gladys had been spending the evening out, came
into her room, looking sadly perturbed.
"Ah, you are not in bed," she said, as, all resplendent in satin and
lace, she sank into a chair. "I want to have a talk with you about our
plans, if you are not too tired."
"I am not very tired," said Aldyth, sitting down and shaking back her
hair.
"Have you been to Whitechapel this evening?" asked Mrs. Stanton,
abruptly.
"Yes, mamma," said Aldyth.
"And Captain Walker with you?"
Something in her mother's tones brought the colour into Aldyth's face.
"He was there," she replied, slowly, "and he kindly saw me home."
"Why did he not come in?" asked Mrs. Stanton.
"Really, I suppose, because I never thought of asking him," said Aldyth.
An expression of impatience escaped her mother's lips.
"I cannot understand you, Aldyth. I should have thought you would have
wished to help and not hinder your sister's happiness. Have you not
noticed how often Captain Walker comes here? And of course it is to see
Gladys. You must have observed it."
"He comes here a great deal, certainly," said Aldyth, with some
embarrassment.
A few days earlier she could have accepted her mother's explanation of
the motive of the captain's frequent visits; but since then one little
thing and another had occurred to put her on her guard, and to-night he
had let fall a word which had forced her to receive a wholly unwelcome
idea.
Mrs. Stanton was quick to see her embarrassment. "Surely you are not
thinking of him for yourself, Aldyth?" she said, in a cold, suspicious
tone.
"Mamma!" said Aldyth, flushing crimson.
"Oh, I suppose you are shocked at my outspokenness; but what is the use
of mincing matters? I should like to know what you do mean, that I may
act accordingly."
"I have no such meaning as you impute to me, mamma," said Aldyth,
proudly.
"Well, then, I will be quite frank with you," said Mrs. Stanton. "I can
see that Captain Walker greatly admires Gladys, and I should fail in my
duty as a mother if I did not do all in my power to secure her a happy
marriage."
"But can you be sure that it would prove a happy marriage?" Aldyth
ventured to ask. "It seems to me that those only are true marriages
which are arranged by Providence. If we girls are to marry, God will
bring it about in His own good way. I do not believe in planning and
scheming."
"Then it is because you are foolish and inexperienced," said Mrs.
Stanton, sharply. "I have no patience with your ridiculous, old-maidish
notions, Aldyth. Few girls would marry well if their mothers did not
take some trouble on their behalf. If you like to throw away your own
chances, you need not interfere with those of Gladys."
"I have no wish to do so," said Aldyth.
"Forgive me if I seem cross," said Mrs. Stanton in a gentler tone. "You
do not know how worried I am. It is of the utmost importance to us that
Gladys should marry well, and, soon too. The fact is, she is a great
expense, and we are not nearly so well off as we appear. Mr. Stanton
has had great losses in his business. Sometimes I fear we shall come
utterly to grief. So, you see, Gladys must make a good marriage."
Aldyth was silent for a few moments. She pitied her mother as she noted
her weary, harassed look. But the plotting and planning, the keeping up
of pretences in which her mother trusted, seemed to her hateful.
"Would it not be better to reduce your expenses at once?" she suggested
presently. "We should do very well in a smaller house and with fewer
servants."
"Such a thing is out of the question," said Mrs. Stanton, hastily. "We
must keep up appearances, at any cost, till Gladys is married. But I
want you to understand how critical the position of things is; I want
you to promise me that you will not stand in your sister's way."
"Mamma! As if I should!" said Aldyth, with some indignation.
"Well, then, I will say what I came to say," continued her mother.
"We are thinking of going to Eastbourne at the end of the month.
Captain Walker talks of going there too; but I thought, perhaps, you
would rather return to Woodham for a few weeks. Your friends would
be delighted to see you, and there is no air like one's native air.
Besides, there it your uncle to be considered."
Aldyth did not at once reply. The idea of going to Woodham was welcome;
but the way in which it was suggested gave her pain. It was too evident
that her mother wished to be rid of her.
"Yes, I should like to go to Woodham, if you would rather not have me
at Eastbourne," she said at last.
"My dear love! Of course we should like to have you with us. I was only
thinking what would be best for you," said Mrs. Stanton, rising, and
coming to kiss Aldyth and stroke her hair.
But Aldyth was beginning to know the value of her mother's graceful
caresses.
"You might join us afterwards at Eastbourne," Mrs. Stanton said, still
playing with Aldyth's hair; "but I think it would be well for you to
go to Woodham first. Why should you not go at once? You look as if you
needed a change. You are not used to London; the hot weather is trying
you. Write to your aunt to-morrow, and say that you will come."
"I can scarcely start at a moment's notice," said Aldyth, in a voice
unusually high and hard. "There are arrangements to be made at
Whitechapel; you must please allow me time to settle things a little."
"Certainly, love, arrange it as you will," said her mother, dropping
a light kiss on her brow. "I am only anxious for your welfare.
Good-night." And she glided away, leaving Aldyth smitten with a tense
of intolerable pain.
But Aldyth was not to have time for the arrangements she desired to
make. Had Mrs. Stanton waited a few hours, she would have seen her end
accomplished without the aid of artifice. Early on the following day a
telegram was brought to Aldyth. The sender was Miss Lorraine, and the
brief message ran thus:
"Your uncle seriously ill. Come at once."
In less than an hour, Aldyth was on her way to Woodham. It was a hot
journey, and the heat of the day was at its height as she came into the
well-known little station. Who was that standing on the platform? Her
heart beat more quickly as she saw John Glynne. He came forward to help
her from the carriage.
"How are you, Miss Lorraine?" he said, and there seemed such kindness
in his warm, firm hand-clasp. "Your aunt has allowed me to have the
pleasure of meeting you, as your cousin could not be spared. The
carriage is waiting to take you to Wyndham. Have you any luggage?"
"Only a small portmanteau," said Aldyth. "How is my uncle? The
telegram, of course, gave no particulars."
"He is very ill, I grieve to tell you," said John Glynne. "He was
seized with apoplexy when he was dressing this morning. Of course at
his age there can, I fear, be little hope for his recovery."
"I suppose not," said Aldyth, tremulously. "I thought him altered the
last time I saw him."
"And when was that?" asked Mr. Glynne.
"Oh, some months back, when he came to London," said Aldyth, off her
guard.
But seeing he looked surprised, she recollected herself, and said,
hastily: "But I should not have mentioned it. I forgot that uncle
begged me to tell no one that he had been to London. It was such an
event in his life to leave home for a day that he seemed ashamed
that any one should know of it. It was only by chance it came to my
knowledge."
"Really!" said John, smiling. "Well, the secret is safe with me."
He secured her portmanteau, accompanied her to the chaise, and saw her
seated beside old John. Then they shook hands once more.
"I shall see you again," he said. "You will stay some little while now
you are here?"
"Oh yes," Aldyth said, smiling brightly on him.
He had said little, but his manner had told her how glad he was to see
her. And despite the sad occasion of her coming, Aldyth was glad to
find herself at Woodham.
After the noise and stir of London, the repose of the country was
delightful. The old High Street had the same familiar aspect. There
was Mrs. Bland in the bow-window, smiling and nodding. Miss Rudkin's
high cap and sausage-like curls appeared above the wire blind on the
opposite side of road.
And now they had turned from the town, and were on the long straight
road to Wyndham. The scent of hay was wafted across the hedges; fields
of mellowing corn, with poppies glowing here and there, bowed before
the breeze; cattle rested beneath the trees, or cooled themselves in
the ponds; all the broad, flat landscape seemed to breathe peace, And
with a keen sense of contrast, Aldyth recalled to mind the dim, close
streets of Whitechapel.
After she had gathered all that old John could tell her of her uncle's
illness, she paid little heed to his garrulous repetition of the facts.
She gazed lovingly on every familiar scene, and let the restful beauty
of the day enter into her heart.
As they drove up to the Hall, Guy appeared on the steps to welcome her.
He looked pale and excited, and he talked rapidly, though in subdued
tones, as he led her into the house.
"He is no better," he said; "unconscious most of the time, though
sometimes he seems to understand what we say. He keeps talking, but so
incoherently it is difficult to understand him. But he has asked for
you several times; he utters your name distinctly. No, you must not go
up stairs till you have taken something. There is luncheon for you in
the dining room. What will you have? Coffee? Wine? You shall have what
you like, but you must take something."
"Poor uncle!" said Aldyth, sitting down and allowing Guy to wait on
her. "Does he suffer much, do you think?"
"The doctor says not," Guy replied. "It is sad to see the poor old
man lie in such a state; but still at his great age, it is not to be
expected that he can recover. Eighty-one! Who would wish to live longer
than that?"
Aldyth did not linger long below. It was with a feeling of awe that
was almost dread she entered the darkened room where the old man lay.
She had never been brought into close contact with death, and she felt
instinctively that this was the chamber of death.
Miss Lorraine, quiet and watchful, sat at one side of the bed, the old
housekeeper at the other. Between them lay the stricken man, his face
strangely altered, the pupils of the eyes contracted, the expression
one of deep distress, whilst he babbled inarticulately, and his hands
restlessly roamed over the coverlid.
"Do not be frightened, dear," said her aunt, coming to meet Aldyth,
and leading her to the bedside. "I am glad you have come, for he has
mentioned you several times. There—'Aldyth,' he said. Did you not hear
it?"
But Aldyth, unaccustomed to illness, could make nothing of his
incoherent utterances.
"Aldyth," he said.
"Bring Aldyth," repeated Miss Lorraine. "Speak to him, dear; let him
know you are here."
"Uncle," said Aldyth, bending down to him and speaking very clearly;
"uncle, I am here. Do you understand? It's Aldyth."
"Ay, Aldyth," he murmured; "Aldyth and Guy. Bring Aldyth; I want her."
"I am here, uncle," Aldyth said again. "Is there anything you wish to
say to me?"
"Ay, I want Aldyth," he murmured. "I want to explain—Aldyth and Guy—Guy
and Aldyth—the two children are always together. Tell her—" Again he
sank into confused babblings. Presently his voice was raised again, and
even Aldyth could distinguish the words, "Bring Aldyth—I want her."
"Dear uncle, I am here," she said, and took hold of his hand. His
fingers closed convulsively over hers.
"Don't leave me," he said, and it seemed that for the moment he
recognized her. He made an eager movement, half raising himself in the
bed, and began to talk rapidly and inarticulately. He appeared trying
to tell her something, but scarce a word could Aldyth understand.
"There's something on his mind, if only he could make you understand,"
the housekeeper said. "There! 'My will,' he said—I heard the words
quite plain."
"I did not hear it," said Guy, who had come into the room, and stood
near Aldyth.
"You may fancy he says anything," observed Miss Lorraine.
"There was no mistake about that," said the housekeeper, with an air of
superior sagacity. "Now he's talking about the farm—don't you hear?"
At that moment, the prolonged howl of a dog rose from beneath the
windows, startling and affrighting the worthy old soul.
"You know what that means?" she whispered. "It's a sure sign. Not but
what I knew before. There was a robin this morning singing close to the
front door, and I knew that boded ill. Ah, me! The poor old master! But
we must all go when our time comes."
Hour after hour passed wearily by, and brought no change but increased
weakness and restlessness and more imperfect articulation. Life was
slowly ebbing. The doctor paid his last visit and went away, with no
expectation of seeing his patient again in life.
All night the laboured breathing, the sad struggle, so pitiful to
witness, went on. Guy, unable to bear the scene, went away ere the end
came; but Aldyth was not to be persuaded to quit her place beside her
uncle. All night she and her aunt watched him, and her hand held the
cold, heavy hand of the dying man till life had fled.
Then at last she broke down and wept from mingled sensations of relief
and pain. Miss Lorraine had stood by too many deathbeds to be thrilled
and unnerved as Aldyth was. She soothed the girl, and put her tenderly
to bed.
Aldyth, oppressed by a sense of the gloom and mystery of death,
presently sobbed herself to sleep, without giving a thought to any
consequences her uncle's death might have for her. The hopes and fears
that were alternating in Guy's mind, and causing him much inward
agitation, lay quite outside her consciousness.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE MISTRESS OF WYNDHAM.
"YOU do not surely mean that nothing is left to Guy?" said Miss
Lorraine, in a troubled tone.
Some hours had passed since the squire breathed his last, and she was
with Mr. Ralph Greenwood in the old-fashioned library. The blinds were
down, and even the outside venetians closed, shutting out the July
sunshine and making twilight in the room.
The lawyer, his pince-nez on his nose, sat before the squire's old
bureau, turning over some papers in a quick, business-like manner.
"By no means," he said, briskly. "No, no, it is not so bad as that.
Guy has five thousand pounds and the farm at Wood Corner. Not a bad
provision for a young man, but a poor equivalent for the heirship."
"When was this will made?" asked Miss Lorraine.
"At the beginning of the year. Guy had had a disagreement with his
uncle. It was a great mistake, as I told him at the time. I did my best
to soften Mr. Lorraine's feelings. I all but refused to make the will;
but if I had done so, he would have sent for some one else. What a pity
it is young people are so unpractical! Why could not those two have
married now, as every one expected of them?"
"But uncle seemed to have got over that annoyance," said Miss
Lorraine. "He received Hilda Bland kindly, and gave his consent to the
engagement. I thought Guy was quite reinstated in his favour."
"It seemed so," said Mr. Greenwood. "I am sure I quite hoped to have
the pleasure of setting this all right some day. I told the squire so
when he signed the will; but you know the kind of man he was—a wee bit
obstinate, don't you think? Nothing harder for him than to retract. It
seems Guy was able to persuade himself, from something his uncle let
fall, that the matter had been set right; but I know nothing of it. I
suppose he delayed sending for me. There is nothing more common than
for men to put off business connected with their wills. We lawyers are
constantly meeting with such instances."
"Then you think he intended to make another will?" suggested Miss
Lorraine.
The lawyer shrugged his shoulders. "He never confided his intention to
me," he said; "but it seems to me that after the brave way in which
Guy saved his life—and he was evidently touched by it—he should have
cherished some such intention. However, he did not do it; so we must
make the best of things as they are. I am afraid it will be a sore
disappointment to Guy."
"He will feel it, no doubt," said Miss Lorraine; "and, for one, I am
sorry that things were not equally divided. Does all the rest come to
Aldyth?"
"Well, not absolutely," said Mr. Greenwood. "Five hundred pounds go to
Miss Tabitha Rudkin, and you, Miss Lorraine, receive the same sum. Then
there are several small legacies and bequests to local charities. But
Miss Aldyth has Wyndham and the bulk of the property. She will be a
rich young lady when all is told."
"I never expected he would leave me a halfpenny," said Miss Lorraine,
coolly; "and I cannot say I am glad Aldyth should be so rich. It will
hardly increase her happiness."
"That's as it may be," said Mr. Greenwood. "I don't myself think it
well to make girls too wealthy; there is danger of their fortunes
falling into unworthy hands. But Mr. Lorraine was careful to take
certain precautions. The man who marries Miss Aldyth will find that he
has no control over his wife's fortune, and will touch none of it after
her death, supposing he should survive her, unless he consent to take
the name of Lorraine."
"Ah!" said Miss Lorraine, expressively. "That was like uncle, to try
to order things as he would, even after his death. Well, Aldyth is not
likely to be married at present—perhaps she never will be."
"And meanwhile," said the lawyer, "she is the mistress of Wyndham—not
an unenviable position."
[Illustration]
"I wonder what she will say when I tell her?" said Miss Lorraine,
moving off in search of Aldyth.
"And what will Guy say?" asked the lawyer, looking troubled. "I suppose
he had better know without delay. Will you say to him, if you come
across him, that I should like to have a few words with him here?"
Aldyth had risen, refreshed by her sleep, and was in the dining room,
talking with Guy, who had just returned from Woodham, whither he had
ridden on business connected with his uncle's decease. Guy had still
a haggard, excited look, but he was talking of Hilda as Miss Lorraine
entered.
"Yes," he said, "it was wonderful how uncle came round after that day.
Before he used to speak of Hilda in a way that made me wild; but when
she came to luncheon, he began paying her compliments, to my great
surprise, and he said to me afterwards that she was a perfect little
lady, though it was a pity she was so small."
"I do not think so," said Aldyth, heartily. "Hilda is charming. I would
not have her an inch taller. I am so glad uncle changed his opinion of
her."
"Yes, she is not a bad little party," said Guy, complacently. "She
suits me down to the ground."
Aldyth was amused to see that Guy had apparently forgotten his
episodical wooing of herself.
"Guy," said Miss Lorraine, "Mr. Greenwood is in the library, and he
would like to speak to you."
The colour flew into Guy's face. He rose and went away at once without
a word.
"The forewoman from Spencer's will be here directly about our
mourning," said Miss Lorraine, glancing at the clock. "You must have
handsome mourning, Aldyth; it will be expected of you."
"Of course I will have what is proper," said Aldyth, a little wondering
at this remark. "But must I wear heavy black this hot weather?"
"Certainly you must wear black, and I would have crape on my hat, if I
were you," said Miss Lorraine, decisively; "but I forget, you do not
yet understand your position."
"My position?" said Aldyth.
"Yes, my dear; you will be surprised when you hear. Mr. Greenwood has
been telling me about uncle's will. Of course it must be formally read
on Thursday; but there was no harm—indeed, it was better he should give
me a hint as to its nature."
"Yes," said Aldyth, wondering to what all this might lead. "And it
seems that Wyndham and most of the property is left to you."
"To me, auntie?" said Aldyth in amazement.
"Yes, dear, to you; I knew you would be very much surprised."
"But Guy—Guy is uncle's heir."
"He was to have been," said Miss Lorraine; "but uncle took offence with
him at the beginning of the year, when he wanted to marry Hilda Bland,
you know, and uncle meant him to marry you."
"Oh dear," said Aldyth, flushing hotly. "Do you mean to tell me I have
been the cause of Guy losing his inheritance?"
"You are not to blame in the matter," said her aunt. "Hilda Bland might
say she was the cause. It was just uncle's wilfulness."
"But it is very hard for Guy," said Aldyth. "It does not seem fair that
I should have all and he nothing. Oh, he will be vexed!"
"Guy has five thousand pounds and the farm at Wood Corner," said Miss
Lorraine; "but of course that is very different from what he expected."
"Cannot it be altered, aunt?" said Aldyth. "Must I take Wyndham? I am
sure if I had had the least idea uncle meant to do such a thing, I
would have begged him not to do it."
At that moment there came to her recollection the talk she had had with
her uncle as they sat together in Hyde Park. She remembered how he had
spoken of Wyndham; how anxious he appeared that the old place should
remain as it was, and the promise she had given to do all in her power
to keep it unchanged. But he had spoken of another mistress of Wyndham;
evidently his thoughts had turned to Hilda Bland.
Doubtless he was then in a state of indecision with respect to the
disposition or his property. Had he finally decided to let his last
will stand, or had death, coming so unexpectedly, settled the question
for him? It was impossible to know.
"You cannot set aside your uncle's will," said Miss Lorraine. "He meant
you to be the mistress of Wyndham. He has thought of everything, and
made careful provision for your future. If you marry, your husband is
to take the name of Lorraine."
Aldyth's colour deepened. "I shall never marry," she said with decision.
"It is a great pity—" said Miss Lorraine, musingly, "it is a great pity
you and Guy were not suited to each other."
Aldyth did not reply. Her face looked so full of trouble that her aunt
went to her and kissed her.
"Why, Aldyth," she said, playfully, "you look quite overwhelmed. Most
girls would be elated by such good fortune. Think how pleased your
mother will be."
"Yes, she will be pleased," said Aldyth, as if the idea had not
occurred to her before. But her face did not brighten.
"I never wished to be rich," she said, presently; "it will not make me
happier. Only," she added, as she thought of her poor, overworked girl
friends in London, "it will give me the power to brighten other lives.
That is the best thing about wealth, I think."
"Bless you, child," said her aunt, kissing her again, "you always have
brightened the lives of others. You have made mine happier ever since
you came to me as a tiny child."
Aldyth rose and threw her arms about her aunt, returning her kisses
with interest.
"Aunt," she asked the next minute, in a frightened whisper, "shall I
have to live here now?"
"I do not know, dear; but I suppose it must be your home," said Miss
Lorraine, cheerfully.
"I can never bear to live here alone," said Aldyth, almost in tears.
"You must live here with me, auntie."
"Well, well, dear, we will see; it is early yet to make plans," said
Miss Lorraine, soothingly. She was not prepared to renounce on the
instant her pretty cottage at Woodham.
Aldyth passed through the next few days with a strange sense of
unreality. She went about the house and grounds, looked at all the
quaint, old-fashioned belongings, so familiar to her, and told herself
they were now her own; but it did not seem as if it could be true.
She had not much time for solitary musing. There were many things to
be arranged, and though nothing was said about the will till after
the funeral, every one about the place soon seemed to know that Miss
Aldyth's opinion was of the first importance, and everything must be
referred to her.
Guy's bearing but too plainly proclaimed the disappointment of his
hopes. It made Aldyth miserable to see him; but he would not allow her
to express any feeling on the subject. He checked the faltering words
she tried to utter with a cold profession that he was glad things had
turned out so well for her.
"Women are better diplomatists than men," he said, sneeringly. "They
are clever enough to win their ends without losing favour at court."
The words stung Aldyth, who felt that they were unjust. It hurt her,
too, that Hilda sent her no word, nor took the slightest notice of her
being at Wyndham.
She had an uncomfortable sense that most persons were treating her in
a new manner. Mr. Greenwood, the banker, one of the executors of Mr.
Lorraine's will, and his brother, Mr. Ralph, became quite ceremonious
in their deference to her wishes. The servants, whom she regarded as
old friends, showed an unusual assiduity in waiting on her. The rector
of Woodham suddenly grew interested in her views on various questions,
and the new curate in charge of the old church, actuated possibly by
the hope of future subscriptions, called twice ere her uncle had been
dead a week. As for her mother, it was with a bitter sense of amusement
that Aldyth read her congratulations.
"My DARLING CHILD," Mrs. Stanton wrote—"It makes me so happy to know
that your lifelong devotion to your grand-uncle has met with its
right reward. You deserve to be rich and prosperous, for you have
always been so good and unselfish, so willing to do all in your power
to make others happy. I confess I trembled when I heard how you had
disappointed his wish that you should marry your cousin; but it is
plain now that you acted for the best. Of course he feels it, but he is
a man, and can make his way in the world; it is much better you should
be provided for.
"We miss you every day. How I wish you were coming to Eastbourne
with us! Papa will not accompany us, after all. He has received such
accounts of the state of his business that he has resolved to return to
Melbourne at once. I am sorry, for he is hardly fit to go alone, and he
will not hear of my returning so soon. But I must hope for the best. It
is such a comfort to know of your good fortune. Do write again soon,
and let me know when I shall see you.
"Your loving
"MOTHER."
So nothing now was to be said about her stupidity and folly. Her
notions were no longer ridiculous. She was good and unselfish, and all
she had done was right.
Gladys had added a few characteristic lines.
"You lucky girl!" she wrote. "So you have money and lands, horses,
carriages, an establishment; all without the trouble of a husband! If
I were you, I would never marry, but enjoy my liberty, and do as I
liked. I, alas! can only get a fortune by selling myself. Fancy mamma's
indignation—that tiresome Captain Walker is not going to Eastbourne
after all! He feels bound instead to visit an aged relative in Essex.
I believe he backed out of it because he found you were not going, but
mamma says that is nonsense.
"I hope you will soon invite me to visit you in your new grandeur.
You will let me have a gallop on one of your horses, won't you, Aldyth,
dear? And I'll vow that you are the dearest sister that ever was."
Aldyth could smile over Gladys' words. She showed them to her aunt, who
said at once—
"You see, you need not fear being solitary in this great house; your
mother and sister are only waiting for an invitation."
"Oh, to be sure!" cried Aldyth, her face lighting up with unexpected
pleasure. "I had not thought of that. Fancy my having mother and Gladys
here as my guests! I should like that. And Nelly, too, must come; she
is so fond of the country. And Cecil might come for the shooting. Oh,
that is grand!"
Miss Lorraine was surprised to see what pleasure Aldyth derived from
her suggestion. She wondered if it had ever occurred to old Stephen
that Mrs. Stanton might largely benefit by Aldyth's inheritance. In his
thoughts of what the future might bring forth, had he ever pictured
that fair lady coming as a visitor to Wyndham? Probably not. But Miss
Lorraine kept her reflections to herself. She would not cast a shadow
on the first gleam of satisfaction Aldyth's fortune had caused her.
After a week full of strange and exciting experiences, the calm repose
of Sunday was very welcome to Aldyth. She drove with her aunt to
Woodham Church in the morning, and had an uneasy consciousness that
she was much observed as she entered the building. Whilst at the close
of the service, many of her acquaintances studied her furtively, but
seemed shy of speaking to her.
She was glad to regain the shelter of the carriage, and was content
to find herself passing once more along the straight, monotonous road
between the quiet fields.
Miss Lorraine, fussily conscious of her fresh mourning, and the
importance which their bereavement gave them in the eyes of their
neighbours, had much to say, and had apparently observed every
individual who had attended the service.
But Aldyth did not find it necessary to pay close attention to her
aunt's remarks. A word now and then was enough to satisfy Miss
Lorraine, and Aldyth's thoughts took their own course in the intervals,
revolving chiefly about the query why Mr. Glynne, whom she had seen as
she passed out of church, had chosen to stand at a distance, lifting
his hat ceremoniously, when he might have come forward with a friend's
greeting. He had been so kind and friendly the other day, was he going
to be different now?
In the warm afternoon Aldyth wandered from the house, and crossing the
garden and a meadow beyond, approached a knoll of trees, which seemed
to promise a cool retreat. Seating herself in their shade, she threw
down her hat and gave a little sigh of relief at finding herself in
this cool, quiet spot. All about her lay the green, still country,
breathing a calm which seemed to belong to the day. The fields an which
she looked down were her fields, Aldyth told herself with a faint
smile; those were her cows she saw going forth into the lane on their
way to be milked; the woods to the right, rising against the sky, were
her woods; yes, even that tiny rabbit, which whisked away as she raised
her hand, belonged to her.
The thought of this great, unexpected inheritance weighed on Aldyth's
mind. Her father had grown up with the expectation that at some future
time it would be his; Guy, in his turn, had counted himself the heir;
but she to whom Wyndham had fallen had never seriously imagined that
such a possession would be hers. It brought with it a heavy burden of
responsibility. Was it well to have so much, when many lives knew such
want and privation?
His possessions had not brought her uncle happiness. He had been kind
and generous to her; he had given Guy a liberal allowance; but in other
quarters he had earned the reputation of being close-fisted, and it was
certain that he had never spent much on his own pleasure. Aldyth had
heard it said that he was in the habit of saving a third of his income
each year, and it was owing to this fact that her own wealth was now so
considerable. And he might have known so much of that best happiness
which springs from making others happy! But there had been little love
in his life. That was the pity of it. Aldyth could not but be aware
that there were few persons in the neighbourhood who really regretted
the death of her grand-uncle.
As she thought of it, there came home to her more powerfully than ever
before the truth that love is the great secret of life; the vital
lesson that the discipline of life is destined to teach us, a lesson
written by God Himself in glowing characters for all time to read on
the cross of Calvary.
"Life," Aldyth murmured to herself, in the words of her favourite poet—
"'Is energy of love,
Divine or human; exercised in pain,
In strife and tribulation; and ordained,
If so approved and sanctified, to pass,
Through shades and silent rest, to endless joy.'"
Then, beneath the rustling trees with the sweet, summer calm about her,
Aldyth cast herself anew upon the Eternal Love, praying to be delivered
from vulgar lust of acquisition, from worldly desires and aims, and
to be made so pure and loving that she might not miss the vision of
God here on this beautiful earth, nor fail to hear the voice of God
speaking to her inmost soul.
CHAPTER XX.
UNWELCOME CHANGES COME IN FORTUNE'S TRAIN.
"GOOD-BYE, Aldyth! I'm off."
"Off? Off whither, Guy?" asked Aldyth, in her astonishment looking at
his outstretched hand without taking it.
She had but just finished breakfast. Guy apparently had breakfasted
earlier, for he stood before her, hat and stick in hand. And now Aldyth
perceived that his dog-cart stood at the door, and a servant was
placing what seemed to be luggage at the back.
"I am going to my own house," said Guy, stiffly. "I was down there on
Saturday, and made every arrangement."
The colour flew into Aldyth's face. "Oh, Guy, why should you!" she
exclaimed, deeply pained. "Surely things cannot be comfortable enough
for you at the Farm, and there is no reason why you should not remain
here."
"Excuse me," he said, proudly; "you do not understand. I see strong
reasons why this house can no longer be my home."
"Oh, Guy, you speak as if we were enemies," said Aldyth. "Is it my
fault that Wyndham was left to me? You know I would rather it had not
been."
To these words Guy made no reply whatever, and his silence was
irritating to Aldyth. She felt that he wanted to put her in the wrong.
But she controlled herself, and after a few moments' reflection
sympathy overcame irritation.
"It is dreadfully trying for you, I know, Guy," she said. "How I wish I
could set it all right! You are mistaken if you think I rejoice at what
has happened."
A low, impatient exclamation escaped her cousin.
"Why cannot you stay on here with me and aunt?" asked Aldyth, with the
kindest intentions. "You need not think of getting your own house ready
till Hilda is prepared to share it."
"If I wait for that, I shall wait a long time," he said, bitterly. "Do
you think I can contemplate marriage on the income I shall draw from
that wretched farm? I am not such a fool. No, that dream is over."
"Guy!" exclaimed Aldyth, startled and distressed.
It had not struck her that Hilda's happiness might be imperilled by
the new, wholly unlooked-for turn of affairs. She recoiled afresh from
the position in which she found herself. Wild ideas of setting aside
her uncle's will, of insisting upon an equal division of the property,
of refusing to live at Wyndham, flitted through her brain, only to be
followed by a keen sense of their impracticability.
Whilst these thoughts possessed her, Guy again held out his hand. She
took it mechanically, and the next instant he hurried from the room.
Three minutes later she saw him drive away from the house.
Aldyth burst into tears. It was hard to have to pay such a price for an
inheritance she had never desired. She began to hate the wealth that
was bringing such isolation into her life. Her cousin, the playmate of
her childhood, was driven from the home in which he had been brought
up; her dearest friend was alienated from her, and all through no fault
of her own. It was hard. Aldyth needed not to be told that she had
become a chief centre of interest in the little world of Woodham. Past
experience made her perfectly aware that her name was constantly on the
lips of the gossips, and that truth was likely to suffer in the rapid
exchange of ideas regarding her that was going on.
But she would have smiled had she known the magnitude to which her
fortune had been blown by the breath of Rumour. According to some
persons, the savings of old Stephen Lorraine had been enormous, and
his niece had come into possession of little short of half a million.
And to make the contrast as striking as possible, Guy's bequest was
proportionately reduced. He had been cut off with a shilling and the
farm at Wood Corner, which every one knew did not comprise the most
productive acres in the neighbourhood.
"Have you heard the news, Mr. Glynne?" asked Clara Dawtrey, brave in
the consciousness of a fresh pink gingham, which he must admire, as she
stopped that gentleman in the London Road.
"What news, Miss Dawtrey?" he asked, fixing on her his peculiarly
earnest gaze.
John Glynne had the quality of being a thorough listener. Clara found
the gravity of his expression and the close attention he was paying to
her words rather disconcerting, as she said, rapidly—
"Oh, the news about Aldyth Lorraine, I mean. Do you know that she has
become a great heiress? Old Stephen saved tremendously all his life,
and she has come in for no end of money. He was as close as possible;
they say he would not even buy a new suit when his brother died. But I
do call it a shame that such a nice fellow as Guy should have nothing."
"Is it so?" asked Mr. Glynne, quietly. "Does Mr. Guy Lorraine inherit
nothing?"
"Oh, he has that mean little farm at Wood Corner, but what is that when
he expected to be the heir of Wyndham? I am sorry for Hilda, but I must
say it is amusing to think of Mrs. Bland's disappointment. She must
have congratulated herself that Hilda was going to make such a good
match."
The young lady laughed gleefully, but not a muscle of John Glynne's
face changed. It was impossible to judge how he was affected by the
news just out in Woodham, for it was the evening of the day on which
old Mr. Lorraine's funeral had taken place.
"I would not be Aldyth Lorraine for anything," continued Miss Dawtrey,
still uneasy beneath Mr. Glynne's gaze. "I should feel odious, taking
everything like that. And in many ways it must be hateful to be an
heiress. I should feel sure that every man who asked me to marry him
only wanted me for my money. But the man who marries Aldyth will find
that he cannot do as he likes with her money; old Stephen has tied it
up tightly. But she ought to have married her cousin. I shall always
say that. Every one expected it of her."
"Is a young lady bound to fulfil the expectations other people have
formed concerning her?" asked Mr. Glynne, with a slight smile.
"Not at all," said Clara, readily; "for my part, I make a point of
doing the reverse; there is nothing I enjoy more than astonishing
people. But Aldyth has always been so good and proper."
John Glynne lifted his hat and moved on without saying more, though he
wondered at the idea of goodness suggested by Miss Dawtrey's words.
The next minute he was passing Myrtle Cottage, which, with its
closely-drawn blinds, had a deserted air. Even the little housemaid
looked forlorn as she stood in the front garden, watering the
geraniums. The memory of pleasant evenings spent within those walls
came to him with a painful reminder that the pleasure was not likely
to be renewed. Aldyth would never return to make her home in the
cottage. The vision of her, rich, courted, removed to a distance from
himself, rose before his mind. The wealth she had inherited would be an
impassable barrier dividing them.
The news had come as a blow to him; but he rallied himself to bear it
bravely. Till this moment he had hardly been aware how strong were the
new hopes that had sprung up in his heart from the hour when he knew
that Guy Lorraine had chosen another bride. They must be crushed now.
"It is well that I know in time," he said to himself. "Well that she
can have no idea of all that she is to me; for it would be preposterous
for a poor tutor to approach as a suitor the heiress of Wyndham."
But it was impossible to resist the suggestion which came with the
memory of her last glance as she drove from the station, that possibly
under other circumstances he might have won her love. John paused,
and, with his arms folded on the top of a gate, and his unseeing eyes
gazing across the fields, pictured to himself in imagination what this
change might mean for Aldyth. He could not imagine her elated by this
sudden dower of wealth. It was easier to think of her as shrinking from
its burden, and fearful of herself, lest she should fail to discharge
aright the new responsibility.
Would it make her happier? Hardly, for she was not one to prize
material prosperity. Her tastes were simple; she had a childlike
enjoyment of the common things of life. He thought her one of the least
worldly of women. Was there any real danger of her giving herself to a
worthless fortune-hunter? He could not think it. Her pure, strong face
rising before his mental vision seemed to declare the idea absurd. The
man who won her must be worthy of her love and confidence.
"God bless her!" Glynne said within his heart. "Ay, and He will bless
her, for she is as pure and good and unselfish as an angel, and,
whatever her lot may be, she will make others better and happier."
But though he had so high an opinion of the woman he loved, though he
held her exalted above all vulgar conventional notions and aspirations,
one to prize her womanhood more highly than her wealth, his pride yet
saw in her fortune an insurmountable obstacle to his ever offering her
his love.
"Hilda," said Kitty Bland to her sister, two days later, "mother is
going to drive to Wyndham this afternoon. I suppose you will go with
her to see Aldyth?"
They were in the garden. Hilda was stretched comfortably in the
hammock, and Kitty, seated on a chair under the trees, with a basin in
her lap and a basket by her side, was enraged in the homely occupation
of shelling peas.
"I shall do no such thing," said Hilda, pettishly. "It is like you to
suggest it, Kitty. How do you suppose I can bear to go to Wyndham?"
"Very easily," said Kitty, in her most matter-of-fact tone. "You always
have liked going there, and I should think you would like it better
now that Aldyth is at Wyndham, and not that dreadful old Mr. Lorraine.
Oh yes, I know it's bad form to speak the truth of people when they
are dead; but he was horrid. He was for ever annoying people whilst he
lived, and he did his best to make things uncomfortable all round when
he was gone."
"He treated Guy shamefully!" said Hilda, with emphasis. "After the
noble way in which Guy saved his life, it was too bad! I can never bear
to see Wyndham again—the place that I used to think would be my home."
"You have not thought so long," said Kitty, coolly; "it is barely three
months since you became engaged. And, as I so often tell you, you
should not count your chickens before they are hatched."
"At that rate one should never look forward to anything," said Hilda,
discontentedly.
"Well, it is better not," said Kitty. "But, really, the house at Wood
Corner is very nice, Hilda; a much more cheerful place than Wyndham,
which, with that pond and so many trees about the house, always strikes
me as gloomy."
"Oh, Kitty, it is lovely at night to see the moon shining on the pond,
and the nightingales sing so beautifully in the trees!"
"Ah, I forgot; you are romantic, awl enjoy that sort of thing,"
remarked Kitty. "You would like to live like Mariana in a moated
grange."
"Oh, don't speak of that!" said Hilda, with a shiver. "I hope I may
never be as wretched as Mariana, though sometimes I think—"
She did not finish her sentence. Kitty saw that tears were in her
sister's eyes, and tried to cheer her by saying, briskly—"Well, I mean
to make the best of things. I am very sorry for Guy's disappointment,
and all that; but since he was not to have the property, I am glad it
has come to our dear old Aldyth. Fancy her owning all those horses!
That's a good thing for me, I know. She will give me a mount whenever I
want one. How I wish she went in for hunting, that we might follow the
hounds together!"
"You think of nothing but your own pleasure, Kitty," said Hilda,
impatiently. "For my part, I am disgusted with Aldyth; I can never feel
towards her as I used."
"Why, what has Aldyth done?" asked Kitty, in the utmost astonishment.
"It is not her fault that her uncle left her the property."
"I am not so sure of that," said Hilda. "Guy thinks she must have
known, and she might have used her influence on his behalf."
"What nonsense!" exclaimed Kitty, warmly. "When did you know Mr.
Stephen Lorraine allow any one to influence him? He always did as he
liked. I am surprised that you should say such a thing of Aldyth. After
all your professions of friendship, too! You ought to know her better
than to suppose that she would willingly supplant Guy!"
But Hilda would not take back her words, nor would she be persuaded
to accompany their mother to Wyndham. She remained at home, sulky and
miserable, whilst Kitty and Mrs. Bland went to see Aldyth.
Mrs. Bland would have been wanting in the natural feelings of a mother
if she had not lamented Guy's altered prospects. She considered that
the young man had been unfairly treated, for although old Stephen had
been very guarded in the conversation he had with her, when he yielded
his consent to an engagement between Hilda and Guy, his manner had
conveyed to her the impression that he meant that his grandnephew
should be his heir. The unexpected turn of affairs consequent on Mr.
Lorraine's decease caused her considerable anxiety, but she never
thought of blaming Aldyth in the matter. She rather felt that the girl
was to be pitied, for she foresaw that Aldyth's inheritance would bring
with it cares and difficulties which would weigh heavily on her young
heart.
So Aldyth saw no change in the face of her old friend, and felt she was
still dear to the motherly heart, which had taught her to place so high
a value on the filial bond.
"Dear Mrs. Bland," she said at once, sure of her sympathy, "I don't
think you need to be told that I would much rather not have had
Wyndham. It is a real pain to me that Guy should go away, and I should
be established here. I would reverse our positions if I could."
"I do not wish them reversed," said Mrs. Bland; "an equal division of
the property would have been the right thing, in my opinion. I always
thought you would have a handsome legacy, Aldyth, for your father was
very dear to Mr. Lorraine and continued to be so to the end, I believe,
in spite of that unhappy estrangement."
"Uncle once spoke to me about Wyndham," said Aldyth, "and I promised
him I would use any influence I had to prevent the old place from being
greatly altered after his death; but I am sure, although he spoke in
that way, I never dreamed that he meant to leave the place to me."
"Of course not, my dear; how should you?" said Mrs. Bland. "Well, it
is a great disappointment for Guy; but perhaps, after all, he will
be none the worse for having to work harder and depend more upon
himself. His marriage must be indefinitely postponed; but they are
young, and a lengthened probation will be a good test of their love.
Hilda, poor child, cannot see it in that light. But here come some more
visitors—Clara Dawtrey and her father, I declare! You will have all
Woodham out here this week, Aldyth."
"I could dispense with much of this civility," said Aldyth, smiling. "I
hate to be treated us if I were somehow different from my former self.
I do hope my friends will not change towards me."
"They are not likely to do that as long as you remain what you are,"
said Mrs. Bland, kissing her.
But Aldyth soon learned with sorrow that Hilda's love for her had
cooled; and perhaps the change which she discerned in another friend
cost her still deeper pain. Mr. Glynne was not amongst those who
traversed the five straight miles of dusty road to pay their respects
to the heiress of Wyndham. Aldyth hardly expected that he would come
unless invited; but when some weeks later she chanced to meet him at
Mrs. Greenwood's, there was such a lack of the old friendliness in his
manner as made it impossible for her to respond to his grave politeness
except with a courtesy equally distant.
Had any one told John Glynne that he had spoken coldly to Aldyth
Lorraine, he would have been surprised. He was conscious of an
inward excitement on seeing her that forced him to exercise strong
self-control. Whilst talking to others he thought only of her, and
nothing that she said or did escaped his notice. But it was impossible
for Aldyth to know this. She was conscious only that he remained aloof
from her, and when others were paying her considerable attention,
appeared indifferent to her presence.
When he quitted the drawing room without having attempted to exchange a
word with her, Aldyth's heart throbbed with painful resentment.
"Why should he be different to me now?" she asked herself. "I never
needed a friend more than I do at this time, and he is so wise and
good; he could advise me, he could help me. There are so many things
I should like to say to him, but I cannot utter a word when he looks
at me in that grave, severe way. Oh, I did think I could rest on his
friendship; but that, too, is slipping away from me."
CHAPTER XXI.
GUY MAKES A DISCOVERY.
ALDYTH did not remain at Wyndham for more than a week after her uncle's
death. There was something oppressive in the quietness of the old
house, where Guy's gay voice and whistle and the stir of his comings
and goings were greatly missed, and Miss Lorraine, though she drove
into the little town almost every day, pined for the neighbourly
interests of her life at Woodham.
"Let us go back to the cottage, auntie," Aldyth said; "we shall feel
so much more at home there, and we can come out here constantly to see
that things are all right, though there is no doubt Mrs. Rogers will
keep everything in perfect order. Yes, let me go home with you till
mother and Gladys can come to me. Then I will return and endeavour to
rightly discharge my duties as the mistress of Wyndham."
This suggestion was so entirely to Miss Lorraine's mind that she was
at once convinced of its wisdom. Aldyth was in no way bound to take up
her abode at the Hall forthwith. So a day or two later she was again
domiciled in her aunt's home, occupying her old bedroom, and taking up
with a new zest, born of a sense of impermanence, the simple, homely
duties she had always performed. She was living the old life again; but
the familiar surroundings only made her the more conscious of a certain
change in herself. The last few months had enlarged her knowledge of
life; some hopes had been disappointed, some illusions swept away, and
certain grim realities belonging to human lives had been painfully
thrust upon her notice.
As she sat at her writing-table, old thoughts, associated with the
objects, that met her view, came back to her with somewhat of pain in
their memory; the future, so different from anything she had expected,
inspired her with some dread, yet, through all, her inner nature kept
its deep calm. Her heart was too sound for any disappointment to render
her cynical. Perhaps it is not too much to say that no experience can
embitter the heart of a woman who is set upon living the highest life
possible to her, and who thinks less of winning happiness for herself
than of bestowing it on others.
Aldyth had not long returned to Woodham when an event occurred which
cast a shadow on the social life of the little town. Mrs. Greenwood,
the banker's bright, clever wife, had never been a strong woman, though
her remarkable energy hid the fact from ordinary acquaintances. Her
sudden death, from an unsuspected heart disease, was a sad shock to her
friends. A woman of keen intellect and cultured tastes, she had taken
the greatest interest in Mr. Glynne's lectures, and done her utmost to
make them a success. She was ready to lend her help to any scheme that
would promote the social welfare of the town. Without children of her
own, she found intense enjoyment in the society of young people, and
many a party of them she gathered in her large drawing room or in the
fine old garden which lay behind the bank. Aldyth Lorraine had been a
great favourite with her, and the girl felt that she had lost a friend
whom she could ill spare.
Much sympathy was felt for Mr. Greenwood, a man verging upon sixty
years of age, whose home must now be so desolate.
It was manifested on the funeral day, when many persons met in the
pretty cemetery just beyond the town on the London road, to see the
coffin, with its pall of flowers, lowered into the earth. Aldyth had
come with her aunt, and, the brief service over, she caught sight of
Kitty Bland standing at a little distance, who beckoned to her to join
her.
"Let us wait till the others have gone," she said, as Aldyth approached
her; "I don't want to walk back with them and hear them talking it
over."
"Willingly," said Aldyth; and they turned to the more secluded part of
the cemetery and sat down in the shade of some old elms.
Miss Lorraine, who did enjoy "talking it over," had walked on with
acquaintances.
"So Hilda has not come?" said Aldyth.
"No," said Kitty, drily. "She says she cannot bear to go to a funeral,
she is so sensitive, the impression remains with her for days."
"I did not wish to come," said Aldyth, "but aunt said she thought it
would seem kind to Mr. Greenwood, though I am quite sure he could not
notice who were here. I do not want to associate dear Mrs. Greenwood
with the grave. She was so bright and good; she seemed all spirit, and
I try to think of her as having entered upon a freer and more blessed
state of existence."
"Yes, that is the right way to think of her," said Kitty. "I will tell
you what Mr. Glynne said the other day; I thought it was so nice of
him. He overtook me as I was coming up the street, and we walked a few
steps together. We met little Dottie Greenwood and her nurse, and the
child—you know how fond she is of him—ran up to him and said, with such
a sorrowful look on her sweet little face,—
"'Dear Aunt Mary is so ill that she is dead.'
"'But she is not ill now,' he said as he kissed her; 'Aunt Mary is
quite well now.'
"And Dottie, smiled and repeated, 'Yes, Aunt Mary is quite well now.'
"It touched me so, somehow; and yet he only said what we all profess to
believe. Mr. Glynne is very good, don't you think?"
"I am sure of it," Aldyth said, and was silent. She never said many
words about John Glynne.
"He must feel Mrs. Greenwood's death very much," continued Kitty. "She
was a good friend to him, and he was often at her house."
Aldyth had more than once heard Mrs. Greenwood profess a high regard
for John Glynne, but she did not remark on it.
"Mother says she is thankful Mr. Glynne came to Woodham," continued
Kitty. "Charlie has so improved. It is wonderful how fond the boys are
of Mr. Glynne, and what influence he has over them. He never seems to
lecture them, but he has a knack of saying just the right word at the
right time. And then I think his example impresses them. He is such a
perfect gentleman, though really I believe it is higher praise to say
that he is a thorough man—so strong, and true, and brave."
"His life was gentle, and the elements
So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up
And say to all the world, 'This was a man!'"
thought Aldyth. But she did not give Kitty the benefit of the
quotation. She was content to contribute nothing to the conversation
when it reached this point; but it was not because the subject of it
was uninteresting to her.
"Guy was not here," remarked Kitty, after a pause. "I thought he would
be. I wonder if he will honour Hilda with a visit this evening."
Kitty's manner of saying this was so peculiar that Aldyth looked at her
in some surprise.
"Honour Hilda!" she said. "That's a strange expression to use, Kitty."
"I do believe he regards his visits as an honour," said Kitty, with
scorn in her tone. "I would not put up with such a lover if I were
Hilda."
"Why, what is amiss with him?" asked Aldyth, quickly.
"Oh, it makes me wild to see the way he treats Hilda," said Kitty,
with sudden warmth. "He keeps away from her for days; he shows the
utmost indifference to her wishes; he makes it only too plain that his
feelings towards her have changed, and he means her to understand that
it is so."
"Oh, Kitty! You don't say so!" exclaimed Aldyth, her voice full of
pain. "You must be mistaken. Why, he was so fond of Hilda that he
risked uncle's anger for her sake."
"Ah, yes; but he never expected to lose all for love," replied Kitty.
"His love could not stand that trial. He has never been the same to
Hilda since Mr. Lorraine died."
"Then his was not true love," said Aldyth, indignantly. "Such love is
not worthy of the name."
"So I think," said Kitty. "If I were Hilda, I would soon tell my
gentleman to march. I really believe he wants her to break off the
engagement, but she will not see it."
"Poor Hilda!" said Aldyth. "Oh, it is disgraceful of Guy! I did think
he really cared for Hilda."
Kitty shrugged her shoulders.
"Preserve me from such a lover!" she said. "I am sorry for Hilda, but
really I feel out of patience with her sometimes. She ought to see the
true state of things; but she only cherishes her wounded feelings,
and thinks herself the most unhappy of girls. She said this morning
she wished she were going to be laid in the grave instead of Mrs.
Greenwood."
"Oh, it is very sad for her," said Aldyth, tears springing to her eyes.
"I feel almost as if it were my fault; and yet—and yet—if Guy can so
easily change, it is better she should know it now."
"That is what mother and I say," remarked Kitty; "but of course we dare
not hint at such a thing to Hilda. We have to ignore that there is
anything wrong. But I do wish she would pluck up spirit and act as she
should. If she would talk to you about it, perhaps you could give her a
little advice."
But Aldyth knew that Hilda was not likely to approach the subject with
her. Confidences between them had ceased. With her return to Woodham,
Aldyth had resumed the old friendly intercourse with the Blands, but
she could not break down the barrier of coldness and constraint by
which Hilda kept her at arm's length.
"Kitty," said Aldyth, a little later, as they took their way down the
hill, "I am going to Wyndham early to-morrow. Could you go with me and
spend the day? We would have a ride in the afternoon; the horses must
need exercise."
"Oh, Aldyth, how good of you! Of course I can come," said Kitty,
delighted. "I have been longing for a ride. And you won't tell mother
if I try some of the fences, will you? I'll promise not to break my
neck."
"That is more than you can promise," said Aldyth, laughing.
The hot July and August days passed pleasantly away, and were spent
so much in the old manner that Aldyth was often able to forget that
she was the heiress of Wyndham. Gwendolen Bland had come home for her
holidays, determined to put as much enjoyment into them as possible.
There were tennis-parties and picnics, boating on the river both
in sunshine and by moonlight, school treats, flower shows, harvest
festivals, and all the various entertainments common to country life to
be participated in. It was a vexation to Clara Dawtrey that Mr. Glynne
was not on the ground, to see how well she played her part in the
annual tournament given by the Woodham Tennis Club; but he had left the
town when the Grammar School holidays began, and would not return till
September.
Aldyth received bright letters from Eastbourne, where her mother and
Gladys were having a good time. Nelly, who missed Aldyth, and could
hardly forgive her for refusing an invitation to join them, was less
content. It had been decided that Mrs. Stanton and Gladys were to visit
Wyndham in the autumn; but no date had been fixed for their coming,
and at present they seemed disposed to stay on at Eastbourne into
September. Aldyth was looking forward with pleasure to welcoming her
mother, and took trouble to get the house and garden at Wyndham into as
nice order as possible, so as to please her mother's eyes.
"Do you think I might have the furniture re-covered, auntie?" she said
one afternoon, when she and Miss Lorraine were in the old drawing room
at Wyndham. "I can't have a new carpet and new curtains without having
something done to the chairs and sofas."
"I would buy new furniture if I were you," said Miss Lorraine. "Uncle
often talked of refurnishing this room."
"Yes, when Guy was married," said Aldyth with a smile. "I don't think
anything less than a wedding would justify such an outlay. But really
I have no wish to banish these spindle-legged chairs; they are quite
in correct 'high art' style, and as for that carved ebony chair, I
believe it would fetch a hundred guineas at Christie's. When I get my
blue-green upholstery and an Oriental carpet, you won't know the room."
"It will be a great improvement, no doubt," said Miss Lorraine;
"there's some old blue china in the store-room you might make use of
for decorative purposes."
"The very thing!" cried Aldyth, gleefully.
She was beginning to take some pleasure in her possessions. She had
fine taste, and an artistic sense of colour; it was an enjoyment to
her to plan the re-arrangement of her drawing room. She had dragged
the large, old-fashioned settee from its place against the wall; she
had pushed the ebony chair well into the light, and thrown the faded
antimacassar which covered it on to the floor, when the sound of a
quick, firm step in the hall surprised her.
"Why, that is never Guy," she said; "I fancied he had vowed not to
cross the threshold of the Hall again."
"It certainly sounds like his step," said Miss Lorraine, and she
hastily opened the door.
It was Guy, and the next moment he stood in the doorway.
Aldyth coloured. She would have preferred that he should not find her
turning things about in the old drawing room. It must be painful to him
to be thus reminded of her possession of Wyndham.
But Guy showed no annoyance, though he appeared a trifle embarrassed as
he entered. He quickly recovered himself, however, and began to exhibit
a good humour which astonished Aldyth, who had seen scarcely anything
of her cousin since he quitted Wyndham. When they had happened to meet,
he had maintained towards her a chilling courtesy; but now, here was
the Guy of other days, as bright and kind as if nothing had happened to
alienate them.
"I've come at the right time," he said, apparently unaware that there
was anything surprising in his appearance. "I see you want a little
help. Aldyth, don't attempt to move that chair; it's too heavy for you.
Cousin Lucy, you want those curtains taken down, don't you? I'll tackle
that. If you want a handy man to do your jobs, here I am."
Miss Lorraine laughed, and looked delighted to see him in this mood.
It was impossible for her long to regard Guy with disapproval. She had
told herself it was but natural he should resent Aldyth's acquisition
of the property. His uncle had not dealt well with him. So she welcomed
with joy this manifestation of the old friendliness, and was ready to
do all in her power to cement the reconciliation.
And Aldyth, too, was pleased. It would have pained her to feel that
any one regarded her as an enemy, and it had especially grieved her
that her old playmate and cousin should look on her with coldness and
suspicion. With one accord the two exerted themselves to "make much" of
Guy, so that he found it easy to establish himself on the old footing
at Wyndham.
"We shall have tea almost directly," said Miss Lorraine. "You will stay
and take some with us?"
"Of course you will," said Aldyth, scarce letting him reply. "There is
nothing more to be done here. I was only trying effects. Come into the
garden and help me get some flowers for the vases."
"With pleasure," said Guy.
It was just what he wanted, to be alone with her. So, having found
basket and scissors, they went forth. The late sun was sending its long
rays across the newly-mown lawn, and lighting up the golden hearts of
the water-lilies floating on their broad leaves in the centre of the
pond. Beyond the garden, visible through an opening in the trees, a
harvest field, with its busy workers gathered about the heaped-up cart,
made a charming picture.
"And how is Hilda?" asked Aldyth, lightly. "I have not seen her for the
last few days."
"She is very well, I believe," he said, but with something so unusual
in his voice and manner that Aldyth looked at him curiously.
"When are you coming to the Farm?" he asked, the next minute. "You must
pay me a visit some day. I have got things pretty tidy there, though
not, of course, just as you would arrange them."
"Ah, you cannot expect the house to look quite as it should till Hilda
reigns there as mistress," said Aldyth, with a smile. But the smile
died away as, glancing at him, she saw the strange effect of her words.
Guy's face had grown crimson; he looked painfully confused, and seemed
anxious to avoid her glance, as he stood beating the grass with his
stick. But it was impossible to evade the consciousness that Aldyth's
eyes were upon him, and that she waited for an explanation of his too
evident confusion.
"You must not speak of that, Aldyth," he said, with an effort; "Hilda
will never be the mistress of my home. In fact—I came here to tell
you—our engagement is at an end."
"Oh, Guy!" was all Aldyth could say.
"Yes, it is so," he said, finding words more readily now. "And, on the
whole—though, of course it has all been excessively trying—I believe it
is for the best. We are not in the least suited to each other."
[Illustration]
"I never thought that you were." The words slipped from Aldyth almost
unawares. "But what a pity," she added quickly, "you did not find this
out before; it would have spared Hilda so much suffering."
"It was a pity," he said gravely; "but you are hardly the one to
reproach me, Aldyth, since it was mainly your fault."
"My fault! What do you mean?" she demanded.
"You know of whom I first thought," he said, insinuatingly; "I hoped I
had overcome that feeling. I fancied I could love Hilda, but I found it
was a mistake."
"Do not speak of that, if you please, Guy!" cried Aldyth, her eyes
flashing indignation on him. "I will not hear such words. I cannot
trust myself to say what I think of your conduct, it seems to me so
unworthy a man, not to say a gentleman."
She turned from him in anger as Miss Lorraine appeared at the drawing
room window, beckoning to them to come in. Aldyth had to fly to her
room to cool her burning cheeks and recover self-possession ere she
took her place at the tea-table.
"To think that men are like that!" she said to herself; with a feeling
of general distrust. "And Hilda, I have not a doubt, is at this moment
breaking her heart for his sake. Poor girl, how I pity her! And yet I
can easily see that this sorrow may be a blessing in disguise."
Aldyth scarcely spoke to Guy during the remainder of his visit, but
Miss Lorraine continued to pet him, and his self-complacency showed no
reduction.
CHAPTER XXII.
A STRICKEN HEROINE AND A SHAMELESS SUITOR.
"DO leave me to myself, Kitty; it is the only kindness you can do me
now."
Hilda Bland was the speaker, and as she spoke, she turned her head on
the pillow, so that her sister could see no more of her than a mass of
loosened, disordered hair. Kitty stood by the bed holding a tray on
which was set out a meal which might have tempted the most fastidious
appetite. But Hilda would not so much as look at the dainty morsel of
chicken, and Kitty's expression was a curious combination of pity and
impatience.
"Really, Hilda, I cannot see any sense in starving yourself; you will
not improve matters by falling ill."
"If I could only be ill enough," sighed Hilda; "if I could only die!"
"If you absolutely abstain from food, you will die," said Kitty, in
a matter-of-fact tone; "but I should call it cowardly to put the
extinguisher on yourself in that fashion, and it would be cruel to
mother."
"It is easy for you to talk," murmured Hilda; "you have had no trouble;
you do not know what it is to be deceived by one whom you loved and
trusted. I feel that all happiness is over for me, and I can only drag
out a hopeless, miserable existence. Do you wonder that I am sick of
life?"
"Perhaps not, dear," said Kitty, gently. "You have been very badly
treated, no doubt; but Guy has acted so mean a part that if I were you,
I would pluck up heart and show that I did not think him worth caring
about. There are many things in life to live for still."
"I am weary of them all," said Hilda. "'We are weary, my heart and I,'
I keep thinking of those lines. Everything has become hateful to me. I
only want to lie still and be let alone. I can never bear to walk out
in Woodham again."
"You feel so now, but the feeling will pass," said Kitty. "If only you
would rouse yourself and face your trouble bravely, it would be so much
better. I know it is a trouble, but many another girl has had such a
disappointment, and there are worse troubles."
"It is easy to say so," said Hilda, bitterly; "but you know nothing
about it. You have never loved as I have."
"And I devoutly hope I never shall," Kitty could not help saying; "but
if such trouble came to me, I think I should do my best to bear it
bravely. It is God who sends us trouble, and He means it to work our
good."
"I don't see that there can be any good in my trouble," said Hilda,
"and I do not believe God sent it. It is Guy who has deceived me and
made me wretched."
"Nothing can happen to us apart from the will of God," said Kitty, "and
He will help us to bear our sorrows if we put our trust in Him. When
trouble comes to me, as I know it must some day, I hope I may be able
to resign myself to His will, and learn the lesson He means it to teach
me."
It was rarely Kitty spoke thus seriously, and her doing so, showed how
anxious she was to help her sister. No one gave Kitty credit for much
thoughtfulness; but, as is the case with many a lively girl, the hidden
currents of her life were deeper than her friends supposed. It was not
by chance that she was always cheerful, good-tempered, and unselfish.
At the root of her character lay a simple but strong religious faith,
and she had never forgotten the resolve made at the time of her
father's death, that she would be good, and do all in her power to
cheer and help her mother.
But Hilda was not in a mood to profit by her sister's words.
"I dare say you think so," she said, impatiently; "but wait till your
turn comes—though I am sure I hope you may never know such trouble as
mine. Do take that tray away, Kitty; it is impossible for me to eat."
So Kitty went away, feeling that she had wasted words, and that
probably the best thing for Hilda at present was to be left alone.
But, notwithstanding this reflection, scarce half an hour had passed
when she again appeared in her sister's room.
"Aldyth is down stairs," she said. "She is so sorry, Hilda; she feels
as we all do. Would you like to see her?"
"Oh no!" cried Hilda, excitedly. "The last person I should wish to see!
I do not say she is to blame; but it is her having Wyndham which has
caused all my misery."
"Really!" exclaimed Kitty, finding her sister incomprehensible. "I
should rather think it was Guy being what he is. It seems to me well
that you have found out in time, that he is one person in prosperity
and another in adversity."
With that Kitty left her sister and descended to the drawing room,
where Aldyth sat talking with Mrs. Bland. The mother's kindly face wore
a look of care, but she spoke cheerfully.
"Poor child!" she said. "She feels it sorely now, but I thankful it is
no worse. If she had married him under the impression he was a hero,
and then found out, when it was too late, that he was of common clay,
it would have been a far greater misfortune. I fear her love would not
have borne that strain, and it is a terrible thing for a woman to find
herself bound to a man whom she can neither love nor respect.
"I always felt they were not suited to each other. I fancy Guy did not
know his own mind; it was a caprice, which opposition strengthened. I
think few men are capable of making right choice of a wife before they
are twenty-five. But it is hard that poor Hilda should have to suffer
for his lack of discretion."
"She will not see you, Aldyth," Kitty said; "there is no rousing her
anyhow."
"I am afraid she finds a kind of romantic satisfaction in cherishing
and even exaggerating her unhappiness," said Mrs. Bland. "That is
the way with you young things when trouble comes to you; you like to
think that nothing can ever be the same again; you do not want to be
comforted."
"Now, mother, you have never seen me in trouble," said Kitty, lightly;
"you do not know how wise I should be."
"No, indeed, child," replied Mrs. Bland, with a tender glance at her
eldest girl. "God grant I never may!"
"The best thing for Hilda would be a change," she added, turning to
Aldyth. "I had a letter from my cousin, Mrs. Lancaster, a fortnight
ago, asking me to let my girls go with her and her daughter for a tour
in Brittany. Hilda did not care about it, so we refused the invitation;
but I think perhaps she might be persuaded to go now, and as my cousin
does not start till next week, I have written to ask if she is still
willing to take the girls."
"Oh, that would surely be good for Hilda," said Aldyth. "She has never
been abroad. Oh, I hope you will be able to arrange it."
"I should not wonder if Hilda positively refuses to go," said Kitty.
But her sister proved in this instance more tractable than Kitty
expected. Life was strong in her after all; and, since it became every
day more clear that she was not going to die: absence from Woodham
seemed the only condition under which life could be endured. Hilda's
pride was, perhaps, as deeply wounded as her affections. She dreaded
to meet the observant, perhaps pitying, glances of her acquaintances;
she hated the thought of the talk concerning her broken engagement that
must be going on in Woodham.
But each wound was deep, and the disappointment was none the less
keen that she had perhaps been more in love with love than with Guy
Lorraine. She had cherished her love, she had brooded over it, she had
fed it with all food of the imagination which she could draw from poet
or romance writer. And the romantic love thus fostered was not the
strong, clear-sighted love which discerns and comprehends every fact
relating to the one beloved. The true Guy, Hilda had never known. The
greater on this account was the pain she suffered when her lover began
to treat her with carelessness and indifference; the more crushing the
blow dealt by the coolly-written letter in which he informed her that
he had discovered that he had "mistaken his feelings" when he thought
that he loved her, but, was now convinced that they were "not, in the
least suited to each other."
As she had brooded over her love, Hilda now brooded over her sorrow;
nursing it, magnifying it, letting her fancy play over it, and
desiring, not comfort, but due appreciation of the greatness of her
misery.
Aldyth was glad when she knew that Kitty and Hilda had started to join
the Lancasters in London. She believed that the thorough change and
diversion afforded by a foreign tour must help Hilda to recover her
spirits.
Aldyth felt deeply for Hilda, whose state of mind she understood
perhaps better than Kitty did, for she had seen all along how
completely Hilda had deceived herself with regard to the character of
Guy Lorraine. It annoyed Aldyth to see how utterly Guy ignored that
he had anything to be ashamed of in his treatment of Hilda Bland. He
rather seemed to pride himself on the way in which he had acted. It
commended itself to his sense of prudence; and he was not the only
person at Woodham who regarded his action thus favourably, nor was
Clara Dawtrey the only one who derived satisfaction from the thought
of Hilda Bland's mortification. But Aldyth could only explain the
irreproachable air with which Guy bore himself by the assumption that
he was so constituted as to be incapable of certain thoughts and
feelings which to her appeared natural and essential. She was destined
to receive further proof of this theory ere long.
Aldyth comforted herself with the reflection that it was probably
a happy thing for Hilda that the engagement had come to an end.
Her sensitive, emotional nature must have suffered constant pain
in daily association with one whose ideas were so matter-of-fact,
and whose perceptions were obtuse to all that did not immediately
concern himself. Aldyth's own feelings towards her cousin at this
time were strangely mingled. In her disgust at his conduct towards
Hilda, she had shrunk from him, and but for Miss Lorraine's efforts
and Guy's persistence in trying to ingratiate himself with her, the
reconciliation just effected might have been ruptured as soon as made.
But there was a motive which urged Aldyth to avoid another estrangement
from her cousin. Although she was in no way to blame for the fact,
she could never forget that her gain had been Guy's loss. It was not
a gain that had brought her increased satisfaction; but she knew that
his loss had caused Guy much chagrin, and that many persons pitied him
on account of it. She was painfully conscious of this whenever she saw
him, and it made her tolerant of his society and anxious to do all in
her power to make amends to him for his loss.
Guy understood his cousin sufficiently well to divine that this would
be her feeling; but whilst Aldyth was racking her brain to devise
delicate and practicable modes of making up to him in some degree for
what he had lost, he was looking forward to a means of restitution
which never crossed her mind. People, seeing the cousins together again
and apparently on the old terms, were quick to say that it was plain
why Hilda Bland had been jilted. Guy did not trouble himself about what
people might say; but to Aldyth, the idea was so impossible that she
never conceived that others might entertain it.
She persuaded Guy to accept as a gift from her the horse which he
had been wont to ride when he lived at Wyndham, she consulted him on
various matters connected with the estate, and allowed him to help her;
but at the same time, she treated him with the frankness and occasional
severity of an elder sister, though in truth she was his junior. And
there was nothing in her manner that could flatter his vanity or
encourage the hope he was cherishing.
But the self-esteem of some persons requires little support, and the
event which one will regard as impossible will strike another as highly
probable. Guy had no idea that the purpose he had formed involved an
astounding surprise for Aldyth, and perhaps she should have been better
prepared for it than she was.
One warm afternoon Aldyth was in the library at Wyndham, worrying
herself over some business details submitted to her by her bailiff,
which she could not understand. Her head ached, the heat was
stupefying, and her perplexity only increased the longer she studied
the account. It was with a sense of relief that she heard Guy's step in
the hall, and called him to her. There was a welcome in her glance ere
she said brightly—
"Oh, I am glad to see you. Do come and tell me what this man means me
to understand by this complicated document."
"Willingly, if I can," said Guy, as he drew a chair to her side. The
matter was simple enough to him. He had been accustomed to look after
his uncle's business affairs, and in a few minutes he had explained
everything Aldyth found puzzling, and also given her a little advice
with regard to the business under consideration.
"Tomlinson is a good fellow," he said; "but you must not let him have
everything his own way. An agent should not have too much power."
"But how can I help it?" asked Aldyth. "He understands these things,
and I do not."
"That's it," said Guy, seizing his opportunity. "You need some one by
your side who knows how to manage an estate. Dear Aldyth, I wish you
would let me help you."
"You do help me, Guy," she said, puzzled by his manner, but yet far
from seeing his drift; "you are very good to help me as you do."
"Ah, but I could be so much more to you, if you would let me," he said,
and now his voice took a tender tone which roused her to a sense of
danger; "if only you would let share all your burdens and cares; if you
would let things be as uncle always meant them to be."
Considering the circumstances of the case, Guy certainly expressed
himself with much cleverness, and showed what imaginative language even
commonplace minds can command under sufficient stimulus. But the effect
of his words was not such as he desired.
Aldyth started up, a flush of anger on her cheek. "Guy, I cannot think
what you mean by speaking in such a way!"
"Oh yes, you must know," he said. "I told you before that I loved you."
He paused, checked by the scorn he read in her glance.
"I should think that would be a reason for not saying it again,"
she replied in cold, clear tones, which had an edge of contempt.
"If I remember rightly, I made you aware then how I regarded your
professions, and you cannot surely imagine that, after all that has
happened, and Hilda Bland being my friend, I should regard them
otherwise now, especially as—excuse me, Guy, the motive is so evident."
Guy looked down, and his face flushed, but he said doggedly—
"You may say what you like, but I think you owe something to me. You
forget that what has happened makes a great difference to me."
"No, I do not forget it," said Aldyth, warmly; "I cannot forget it; I
am oppressed by the knowledge that it is so. I would set matters right
between us at once, if I knew how."
"There is but one way," he said.
"Then it is a way I shall never take!" she said, her eyes flashing on
him. "I would not set a wrong right by committing a greater wrong. I
would give you Wyndham to-morrow rather than do that."
"But that would be impossible," he said. "I could not in honour accept
such a gift from you."
"I should not have thought considerations of honour would have troubled
you, Guy," said Aldyth, unable to resist the retort.
But she was ashamed of it when it had passed her lips, and feeling
that there was danger in her growing excitement, she turned to quit
the room. Ere she could reach the door, it was opened by a servant,
evidently looking for her. On the salver in his hand lay a telegram.
"For you, Miss Lorraine," he said. "A man has ridden from Woodham with
it."
Aldyth passed into the hall as she tore the envelope open. The telegram
was from Eastbourne, and the sender was Gladys. "We are in dreadful
trouble; come to us," was all it said.
CHAPTER XXIII.
LOSSES AND GAINS.
IT was shocking and terrible news Mrs. Stanton had received by telegram
from Melbourne earlier in that day. The firm of Stanton Bros. had come
to utter bankruptcy, such as reduced to poverty every one connected
with the firm, and brought unlooked-for destitution upon many an
innocent sufferer. But this was not the whole of the calamity.
The health-giving influences of the voyage had not so invigorated Mr.
Stanton that he could sustain the shock of misfortune that awaited him
on his arrival at Melbourne. He went to his office almost immediately
on landing, and there learned from his brother the critical state of
affairs. He had listened calmly, had made full inquiries, and satisfied
himself that it was impossible to avoid hopeless, irretrievable
failure. Then, without showing any marked signs of agitation, he had
returned to his hotel; but on the threshold, his step faltered, a
strange spasm passed over his face, and he fell heavily to the ground.
It was the last fatal stroke of paralysis. Within three hours he was
dead.
But as yet his wife and children knew no particulars, only the bare,
cruel facts, conveyed with curt emphasis by the telegram. As they began
to recover from the first stunning effect of the blow, their one wish
was for Aldyth's presence. The trouble would be less bewildering, less
overwhelming, if she were there. Comfort of some kind Aldyth would
surely bring.
"Send for Aldyth," Mrs. Stanton whispered to Gladys, in one of the
intervals between her fits of hysterical weeping; and Gladys lost no
time in obeying.
The girls were very anxious for the coming of their sister, mid made
many calculations as to how soon she could arrive, without attaining
certainty that she could get to Eastbourne that day.
But the last train, just before midnight, brought Aldyth.
Gladys, watching at the window of their sitting room, saw the cab
drive up to the door, and hurried down to meet her. Mrs. Stanton had
retired to rest, and, worn out with weeping, was already asleep; Nelly
was sitting beside her, so Gladys alone welcomed Aldyth. Gladys, with
pale face, pink eyelids, and a weary, anxious expression, looked wholly
different from the bright, radiant girl from whom Aldyth had parted a
few weeks earlier. Sorrow seems the more pathetic when its shadow falls
on one so young and gay.
"Oh, Aldyth, I am glad you have come," she said, clasping her sister in
her arms. "Things will seem better now. But is it not dreadful?"
"You forget I do not know what the trouble is," said Aldyth, who had
been full of wonder concerning it as she journeyed to Eastbourne.
"Poor papa is dead," said Gladys, "and we are beggars." The two facts
were apparently of equal importance to Gladys; but Aldyth only heeded
the former.
She was painfully startled: She had always been conscious of the
failing appearance of the worn, nervous man, but she was not prepared
to hear so soon of his decease, and it struck her as very sad that he
should die far away from his wife and children.
"Oh, Gladys!" she said. "I am grieved for you. Poor mamma! What will
she do? How was it?"
"Paralysis, the telegram says," replied Gladys; "but we know hardly
anything. That was what mamma had feared. Here is the telegram."
And she spread it open before Aldyth, who read—
"Stanton Bros., bankrupt. Robert Stanton died yesterday, shock
producing paralysis."
"Oh, how terrible!" said Aldyth. "How terrible the news seems, coming
in these few cold words! What a shock for mamma! How did she bear it?"
"She almost fainted, and then she went into hysterics," said Gladys,
with unconscious dryness; "but she is quieter now. Mamma says that
things have been going wrong in the business for some time, and that
papa said that if it came to bankruptcy, we must lose everything. She
says she believes we have not a penny."
"Do not let that trouble you," said Aldyth, kindly; "your greatest
loss can never be made up to you, but as far as the money goes, I have
enough for us all. Oh, I am glad now that uncle made me rich."
And at that moment, Aldyth experienced the utmost satisfaction her
fortune had brought her.
"I should have thought you would have been glad before this," said
Gladys, "and you won't want a lot of poor relatives hanging on you."
"I should be much poorer if I had not the relatives," said Aldyth.
"Where is Nelly?"
"She is with mamma; but I will go and relieve her now. You are to share
her room. She has been longing for you to come."
Already Gladys's look had brightened, and she walked away with her
usual quick, light step. She was not one to droop long under trouble.
Like a bent flower, she could lift her head at the first break in the
storm.
In a few minutes Nelly was in her sister's arms. The child's face
looked worn and aged; the eyes were unnaturally bright, but showed no
signs of weeping. At Aldyth's tender greeting, however, her composure
gave way. She broke into heavy sobs as she clung to her sister.
"Oh, Aldyth, is it not dreadful? Poor papa!"
"Yes, dear, it is very sad," Aldyth said.
"I never thought—I never expected such a thing," sobbed Nelly. "Of
course, I knew he was not well; but he had been out of sorts a long
time, and mamma said the voyage would set him up. It is so sad that he
should die away from us all. Aldyth, he should not have been allowed to
go back alone."
Aldyth did not at once reply.
"Perhaps not," she said, presently; "but, Nelly, it is vain to think of
that now."
"That is what makes it so dreadful!" cried Nelly. "Aldyth, I feel now
that I never loved papa as I should. He was just papa, who found the
money and saw we had everything we wanted. I took it all as a right,
and never was a bit grateful. Do you know, one Saturday after you had
gone to Woodham, he came in very tired, when mamma and Gladys were out,
and I fetched his slippers and got some tea for him, just as you used
to do. He seemed so surprised and pleased. He said, 'Why, Nelly, you
are getting as thoughtful as Aldyth.' I felt reproached as he said it,
though he did not mean it as a reproach."
"But you are thankful now, are you not, dear, that you did him that
little service?" Aldyth said.
"Oh, but it was only that once!" replied Nelly, with a fresh burst
of weeping. "He went away so soon after that there was not another
opportunity. But I might have served him often, and now it is too late.
He is gone from me—my father—and I did not love and value him whilst I
had him!"
Aldyth did not attempt to check her tears. She felt that words could
not soothe such grief as this. The thought that she had failed in her
duty towards her father would long sting poor Nelly's heart; but the
pain might be salutary; from it might spring the "peaceable fruit" of
love and care for others.
After a pause, Aldyth said—
"Nelly, I am reminded of some words I read a while ago. I think they
were Richter's, and to this effect, that the most beautiful wreath we
can lay on the grave of our dead is woven of good deeds done to others.
We should remember that now. We cannot undo the past; we cannot recall
the lost opportunity or the careless word; but we can endeavour to show
all the love and kindness in our power to those who still remain with
us."
"I will try to be good," faltered Nelly; "but I have such a temper, and
mamma and Gladys irritate me so."
"It is never easy to conquer oneself," said Aldyth; "but the victory is
worth all the pains. And we have not to fight alone. There is One who
will help us, if we put our trust in Him."
They went to their room, and Aldyth helped Nelly, who was quite worn
out with the excitements of the day, to undress, and saw her into bed,
where she fell asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow.
Aldyth, too, was tired; but after she had extinguished the light she
knelt long in the darkness ere she lay down to rest.
When Aldyth woke the next morning, she felt as if Woodham, Wyndham, the
events of yesterday, were all removed to a great distance. The things
which a few hours before had been of interest to her now seemed of no
importance. Her mind was filled with the thought of her mother's great
sorrow, and how she might best help and comfort her.
As soon as she knew that her mother was awake, she went to her room,
and was received with a demonstrative affection for which she was
hardly prepared.
"Thank God you are come, darling!" said Mrs. Stanton, embracing her. "I
want you now, my eldest daughter! I have no one to lean on but you. My
husband, my home, everything is taken from me."
And she sank back on her pillow sobbing.
"Mother, darling," cried Aldyth, bending over her with a tenderness
almost maternal in her manner—it was as if the mother and child had
changed places. "Mother, darling, do not cry so; I will take care of
you. I have a home, you know; and that and everything I have is yours.
Try to bear up for the sake of your children, who love you and will do
all in their power to make you happy."
"Thank you, my darling child," murmured Mrs. Stanton, "You are so
good." Then, with a fresh flow of tears—"But it is dreadful to lose my
husband so—without a word; and I cannot even look upon his lifeless
form. It is so hard."
Aldyth could not speak; it was all she could do to keep from weeping
herself, but she kissed her mother and laid her cheek against hers, and
the mute caresses were more soothing than words.
Later in the day, Cecil arrived from London, prepared to stay over
Sunday with his mother and sisters. He appeared shocked by the news,
but it was the pecuniary loss that most affected his spirits, as Aldyth
could not but perceive. It touched her to think how slight a hold
Robert Stanton had had on the hearts of his children. With whom did
the fault lie? Had he lived too absorbed in business to find time for
the culture of family affections, or did the infirmity of his extreme
shyness and reserve raise a barrier even between him and his children?
Aldyth was inclined to explain it by the latter supposition, for the
little she had seen of her stepfather led her to credit him with a good
heart, keenly responsive to kindness, but incapable, from physical
hindrances, of giving ready expression to feeling.
Cecil's mind was in a state of indignant resistance to the calamity
that had overtaken them. He was glad to express himself freely when he
got an opportunity of talking to Aldyth alone.
"It is all my uncle's fault, I know," he said; "now, you see, when we
get particulars, if it does not come out that the failure is entirely
owing to some rash speculation my uncle has plunged into. My father let
him have things too much his own way. It was a great mistake. It is all
very well to talk about affliction, but this is my uncle's doing, and I
mean to let him know what I think of his conduct."
"Will that be of any good?" asked Aldyth, gently. "I suppose he and his
family are also reduced to poverty. He must deplore his action now as
much as you do."
"Whether it is of any good or not, I mean to do it for my own
satisfaction," replied Cecil. "It is no joke to have the whole of your
income swept away. What am I to do? What is to become of mamma and the
girls?"
"Oh, do not let that trouble you," said Aldyth. "Mamma and Gladys are
coming with me to Wyndham—there is plenty of room for them there;
indeed, I was in despair at the thought that I might have to live in
that great place alone. Nelly will go back to school for the present;
and you, I hope, will remain in your lodgings near the hospital."
"What, at your expense?" asked Cecil, flushing.
"No, at mamma's, if you like that better," said Aldyth, smiling. "I
consider that mamma shares all my possessions."
"It is very good of you," said Cecil, looking relieved, and yet a
little uneasy. "You are very generous. I don't believe Gladys would be
so ready to let others spend her money."
"Don't say that—it is rather mean; for you cannot possibly tell what
Gladys would do under the circumstances. And I cannot see that there
is any generosity in giving away what you will never miss. I could not
possibly spend on myself the income which is now mine. I don't know
what I should have done if this had not happened, for I am not a fine
lady. I have an inbred horror of extravagance."
Cecil laughed.
"You are not like Gladys, then. She will help you to spend your money
fast enough, if you let her. But I think very differently of you,
Aldyth, and I hope some day I may be able to repay you for what you do
for me."
"Very well, sir," said Aldyth, laughing. "When I get a broken arm or
a sprained ankle, I shall be happy for you to exercise your surgical
skill upon it."
Aldyth remained with her mother and sisters for a week at Eastbourne,
keeping almost in seclusion. Yet for her it was a busy time, for there
were many arrangements to be made, letters to be written, friends to be
seen, and every task from which her mother and Gladys shrank devolved
upon her.
Mrs. Stanton gradually recovered from the shock of ill-tidings, and
after a few days began to move less languidly, and to show some faint
interest in the future that awaited her.
"To think that I should live at Wyndham after all," she said to Aldyth.
"Your father used to talk of it at one time, when he hoped his uncle
would forgive us; but that never came to pass. It is strange that I
should go there now, after all these years and all that has happened.
But it is rather a dreary old place, is it not?"
"I hope you will not find it so," said Aldyth. "I think it is very
pretty in the summer."
Aldyth was glad that her preparations for her mother's visit to Wyndham
were about finished ere she was summoned away.
She wrote to inform her aunt of the time when they might be expected,
and to beg her to be at Wyndham to welcome them.
Unfortunately the September evening on which Aldyth with her mother and
Gladys arrived at Woodburn was very wet, and under driving rain and a
leaden sky the High Street and the long straight road to Wyndham looked
far from interesting. Mrs. Stanton's countenance, its pale, delicate
beauty strikingly set off by the folds of crape which framed it, wore
a melancholy expression as she glanced from the carriage at the gloomy
prospect.
"I always said I could not bear to live at Woodham," she remarked, with
a shiver; "but it is my fate. Well, I am old and a widow now; it does
not matter where I live."
This was not encouraging; but Aldyth could not wonder at her mother's
depression.
"Not old; beautiful and dear," she said, pressing her mother's hand.
"And brighter days will come. Woodham does not always look like this."
"I should hope not," said Gladys, throwing herself back with a yawn
as they passed the last house belonging to Woodham. "So this is your
carriage, Aldyth? It is rather an antiquated affair, and the springs
might be easier. Does your coachman always drive so slowly?"
"Yes, old John has an objection to using the whip," said Aldyth. "He
always lets the horses drop into this jog-trot. And it is of no use
speaking to him; he is too old to alter his ways."
"Then I should look out for another coachman if I were you," said
Gladys.
Aldyth shook her head.
"That would never do," she said. "It would break John's heart to be
superseded."
Dripping trees, dripping eaves, a pool under the front windows, and a
cloud of vapour rising from the pond, made Wyndham Hall appear anything
but a desirable residence as the carriage drove up to the door. Aldyth
was grieved that her mother should first see her future home in such an
unfavourable aspect.
Mrs. Stanton, in her sable attire, had the air of a queen in exile as
she mounted the steps, whilst a servant held an umbrella over her.
But Miss Lorraine's cheery face, as she came forward to welcome them,
seemed to defy the weather.
"What an evening!" she said. "You will think we have altogether too
much water here. It is unfortunate. But we must make the best of it."
"The house is surely damp," said Mrs. Stanton, with a dreary
anticipation of rheumatism.
"Not in the least," said Miss Lorraine, briskly; "the walls are too
thick for that. There never was a warmer, drier house. They do not
build such houses nowadays."
Certainly the dining room, where a bright fire was burning and a meal
daintily set out, looked more cheerful.
But Mrs. Stanton's spirits did not begin to revive till Aldyth
conducted her to her own room. This was a pleasant apartment with
windows looking southwards and commanding a pretty view of the
surrounding country. A new carpet had been put down; light fresh chintz
draped windows and bed; there were flowers on the dressing-table, and
glancing round, Mrs. Stanton could see that her tastes and comforts had
been carefully studied. She appreciated comforts, and she gave a sigh
of relief, not of despair, as she sank into an easy-chair by the wood
fire.
"This is cosy," she said. "Yes, dear Aldyth, I cannot but be
comfortable here, and if you will excuse me, I will not go down again
to-night. Miss Lorraine is very kind, but I do not feel equal to her
talk just now."
"You shall do as you like, mamma," said Aldyth, deftly removing her
mother's bonnet and mantle. "I will bring you something to eat here, if
you would rather."
"Yes, dear, much rather," Mrs. Stanton said.
And hastily removing her own things, Aldyth went down stairs to arrange
a tray for her mother with the food most likely to tempt her appetite.
Miss Lorraine watched her as she set about the task, and was struck
with the bright, happy look the girl's face wore.
"You look very happy, Aldyth," she said. "You are very glad to have
your mother in your home."
"I am happy," replied Aldyth, with a sweet, glad smile, "and it is home
now."
Miss Lorraine had a fleeting sense of discontent. She wondered what her
uncle Stephen would have felt if he could have foreseen this result
of Aldyth's inheritance, and smiled to think that, had such an idea
occurred to him, he would assuredly have left Wyndham to Guy. She could
imagine her uncle passing at midnight as a restless ghost through the
old hall and groaning at the sight of the huge trunks, belonging to
Mrs. Stanton and Gladys, which had just arrived in a cart from the
station, and were piled up in the hall, till they could be emptied of
their contents and consigned to the lumber room.
"Ah, me!" she reflected, sagely. "It is well we cannot know what is to
come after us, and really it is time there was some fresh life about
the old place."
CHAPTER XXIV.
A SECRET SORROW.
"Nor know we anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face."
THESE words were in Aldyth's mind as she sprang up the next morning.
The new duty which had come to her, the duty of making a home for
her mother and sisters, and doing all in her power to promote their
happiness, was very pleasant to the girl's loving heart. It was an
easy transition from Wordsworth's familiar ode to the thought of John
Glynne. She remembered that he had once spoken to her of the poem. He
had appeared to feel strongly the force of the epithet stern as applied
to duty. But duty had no sternness for Aldyth at this moment; her
inheritance had ceased to be a burden, now that she could share it with
others.
The thought of John Glynne lingered in Aldyth's mind while she was
dressing. She remembered that the date had passed at which the Grammar
School usually reopened, so no doubt John Glynne had returned to
Woodham. The year had almost come round to the period at which last
year he began his course of lectures. Would he be persuaded to give
another course this autumn? Aldyth hoped so, with all her heart. She
felt eager to ask her aunt if any such arrangement had been made. If
Mr. Glynne gave lectures, she meant to attend them. There was assuredly
no good reason why she should not. The distance might be considered a
difficulty, but she could have the carriage, and if old John objected
to being kept out so late, she would ask her aunt to let her stay at
the Cottage for the night.
The pleasant prospect suggested by the lectures heightened the good
spirits in which Aldyth had awoke. As she drew up her blind she saw
with satisfaction that, though clouds still hung low in the sky, the
sun was shining on the soaked lawn and well-washed trees. She hastened
to her mother's room.
Mrs. Stanton confessed to having slept "pretty well," but felt unequal
to rising at present.
Aldyth next visited her sister.
That young lady still lay in her bed, looking charmingly at her ease
and perfectly well, but she at once consented to Aldyth's proposal that
her breakfast should be sent to her.
"What a curious old room this is!" Gladys said, looking about her with
amused eyes. "Do you know I was horribly afraid last night that a ghost
would walk out of that cupboard? And I never slept on a bedstead of
this description before. It makes me feel as if I were Queen Elizabeth,
or some one remarkable. Did Queen Elizabeth ever come to Wyndham?"
"Not that I am aware of," said Aldyth, smiling.
"Then I need not be afraid of her ghost," said Gladys. "Shall I always
sleep here?"
"Not if there is another room you like better," said Aldyth. "I could
not but give mamma and aunt the best rooms last night. If I had known
you would be coming so soon, I would have had a room got ready for you
in a style more to your taste. We could easily make a pretty room of
this."
"Yes, we could," said Gladys, eagerly. "Get rid of this catafalque of
a bed and that hideous looking-glass, which gives me the flat, square
visage of a Dutchwoman, and have a pretty French bed with pale blue
drapery—blue is so becoming to me."
"Very well, I'll remember that important fact," said Aldyth.
"I will plan all the room, and tell you how it must be when you come
up again," said Gladys. "Ah, is that the sun shining? I am glad. When
shall I have a ride, Aldyth?"
"Have you a habit with you?" asked her sister.
"Oh yes; it is in one of the trunks; I don't know which," Gladys
replied. "I had a new one soon after you left us, Aldyth. It is dark
blue cloth, and I look so nice in it. I rode in the Park several times.
Mamma got Captain Walker to escort me once. But I forget that I am in
mourning. I shall have to wear my old-black one, I suppose. What a
bore!"
"Well, as soon as you can get your habit unpacked, we will see about a
ride—weather permitting," Aldyth said.
And she went down stairs, leaving Gladys in the best of humours.
Aldyth and her aunt, who had stayed the night at Wyndham, breakfasted
together.
"Auntie," said Aldyth, as she came back from carrying her mother's
breakfast to her, "are there to be lectures at Wyndham this autumn?"
"Ah, I am afraid not," said Miss Lorraine, shaking her head. "I have
not told you that we are going to lose Mr. Glynne."
"To lose Mr. Glynne!" repeated Aldyth, colouring and turning a startled
look upon her aunt.
"Yes, indeed," said Miss Lorraine, "it is a great pity, but I always
felt he was too good for Woodham. He has got a good appointment
abroad—the head mastership of some school or college at the Cape, I
believe."
Aldyth hastily seated herself behind the urn. She felt that she had
grown white and cold; the news was affecting her in a way she could
hardly understand.
"How soon does he leave?" she ventured to ask, after a minute.
"Oh, his connection with the Grammar School is already severed," said
her aunt. "Dr. Wheeler allowed a friend of Mr. Glynne's to take his
place. Of course the boys do not like it, and their parents are all
sorry to lose Mr. Glynne."
Aldyth silently busied herself with the coffee. Her hands trembled as
she lifted the cups.
"Then I shall see him no more," was the thought that pressed painfully
on her mind.
"He is coming down here again for a day or two before he leaves the
country," said Miss Lorraine, after a pause, "just to get his things
and say good-bye to his friends, you know. He could hardly leave us
without a word."
"I suppose not," said Aldyth, with a coolness which might have been
mistaken for indifference.
"I am very sorry he is going away," said her aunt. "As you know, I took
to him from the first. One does not meet with such a man every day. It
will be a grief to his mother to part with him."
"Yes," said Aldyth, finding it easy to respond to this remark.
Miss Lorraine talked on, discussing the event from various points of
view, and apparently quite satisfied with Aldyth's brief rejoinders.
Aldyth made but a pretence of breakfasting. She was oppressed by a
strange heart-sickness, which took away all the joy of her return, and
robbed Duty of the bright aspect it had worn to her that morning.
"I might have known he would not stay long at Woodham," she said to
herself. "He was so different from any one else I ever knew."
There were various little matters at Wyndham awaiting Aldyth's
attention. She went through the business of the morning with a weight
of disappointment on her mind. About noon she helped her mother to
dress. Gladys, who had been long up, and had made a tour of the
house under the guidance of Miss Lorraine, might have waited on her
mother; but Mrs. Stanton seemed to prefer the attentions of her eldest
daughter, and Gladys willingly gave place to Aldyth.
The morning had been showery, but by the time they all met at luncheon
the sun seemed to have conquered the clouds, and there was the prospect
of a fine afternoon.
Aldyth asked her aunt, who was about to return to Woodham, if she would
like to drive in an open carriage.
"Yes, certainly; it will be much pleasanter," said Miss Lorraine. "Will
you not come with me, Aldyth?"
"I do not know whether mamma can spare me," said Aldyth, looking at her
mother.
But ere Mrs. Stanton could speak, Gladys said, eagerly—"Oh, do let me
go, Aldyth. I want to see what Woodham looks like in fine weather."
"Very well, you shall go," said Aldyth, "and I will stay with mamma."
"No, you go too, my dear," said her mother, "if there is room for you
all in the carriage. The drive will do you good."
"The phaeton will take us all, if I drive," said Aldyth. "But I do not
like to leave you alone, mamma. You will feel so dull."
"No, dear; it will be good for me to rest quietly," said her mother. "I
would rather you went, indeed."
It had occurred to her that she would be glad to avail herself of the
opportunity thus afforded to wander through the old house alone, or
attended by the housekeeper, whom she wished to question on matters
concerning old Mr. Lorraine, about which she was curious.
After a little more persuasion, Aldyth consented to leave her mother to
herself, and half an hour later drove off with her aunt and sister to
Woodham. Midway they met Guy on horseback.
Aldyth felt the colour rush into her face as she remembered the last
talk she had had with her cousin. But Guy's sangfroid was equal to
the occasion. No one could look more unconscious of any cause for
constraint. He nodded and raised his hat in the easiest manner in
greeting to Miss Lorraine and Aldyth, as he reined in his horse, thus
compelling Aldyth to draw up also, then cast a quick, admiring glance
at the pretty girl on the back seat, whose delicate complexion and
sunny hair were thrown into strong relief by her sombre attire.
"So you have come back, Aldyth," he said, carelessly. "When did you
arrive?"
"Last evening," said Aldyth. "Let me introduce you, Guy, to my sister,
Miss Stanton."
The air of admiration with which Guy made his bow was agreeable to
Gladys. She liked the glance that lingered upon her, and the smile with
which he said—
"You must have thought you were coming into a second deluge when you
arrived last night, Miss Stanton. I shudder to think what Wyndham must
have looked to you with the fields about it all swamped."
Gladys gave a light little laugh. "It had a dismal appearance, I must
confess," she said. "Aldyth had prepared me for a scene of desolation,
but the reality surpassed all the efforts of my imagination. I thought
of the prisoner of Chillon, and pictured myself spending weary days and
nights within water-girt walls. But happily the sunshine has relieved
me of that horror."
"Wyndham is a dismal hole, though," said Guy. "Woodham is bad enough,
but Wyndham is a few degrees worse."
"Don't depress me," said Gladys. "I am on my way to discover all the
excitements your town can afford."
"Not many excitements, I fear," said Miss Lorraine, whilst Guy shrugged
his shoulders significantly. "After all the pleasures you have enjoyed
in town and at the seaside, our amusements will seem very commonplace."
"But there are pleasures peculiar to a country life, are there not?"
said Gladys with an air of simplicity. "Hay-making, for instance.
I should like to try that. I can fancy myself in a great hat, with
a pitchfork in my hand, tossing the hay. It would be so charmingly
idyllic."
"It would be if you turned haymaker," said Guy, with a meaning glance;
"unfortunately the hay-harvest is over, but there are other country
occupations—there is the shooting now, you know. But I forget, ladies
do not shoot. They hunt, though, occasionally."
"Ah, that is what I should like to do," said Gladys; "if we do not
share it, we like to hear about your sport. Do come in sometimes and
tell us how the shooting goes."
"With pleasure," said Guy, as Aldyth gave her horse a touch and it
moved on.
Guy looked his best on horseback, and Gladys was much impressed by her
introduction to him.
"You never told me, Aldyth," she said, "how very good-looking your
cousin was."
"Do you think him so?" Aldyth said.
"There can be no doubt that Guy is a handsome man," said Miss Lorraine,
decisively; "one seldom sees such regular, well-cut features."
"Handsome is that handsome does," Aldyth reminded herself, as she
thought of the suffering that attractive person had inflicted on Hilda
Bland.
Having driven to Myrtle Cottage, and seen Miss Lorraine and her
packages duly received by the little housemaid, the girls drove on
slowly down the High Street, Gladys glancing about her with amusement,
and well aware that she was an object of attention.
"How the people do stare!" she said. "One would think they never saw a
stranger. Really, this is quite bustling, Aldyth. I did not expect to
see such a crowded thoroughfare. It reminds me of Bond Street in the
season."
"It does not remind me of Bond Street," said Aldyth, smiling. "This
large house on the right is the home of my friends, the Blands; but
Kitty and Hilda are away just now."
"Is not Hilda Bland the girl to whom your cousin was engaged?" asked
Gladys.
"Yes," said Aldyth, reluctantly, not wishing to discuss that subject
with Gladys.
"Whose fault was it that the engagement came to nought?" asked Gladys.
"Did she care much for him?"
"A great deal more than he deserved," said Aldyth, her tones, in spite
of herself, expressing indignation.
"Girls are sillies," said Gladys, emphatically. "There never yet was a
man worth breaking one's heart for. But who is this one coming towards
us, Aldyth? He looks rather nice."
Aldyth had already recognized the individual in question, and her heart
had given a leap at the sight of him; but she answered quietly enough—
"That is Mr. Glynne. He was one of the masters at the Grammar School;
but he is about to leave the town."
"What a pity! I like the look of him," said Gladys. "He is not
good-looking, but he has the air of a gentleman."
"He is a gentleman," Aldyth could not help saying.
She was drawing in her horse before the door of the library when he
came in sight round a turn in the street. It would have been easy for
him, as they were about to alight, to step across the street to speak
to Aldyth; but the idea did not appear to occur to him. He lifted his
hat courteously, and passed on along the opposite pavement.
A keen, cruel pain seized upon Aldyth. She hardly heard the remarks
Gladys was making, or knew how she transacted the business that took
her into the shop. One thought possessed her—the thought that John
Glynne had only come for a day or two, and that he would go away
without her having exchanged a word with him. And yet he could have
spoken to her then; and he would not take the trouble to cross the road
that he might do so! It was most mortifying to be treated so by one
whom she had counted a friend.
With a sense of intolerable shame, Aldyth took herself to task for
feeling more interest in John Glynne than he apparently felt in her.
But though she was ashamed of it, the feeling was not to be crushed in
a moment. Thoughts full of pain and disappointment occupied her mind as
they drove home, making it difficult for her to pay proper attention to
what Gladys was saying.
"It is growing cold," Gladys remarked, with a shiver, as they turned
into the carriage drive to Wyndham; "the days are so short now. It will
soon be winter."
Aldyth roused herself with an effort, and tried to recover a bright
demeanour ere she saw her mother; but she felt as if winter had already
begun.
CHAPTER XXV.
HOW MRS. STANTON SPENT HER FIRST AFTERNOON AT WYNDHAM.
MRS. STANTON sat alone in the drawing room for an hour after the others
had driven away. Aldyth had converted this into a very pretty room.
Even Mrs. Stanton could find no fault with the taste she had displayed
in bringing out all that was picturesque in the old furniture, and
blending with it modern artistic draperies and various objects of
modern antique. The chair in which Mrs. Stanton reclined was of the
easiest, the long French window by which she sat looked out on a
stretch of sunlit lawn, with some bright dahlias blooming against the
box hedge, and some fine old trees rising beyond.
Mrs. Stanton's mood as she sat there was one of quiet, half-melancholy
content. She was far from being crushed by her bereavement. Her
affection for her husband had not been of such a clinging, penetrating
nature as to make life seem impossible without him. She had taken the
lead in their life, making his will give place to hers, and she now
felt quite capable of ordering her own life and that of her children.
As she reviewed the past and looked forward to the future, her thoughts
took the form of self-congratulation. She was moved to thankfulness
that things were as they were. They might have been so different. What
a fortunate circumstance it Was that Aldyth should inherit a fortune
just when her mother was about to lose everything! For that all was
gone Mrs. Stanton felt convinced from what her husband had told her of
his affairs, though she was yet awaiting the particulars that the next
mail would bring.
Mrs. Stanton had some fancy work in her lap, but she felt a distaste
for any occupation. It was easier to lean back and give herself up to
daydreams. Presently her imagination was filling the long drawing room
with a party of visitors.
"The place is dull," she thought; "but our life here need not be dull.
A country house is pleasant enough when it is full of guests. When a
proper time has passed, we can invite whom we like. There are surely
some nice people in the neighbourhood. We can give dinner parties and
tennis-parties and dances. We must do so for Gladys's sake. Captain
Walker could come over from Colchester; Cecil could bring some of his
friends from London. We could go up to town for a few weeks in the
season, perhaps. I suppose Aldyth could afford it. She has never told
me what her income is; perhaps she does not yet know herself; but it
can hardly be less than three thousand, and that would cover a good
many expenses."
As she thought thus, Mrs. Stanton grew weary of inaction. She was
naturally robust, and she was beginning to recover from the shock of
trouble, which had not made her really ill. She bethought her that
she should like to go through the house, and make herself thoroughly
acquainted with what she already regarded as her own domain.
As she rose and crossed the room, she caught sight of the reflection
of herself in a long mirror opposite, and was struck with the majestic
grace of her tall fine figure in its flowing black robe. After all, she
was not old or insignificant yet; life must still have pleasant things
in store for her. And there was a revival of energy manifest in her
look and bearing as she walked from the room.
She started on her tour of inspection alone, but presently found her
progress barred by locked doors, so, returning to the drawing room, she
rang the bell and summoned the house keeper to her presence.
Mrs. Rogers came readily, for she, in common with the other servants,
felt much interest in the beautiful, elegant widow who had taken up
her abode at the Hall. Mrs. Rogers was old enough to remember the
time when this lady, then a lovely, high-spirited girl, had been the
belle of Colchester, and how her marriage with Captain Lorraine and
his consequent disfavour with his uncle had set every one talking. The
housekeeper entered with an ingratiating smile on her face, and dropped
an old-fashioned curtsey as she stood before the lady.
"I thought I should like to take a turn through the rooms; it would
help to pass the time," said Mrs. Stanton; "but I find several of the
doors locked."
"Ah, yes, ma'am; I keep the rooms locked that are not in use." replied
the old woman. "Miss Aldyth being here so little, I thought it best to
do so. There's one room full of Mr. Guy's things. And I have the key
of the library, and the keys of the bureau too. Mr. Greenwood told me
to lock the room the day after the squire died. When either of the Mr.
Greenwoods came, I gave the key to them, and when they went away, they
locked the door and brought it back to me. And Miss Aldyth, she said
I'd better keep the keys of the bureau, too, in case they were wanted;
for you see Miss Aldyth was not always here. She went home with Miss
Lorraine a day or two after the funeral. But I'll fetch the keys for
you, ma'am."
"Thank you," said Mrs. Stanton, seating herself with an air of leisure.
In a few moments, Mrs. Rogers returned with her key-basket. "Perhaps
I had better go with you, ma'am," she suggested. "I fear you may find
some of the locks rather stiff, and the rooms a bit dusty."
"No, thank you; I will not take up your time," replied Mrs. Stanton,
languidly. "I dare say I shall not investigate very far, and I do not
care to feel hurried."
"Very well, ma'am; but if so be you should want me, I'll come in a
minute."
"You've been at the Hall a good many years, I believe," said Mrs.
Stanton.
"More than thirty years, ma'am."
"Ah, then you've seen many changes. You would remember Captain
Lorraine."
"Yes, indeed, ma'am. I remember him well. As nice a gentleman as ever
was. And Miss Aldyth's as like him as can be. It seems only right that
she should be here in his stead, though I am sorry for Mr. Guy."
"Ah, I have not yet the pleasure of his acquaintance," said Mrs.
Stanton; "but from what I have heard I should imagine him an agreeable
young man.
"He is that, ma'am. There's no one about here but is fond of Mr. Guy.
It was a pity that he offended his uncle—not but what we're all very
pleased to have Miss Aldyth here; though, if it could have been—But,
there, things may come right yet. There's many a one says they will."
But here Mrs. Rogers saw something in the lady's expression that made
her check her garrulous talk.
Mrs. Stanton was quick enough to read what was in the old woman's mind,
but she showed no consciousness of it.
"Mr. Stephen Lorraine was one easily offended, was he not?" she asked.
"Ay, that he was, ma'am; and he was one that would never go from his
word. If any servant offended him, that servant had to leave forthwith.
It was of no use to try and persuade him to overlook a fault; he
would not do that, though it vexed him to part with them. It seemed
impossible for him to forgive."
"And when was it that Mr. Guy was so unfortunate as to displease his
uncle?"
"At the end of last year, ma'am. We could all tell that there was
something wrong between them, and when Mr. Greenwood came out on New
Year's Day, I guessed what it meant."
Mrs. Stanton let the housekeeper talk on for some time, occasionally
interrupting her with a question. But at last, wearying of her
garrulity, she dismissed her, and set off again to go through the house.
The closed rooms proved old-fashioned and dingy, with the close, musty
atmosphere unused chambers so soon acquire. Mrs. Stanton did not care
to linger in them. She found little to interest her till she came to
the library. The air of that apartment, too, was oppressive, and she
hastened to open the long window which looked on to the lawn. The soft
breeze which entered was refreshing, and she sank on to a chair by the
window and fell to musing on what the old housekeeper had told her.
So there were those who thought that things would yet be made right for
Guy by his marriage with his cousin. Was this the motive that had led
him to break his engagement to Hilda Bland? Mrs. Stanton could easily
believe that it was so. Indeed, as she pondered it, the case hardly
seemed to admit of a doubt, nor was she inclined to blame him severely
for what seemed to her a most natural line of action. But nothing now
could be further from her desires than the fulfilment of the hope she
attributed to him. If Guy wedded Aldyth, Wyndham Hall could no longer
be the home of herself and daughters, and the delightful visions in
which she had been indulging must come to nought; for it was not
to be supposed that he would tolerate the constant presence in his
home of his wife's mother, nor would she wish to remain under such
circumstances.
But was it probable that Aldyth would be more inclined to accept Guy
now than she had been before? Her mother could hardly fear it, as she
remembered the emphatic way in which Aldyth had repudiated the idea.
"She will not, unless she is moved by some quixotic desire to restore
the property to him," reflected Mrs. Stanton; "and I will do all in my
power to prevent that."
With this resolve, she dismissed the unwelcome thought, and gave her
attention to her surroundings.
The room in which she sat was that in which old Stephen Lorraine had
spent most of his time when indoors. A glance round it sufficed to
prove that his tastes were not literary. Though it was known as the
library, the books it contained were few, and not of an inviting
appearance. They looked as if they might have stood untouched on the
shelves for the last fifty years. Above the mantelpiece hung tokens of
the love of sport that had characterized Stephen Lorraine in earlier
years. Various guns, not of the most modern construction, were to
be seen there, a very old fishing-rod, and the brush of a fox. The
portrait of a favourite hunter, painted by a local artist, hung on the
opposite wall, pairing with the picture of a prize bull, from which it
was divided by a large, highly imaginative sketch of a group of sheep
which had thriven on a certain much-advertised food.
But what most attracted Mrs. Stanton's attention was a quaint, antique
bureau which stood full in her view as she sat by the window. No
upholsterer's shop could furnish such an article at the present time,
so strongly made, so cunningly devised, with its hanging brass handles
and lavishly-disposed brass nails. This surely must be the old bureau
of which she remembered bearing her first husband speak. He had spoken
of it as a most curious piece of furniture, with numerous pigeon-holes,
sliding panels, strange, unexpected recesses.
As she looked at the bureau, a longing to explore it took possession
of Mrs. Stanton's mind. Why not? Here in the basket she held was the
key of the bureau. This long, curiously-formed key would open the main
lock, and these small keys must belong to the inner drawers. Why should
she not look into the bureau? Its owner for so many years had passed
away; the bureau and all it contained was now Aldyth's property; there
could be no harm in Aldyth's mother opening it. Aldyth would certainly
be willing that she should.
But though she told herself this, Mrs. Stanton hesitated. In her inmost
soul, she could not feel sure that it was right for her thus, alone,
to examine the things that old Stephen Lorraine had kept hidden from
others. She knew that if she did so, she would not like to speak of it
to her daughter.
She turned from the bureau. She stepped through the open window on to
the gravel path and took one or two turns up and down the length of
the lawn. The temptation grew stronger as she lingered. All was still
about her; there was not even a gardener in sight. Mrs. Rogers and the
servants were in their own quarters; there seemed no cause to fear
disturbance.
"You will never have so good an opportunity again," a voice said within
her.
She re-entered the library. Like many another daughter of Eve, she
looked at the forbidden fruit till it grew irresistible.
"Why should I not?" she asked herself again, as she drew a chair in
front of the bureau and seated herself. "The lawyer must have looked at
all it contains, so why should not I?"
She turned the key in the lock, and the bureau opened out easily. The
sloping desk, dark with age and ink-stains, bore witness to a long
term of service. Behind ran two rows of pigeon-holes. These contained
receipted bills, invoices, business letters, nothing that could
interest her. But a row of locked drawers at the side yielded more
interesting matter. Here were newspaper cuttings, referring to events
that she could remember, private letters, which she did not hesitate to
scan, and presently, closely wrapped in white paper, she found a lock
of a woman's hair.
She did not think of a like discovery in the desk of Swift, with its
half-savage, wholly pathetic description: "Only a woman's hair," but
she wondered at this revelation of a cherished sentiment in the breast
of the old man, whom she had always regarded as harsh and unfeeling.
Whose hair had this been—his mother's, or a gift from that Tabitha
Rudkin whose name she had heard laughingly associated with his youth?
And what was the meaning of this morocco case which lay in the same
drawer? She opened it, and saw the miniature of a lovely girl with
clear complexion, soft grey eyes, and masses of dark curls bunched on
either side her forehead, after the fashion of her day. So young and
fair she looked; but her youthful charms had long faded, and the years
were many since, at a mature age, Death set his seal to her life, for a
few words inscribed within the case told that this was the portrait of
old Stephen's mother, who had died at the age of fifty-five.
Mrs. Stanton closed the case with a shiver. She did not like to be
reminded of the inevitable lot, and the evanescence of beauty and
joy. She tried to shut the drawer; but something was wrong, she could
not get it back into its place. Then she saw that the framework of
the drawers was somehow awry. Inadvertently she must have touched a
hidden spring, for now, at a second pull, the whole nest of drawers
swung to one side and revealed a hollow space behind fitted up with
pigeon-holes. Here was one of the secret recesses of which she had
heard.
But it was empty. No. What was that in the furthest partition? Mrs.
Stanton put in her hand and drew forth a long blue roll. But as her
eyes fell on certain words written on it, she started and recoiled as
though a serpent had bitten her.
"Last Will and Testament of Stephen Lorraine." What had she found?
Another will? But not a valid one—that was impossible.
As the thought flashed through her mind, she was unrolling the document
with trembling hands. The date was April of the present year. And Mrs.
Rogers had said that the other will was made on New Year's Day! This
was a later will.
She grew cold and faint as the thought came to her that this will might
alter everything—Wyndham might not be Aldyth's; it might not be in her
power to give a home to her mother and sisters. Mrs. Stanton felt that
she must read the will; she must get to know what its provisions were.
Forcing her mind to the task, she slowly read through the will,
grasping with difficulty the meaning of the legal words. When she had
finished her face was white and her breath came quickly. That first
presentiment, alas! was confirmed. The will changed all. It made
Wyndham and the bulk of the property, together with the farm at Wood
Corner, over to Guy Lorraine, and left Aldyth with six thousand pounds.
Mrs. Stanton had an instantaneous perception of all that this fact
meant for her. She did not doubt that Aldyth would still be willing to
share her income with them, but how straitened their means would be!
She saw herself and daughters living in a small, inconvenient house,
like "common people," Gladys, perhaps, in her youth and beauty, reduced
to the humiliation of taking a situation. And Cecil—what would become
of Cecil's prospects?
"It is not right, it is not just," she murmured, feeling that
arrangements so opposed to her interests could not but be wrong. But
must it be so? Quickly came the tempting thought—"No one knows of it
but me. Mr. Greenwood did not see it. Perhaps it would never have been
found."
What a pity she had been so curious to examine the old bureau! And yet
if she had not found this will, another might have done so. Quick came
the thought, "I am glad it was not Aldyth who found it."
Yet why? What was she going to do with it, now it had come to light?
Not to proclaim the fact at once, certainly. Should she thrust it back
in the recess, and leave it for some one else to discover? She shrank
from the idea. It would be like having a drawn sword for ever hanging
above her head. What then? Destroy it? She turned hot and then cold as
the evil suggestion presented itself. Was it not felony to destroy a
will? That was a very ugly word. She could not do such a thing as that.
And yet—she wished the will were destroyed. She would be glad to know
that it would never have power to affect her welfare.
[Illustration]
She glanced at it again. The names of the witnesses were strange to
her. One had written "solicitor" and a London address after his name.
Would he be likely to know that the will had not come into operation?
Would it be safe to destroy it? The perspiration rose on Mrs. Stanton's
forehead as she asked herself this question. Suddenly, to her
consternation, she heard voices close at hand in the garden.
It was Aldyth and Gladys. Whilst she had been searching the bureau, the
afternoon had worn away, and they had returned from their drive.
Gladys was planning a tennis-ground, which she wished to persuade
Aldyth to have made; but at any moment they might turn their steps
towards the open window. In an agony of fear, Mrs. Stanton thrust the
will into her pocket. That receptacle was not large enough to hide it;
she must hold the folds of her gown together if she would conceal the
packet as she escaped to her room.
But first there were the drawers to push back into their place and
lock, and the bureau to close. Mrs. Stanton did it all in nervous haste
with trembling hands. One drawer would not lock, and she left it open
in her alarm, as she heard the girls' steps approaching. She had but
time to close her gown, ere the girls were at the window.
"Mamma! You here!" cried Aldyth, in surprise, as she glanced in at the
window.
"Yes, dear; you may well be surprised," said Mrs. Stanton, faintly.
"But I—thought I should like to look through the rooms—and—and Mrs.
Rogers gave me the keys—but—but it has been too much for me."
"I am sure it has," said Aldyth, wondering to see how pale her mother
was, and the tremulous way in which she spoke. "You should have waited
till I could come with you. Why, your hand is quite cold. I cannot
leave you again, if you not take better care of yourself."
"No, do not leave me again," cried Mrs. Stanton, beginning to sob. "It
is better for me to have you near. I get thinking of things when I am
alone, and I cannot bear it."
"Do not cry, dear mamma. I am here. I will not leave you," said Aldyth,
throwing her arms about her mother. "But you must not stay in this
chill room. Come into the drawing room."
"No, no; let me go to my own room," said Mrs. Stanton, rising, her
right hand still holding the folds of her gown.
Aldyth would have taken the hand to draw within her arm, but Mrs.
Stanton wheeled hastily round. "The other side, please, dear; I want to
hold up my dress with this hand."
Supported by Aldyth, she moved slowly from the room. Gladys did not
immediately follow them. She had not betrayed any anxiety on her
mother's account. There was a satirical smile on her lips as she said
to herself, glancing round the library—
"It was like mamma to make an inspection of the house when Aldyth was
out of the way; but I wonder, did she chance upon a skeleton anywhere,
that she was so upset?"
Mrs. Stanton, having gained her bedroom, seemed indisposed for further
soothing, and only anxious to send Aldyth away.
"Leave me to myself now, dear," she said, sinking on to a couch in such
a way that her pocket was hidden. "I only want quiet; I shall be better
when I have rested awhile."
Aldyth did not reflect that her mother had been enjoying quiet all
the afternoon. She, too, was glad to slip away to her own room. But
no sooner had Aldyth left her, than Mrs. Stanton rose from the sofa,
and, having locked the door, found a travelling desk which was fitted
with a good patent lock. In this she placed the will, and having locked
the desk, put the key away in a drawer, which she also locked; then,
mounting on a chair, she pushed the desk out of sight on the top shelf
of her wardrobe.
"Anyhow, I will do nothing in the matter till the mail brings me news,"
she said to herself.
CHAPTER XXVI.
A FAREWELL.
ON the following morning Aldyth found her mother looking white and
worn. And in response to her daughters anxious questioning, she
confessed that she had hardly slept at all during the night. Yet she
was not to be persuaded to rest longer in bed. She was eager to rise,
and throughout the day, she showed a restlessness and irritability
which was trying to those about her, but was not to be wondered at in
one upon whom such heavy trouble had fallen.
In the afternoon Aldyth, who had been packing a hamper of flowers for
the benefit of her girl friends at Whitechapel, wished to convey it to
the railway station. It was a lovely autumn afternoon, so she proposed
that her mother and Gladys should accompany her for the drive, and
they should make a long round to Woodham, where she would leave them
to return home in the care of old John, as she wished to call at her
aunt's.
"But how will you get home if we go on in the carriage?" asked Gladys.
"Oh, I shall have a cup of tea with auntie, and then walk home," said
Aldyth.
"Walk!" exclaimed Gladys. "All that long, dull road!"
"Oh, I shall not keep to the road," said Aldyth. "There is a shorter
way across some fields. It is a pleasant walk, and I shall enjoy it
this evening."
"What, all alone!" said Gladys. "I should be scared to walk by myself
in the country."
"That is because you are not used to the country," said Aldyth. "I can
assure you, the open fields have no terrors for me."
"But you will be very tired; surely it will not be wise of you to do
so, Aldyth," said her mother, feeling more reluctance to the idea than
she could easily have accounted for.
"I am not afraid of fatigue," said Aldyth. "I have often walked here
from Woodham—sometimes with Guy, sometimes by myself. You will see I
shall come in as fresh as a daisy."
Aldyth had set her heart upon having a talk with her aunt, and she was
not disposed to lightly relinquish her plan.
Mrs. Stanton looked annoyed, and talked about remaining at home
herself, in which case Aldyth would have felt constrained to keep her
company. But in truth, Mrs. Stanton was longing to escape for a while
from the house where her consciousness of the hidden will seemed an
intolerable oppression. No doubt after awhile this nervous, restless
feeling would pass, and she would cease to dread self-betrayal, or that
strange reluctant impulse to confession which came to her in Aldyth's
presence. But whilst she felt thus, it was impossible to sit inactive
in rooms in which she had no right to sit. The long drive offered a
relief which she could not reject, so she let Aldyth persuade her to
get ready, and took her place in the carriage, whilst Aldyth arranged
some cushions for her comfort, with more than ever of the air of a
banished queen.
It was a pleasant day, and to Aldyth, whose heart had a burden which
no one could share, the calm, restful beauty of the autumn day was
soothing. Every peaceful country scene on which her eyes fell had its
preciousness for her. Here the last load of a late harvest was being
lifted, but for the most part the stubble fields lay white and bare,
surrounded by the green pastures; here was a cottage orchard, with its
gnarled trees bowing beneath a weight of rosy apples; there was an old
moss-grown well, with its bucket and pulley; and there a woman whose
bees had swarmed in a neighbouring elder-tree, and who was endeavouring
to attract them to a hive by means of a jingling performance with a key
and a frying-pan.
This last sight made Gladys laugh; but her mother looked on everything
with a melancholy, indifferent gaze.
"How dreary this flat landscape is!" she said once. "Nothing to be seen
but fields and windmills!"
Aldyth alighted at the railway station, and having consigned her hamper
to the care of the station-master, walked up the town towards her
aunt's cottage. But as she approached the Blands' house, Mrs. Bland
smiled and beckoned to her from the bow-window, and it was impossible
to pass without a word. The house door could always be opened from the
outside. Aldyth opened it, and stepped in without ceremony.
"All alone?" she said, as she kissed her old friend; "how strange you
must feel without one of the girls!"
"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Bland. "Gwen thought I ought to keep her home
for half a term, to bear me company, and deemed me a hard-hearted
parent because I would not listen to her suggestion. But I do not
approve of broken work."
"And what news of the others?" asked Aldyth.
"Oh, fairly good," said Mrs. Bland. "Kitty seems to be enjoying herself
very much, and she says Hilda is a little brighter. They are at Dinan.
When they wrote, they had been to see the ruined castle in which 'the
Lady of La Garraye' lived. Kitty has been reading the poem, and seems
much impressed by it. I was surprised at the way in which she wrote. It
was as if Kitty and Hilda had changed places. Hilda says little in her
letters, poor child. I fancy she would be sorry for me to think she was
at all more cheerful. If I can find Kitty's letter, you shall read it."
Mrs. Bland rose to hunt for Kitty's letter amidst the papers on her
writing-table. At that moment Aldyth, seated by the window, saw John
Glynne walk down the street. The girl was thankful Mrs. Bland's back
was turned as she felt the colour rush into her face. That sudden
thrill was followed by a deep sense of disappointment and depression.
He was gone in the opposite direction to that she was taking; there was
no likelihood of her seeing him, and in a day or two at the latest, he
would leave Woodham.
Mrs. Bland failed to find Kitty's letter, and Aldyth left without
seeing it. In a few minutes, she was at her aunt's. Miss Lorraine
welcomed her with a little air of excitement.
"What a pity you did not come a few minutes earlier," she said. "Mr.
Glynne was here. He asked after you. I think he would have liked to say
good-bye to you."
Aldyth grew white. She could say nothing under the grasp of
disappointment. Fate was hard upon her. If she had not seen Mrs. Bland
at the window and gone into her house, she would have arrived in time
to greet John Glynne. And it seemed to Aldyth at that moment that it
would have been worth a great deal just to have said good-bye to him.
If Miss Lorraine noted the quick change of Aldyth's expression, she did
not appear to do so. She chatted on with her usual volubility. There
are times when it is convenient to have a companion with a faculty of
small talk. Such a one is satisfied with the least modicum in the way
of response.
"I can see that Mr. Glynne feels leaving Woodham," said Miss Lorraine.
"He said he could hardly expect to meet with such kind friends anywhere
else. Indeed, I do not think he likes leaving England at all; but it
is for the sake of his mother he has accepted the appointment. It will
make things easier for her, he says; and she has not been at all strong
lately. I am sure I do not know how she will bear parting with him; but
there is another brother, you know, who will be at home to take care of
her."
"Yes," said Aldyth, faintly, as her aunt looked towards her.
"Mr. Glynne is very fond of his mother," continued Miss Lorraine. "If
I were not already convinced of it, I should have known he was a good
man, by the way in which he spoke of his mother this afternoon."
"When does he leave?" asked Aldyth, as her aunt paused to take breath.
"Leave Woodham? To-morrow morning, and he sails at the end of the week.
But, Aldyth, if you are to walk home before it gets dark, we must have
tea at once."
And Miss Lorraine summoned the little housemaid by a vigorous pull of
the bell.
In half an hour, Aldyth was on her way home. She was one to enjoy a
long, brisk walk; but now her sweet calm face had a weary look, and
her step was less elastic than usual. She had started forth a few
hours earlier with no definite hope in her heart, but she was bearing
back with her an unmistakable weight of disappointment and pain. She
did not attempt to analyse her feelings; she did not own to herself
that mighty Love had laid his spell upon her—Love at which she had
laughed—which had seemed to her more than half a folly, as she had seen
it influencing the life of another. She only knew that a shadow had
fallen on her heart, that some scarce-defined hope had died, and that
life had lost the brightness it wore for her a little while ago.
She had passed out of the road, and was pursuing her way through a
deep grassy meadow by the side of a stream, with round bushy pollards
growing on its banks. Behind her lay the little town, its red roofs,
old church tower, and the broad stretch of water, dotted with sails,
forming a fair picture in the clear evening light. No sound broke the
stillness save the scarce perceptible ripple of the stream, and the
occasional hoarse croaking of a frog. The peace, the solitude was
welcome to Aldyth.
But as she stepped round the trunk of a large ash-tree that made
a break in the path, she perceived that she was not alone in her
enjoyment of the place and the hour. On the rude stile before her, with
a book on his knee, which he was not reading, sat John Glynne.
It would be difficult to say which was the more surprised. Aldyth was
conscious of an agitation which she could not at once control. She felt
that she was blushing and trembling, as he sprang down and advanced
to meet her. But she saw a bright look of pleasure in his eyes as he
smiled on her and said, with all the old friendliness—
"Miss Aldyth! I am glad! I thought I should have to leave Woodham
without seeing you again."
"That would not have been my fault, Mr. Glynne," she could not help
saying. "Wyndham is not at such a distance from Woodham as to make it
impossible to visit a friend who lives there. Perhaps you do not know
it, but you are almost halfway to Wyndham at the present moment."
"I know," he said, with a smile. "Well, I deserve that reproach; but
indeed I could not persuade myself that I had any right to call on you
in your new home."
"Any right?" repeated Aldyth, biting her lips to hide their trembling.
"That is an unkind thing to say. What have I done that I must forfeit
your friendship?"
It glanced through her mind that perhaps he blamed her for supplanting
Guy at Wyndham. If only he could know what it had cost her to do so!
Must the loss of his friendship be part of the price?
"Nothing. How could you suppose that I would willingly give up your
friendship?" he said. "But there were reasons why it seemed to me that
I should not seek you under your changed circumstances."
"What have my circumstances to do with it?" asked Aldyth, almost
impatiently. "Do you think so poorly of me as to imagine that I must
change with my circumstances?"
"I am far indeed from thinking poorly of you," he said, quietly.
"Then why," asked Aldyth, impetuously, "why did you hold aloof from me
because I had inherited Wyndham? Does that make me any different from
what I was before? Am I not the same girl I was when first you knew me?"
"No," he said, slowly; "you are not the same to me as when first I saw
you."
Aldyth looked at him in wonder. She could not read his grave, set look.
"What do you mean?" she asked, in faltering tones. "How have I altered?
Do you think I am elated at my new position? Oh, you mistake me indeed
if you think so! It has brought me no happiness. I never needed a true
friend more than I do now. But every one disappoints me."
Her last words dealt a wound to Glynne. It cost him an effort to reply
calmly.
"Now you are mistaking me," he said. "When I said that, you were not
the same to me, I did not mean that you had changed—far less that you
were not worthy the highest reverence man can pay woman. It is my
feeling that has become—it is because—"
His tones had grown unsteady. He checked himself abruptly. Glancing at
him, Aldyth saw with alarm that he had grown pale, and was under the
influence of some emotion which made self-control difficult.
"You cannot understand," he continued, after a moment, finding his
words with difficulty; "and how can I explain? Of course I might have
made a conventional call on you, like any ordinary acquaintance.
Doubtless you have a right to reproach me for a breach of courtesy; but
I shrank from it—you were more to me. And you must remember that though
no change of circumstances can affect you, it makes a difference in the
minds of others; it makes people Judge things differently."
As he spoke in broken, hesitating fashion, there dawned on Aldyth a
perception of his meaning. Her face grew crimson, then white. She would
have spoken, but what could she say? Words came to her lips, but it was
impossible to utter them. Quick thoughts, visions of her mother, her
sisters, passed before her mind. She felt like one bound and fettered.
It seemed long, but it was but a few moments that they stood in
silence, the words that had been spoken vibrating in the consciousness
of each. He must have known that she understood him now; but the words
he had uttered were followed by none of similar purport. He roused
himself, and said, with an abrupt change of manner—
"I must not detain you longer. Will you let me walk with you the rest
of the way?"
Aldyth made a sign of assent, and they passed on into the next field.
She could hardly have told whether she were happy or wretched. There
was a strange mingling of sensations within her, and she had but
a confused apprehension of the remarks he was making or the green
meadow-path followed. Now a bramble caught her dress, and he stooped to
detach it; now he gathered for her a cluster of crimson berries from
the mountain ash, and now some yellow marguerites, whilst they talked
as best they could on ordinary topics. But presently this pretence at
conversation failed, and the last field was crossed in silence.
"You will come in and see my mother and Gladys?" said Aldyth, as he
halted at the gate of Wyndham.
"I must ask you to excuse me to-night," he said. "I should like to make
your mother's acquaintance, but not to-night. It pleases me to think
that you have your mother with you now. Your long-deferred hope is
fulfilled at last."
"Yes, at last," said Aldyth.
"You will be happy—I pray God you may be happy!" he said fervently.
"And now I must bid you good-bye—till we meet again."
"You are going away—so far," faltered Aldyth; "I shall never see you
again."
"Do not say 'Never,' I cannot bear that word," he replied. "Some day—if
I live—I shall come back. Do not make things harder for me. You cannot
know how stern the duty seems that bids me go."
"Duty seems stern to me too," Aldyth said, with a quiver in her voice,
whilst tears dimmed her vision.
She could not utter a good-bye, but she gave him her hand. He held it
in his for a few moments, then released it and turned away without
another word. She could not move from the spot. She stood gazing after
him, till his figure grew indistinct in the gathering gloom. She could
just see that he turned and looked back at the end of the path. She
waved her hand. Could he see the movement? Probably not, for the next
instant he was gone, and only the creeping grey mist met her gaze.
She moved on with slow, heavy step, and before her, in dim outline,
with the grey mist gathering about it, stood Wyndham Hall.
Her inheritance—her home! But there was no joy in the thought. Regret
filled her heart, stirred by a vision of what "might have been."
"Oh," she sighed to herself, "how I wish uncle had made another
will!—how I wish it were not mine!"
But quickly followed the reflection that in that case, things would
have been harder for her mother. She could not wholly regret that which
gave her such power to comfort and cherish her mother.
CHAPTER XXVII.
AN ACCIDENT IN THE HUNTING-FIELD.
IT was not surprising that Mrs. Stanton should seem sorely depressed
after the arrival of the mail from Australia. The news it brought was
of the worst. The bankruptcy of the large mercantile house was utter;
nothing could be saved from the wreck for the widow and children of the
senior partner. They might console themselves with the thought that
they were not the only sufferers. Upon every one connected with the
business, loss had fallen, and in most cases, it meant ruin.
It was easy to find cause for blame, and public opinion did not spare
the principals. Mrs. Stanton might count it a fortunate circumstance
that the broad seas now separated her from the social circle at
Melbourne which had formerly courted and flattered her.
Aldyth could not wonder that her mother shed many tears over the
letters which told all that could be told of her husband's last hours,
and gave particulars of the interment. She could comprehend her
mother's nervousness and irritability, the evidence of sleepless nights
and wearing emotions. But she could not understand the aversion her
mother seemed to have conceived for Guy Lorraine.
That gentleman made his call at the Hall not long after his
introduction to Gladys. On the first occasion, Mrs. Stanton declined to
see him, but Guy, considering himself one of the family, came again and
again, bent on making himself agreeable, and eager to be of service to
the new residents, so that it was not easy for Mrs. Stanton to avoid
him. She sat on thorns whilst he was present, and his departure was the
signal for an outbreak of bitter comments on his dulness, awkwardness,
and general lack of social graces. Yet she always maintained an outward
show of cordiality towards him. Indeed, it seemed to Aldyth that her
mother was especially careful to fail in no courtesy with regard to
Guy, and she interpreted this as a sign that her mother shared her
regretful consciousness of the loss her inheritance had involved for
Guy.
Gladys was ready enough to raise a laugh at Guy's expense, yet his
visits were not disagreeable to her. It pleased her to play off upon
him her most fascinating airs, with a result highly gratifying to her
vanity. He had been struck with admiration at the first sight of her,
and he readily succumbed to her fascinations. Ere Hilda Bland returned
to her home, he was utterly, hopelessly enslaved by his new charmer.
The fire kindled within him was, as Aldyth was quick to perceive, no
spurious flame. He was genuinely in love at last, and Aldyth could
almost pity him, little as he deserved pity, for she saw no hope of his
wooing successfully. It was not to be supposed that Mrs. Stanton would
allow her pretty Gladys to wed a mere farmer.
Yet Mrs. Stanton did not discourage the intimacy to the extent
Aldyth expected. She was fretful with her daughter when she showed a
preference for Guy's society; but she did not endeavour to prevent
their meeting. Gladys would have found her days dull at Wyndham but for
his frequent visits.
There were few other visitors during the early days of their
bereavement. Mr. Greenwood, and his brother, the solicitor, came
pretty frequently, and were welcome guests, although their visits were
ostensibly on business. The banker's large house in the High Street
seemed grievously large and vacant to him without the wife who had made
it so cheerful a home. Aldyth was a great favourite with him, and he
was perhaps, glad that his office of executor to Stephen Lorraine's
will afforded him many pretexts for visiting her at Wyndham. The
evenings spent in her pretty drawing room, with three charming women
exerting themselves for his entertainment, were a pleasant contrast to
those he passed in dreariness at home.
The rides which Gladys took almost daily were her chief source of
pleasure in this quiet season. Dearly as she loved the exercise,
Aldyth could seldom accompany her, for her mother, shrinking more and
more from being left to her own thoughts, constantly required her
companionship. Aldyth was content to forego her own pleasure; it was so
sweet to feel that her mother needed her.
Meanwhile the pretty form of Gladys, mounted on Pansy—she nearly always
rode Pansy—with a groom following on another horse, became a familiar
sight at Woodham; for she loved the slight sensation she created when
she rode down the High Street. Not seldom she returned from her ride
accompanied by Guy, who was ever on the watch for a chance of meeting
her. It vexed Mrs. Stanton to see her return so escorted; but if she
gave expression to her annoyance, Gladys only laughed and told her
mother not to be afraid, she knew what she was about.
"I do not think I am exactly the one to wed a country bumpkin," she
said one day. "It would be different, would it not, mamma, if he had
been the heir to Wyndham?"
It was an aimless shaft of satire, but it found a mark of which she
little guessed. Her mother's face blanched; a spasm as of positive pain
passed over it. Gladys saw and wondered. What had she said? Surely
nothing worse than many of her careless speeches?
"It is not fair to call Guy a bumpkin," said Aldyth, who was present.
"Perhaps not," replied Gladys; "but he is a farmer, is he not? Can you
fancy me a farmer's wife, with my sleeves turned up, making butter?"
"No, I cannot," said Aldyth, and laughed—it was impossible to take
Gladys seriously—"but I do not think Guy will expect his wife to make
the butter; there are few farmers wives who do that nowadays."
Mrs. Stanton breathed more freely as she heard their light talk. Had
she betrayed herself? No, they could never suspect it; but the terrible
pressure of her secret! At times it was insupportable.
Christmas was within hail ere Kitty and Hilda Bland came home. After
their return from the Continent, they had made a long stay in London.
Hilda's health and spirits had revived somewhat amidst fresh scenes and
acquaintances; but the coming back was a trial to her, and she would
not nerve herself to bear it bravely. It would be hard to face her
little world again, and hers was a nature that seeks to avoid hardship.
"Oh, Aldyth, I cannot live here!" she cried when first they met.
"Woodham is hateful to me now. Do try if you can persuade mother that I
should be better away. If only she would let me be trained as a nurse!"
"Would you really like that?" Aldyth asked.
"As much as I could like anything; it would be something to do."
"You would find it very hard work, I fear. Hilda, I have an idea in my
head of some work in which you might help me."
"What is it?" Hilda asked, without much interest.
"There is a cottage half a mile from Wyndham, on the edge of the
common. A gamekeeper used to live in it; but it has been empty some
time. There are three good rooms below and above. I am thinking of
putting it in thorough repair and converting it into a country home
for my factory girls. It would do some of those poor overworked girls
so much good to spend a few weeks in the country. I can rely on Mrs.
Wheatley to find out those who most need it, and send them down to me.
Now, do you not think it a good idea?"
"Yes, it is," said Hilda, without, however, manifesting any enthusiasm.
"I shall have to find a good motherly woman to take charge of the
home," said Aldyth too full of the matter to be chilled by Hilda's lack
of interest. "Of course I cannot open it till the spring, but once
started, I see no reason why we should not have guests there nearly all
the year round. There is a pretty little garden before the house, and
ground enough behind to grow all the vegetables that will be needed."
Aldyth checked herself she became aware that Hilda was paying no heed
to what she said. They were seated in the bow-window of Mrs. Bland's
drawing room, and Hilda's attention was arrested by two riders who were
passing the house. The painful flush which had risen in Hilda's face
proclaimed the individuality of the gentleman.
"Who is that with him?" she asked, in a hurried whisper.
"Gladys, my sister," Aldyth said.
"Oh, Aldyth, what does it mean?" poor Hilda asked.
"Don't distress yourself," replied Aldyth. "Their being together has
no particular significance, only I will not disguise from you that
Gladys's society has a strong attraction for Guy."
Hilda burst into tears.
"Oh, Aldyth, and you would have me stay at Woodham!"
After that, it was not surprising that Hilda abandoned herself afresh
to melancholy, sank back into a semi-invalid state, resolutely refused
all invitations, and in a variety of ways tried the patience of her
mother and Kitty.
It was a pleasure to Aldyth to welcome Nelly, and Cecil also for a few
days, to her home at Christmas.
Gwendolen Bland, too, was at home, and despite the distance of Wyndham
Hall from Woodham, she and Kitty were often with Aldyth and her
sisters. The girls made a lively party together. Gladys and Kitty
took to each other and became good friends. They often rode together,
dispensing with the attendance of the groom, which Mrs. Stanton
insisted upon when Gladys rode alone.
Mrs. Stanton was well pleased that Kitty should be Gladys's companion,
for Kitty held herself haughtily aloof from Guy Lorraine, resenting his
conduct towards her sister, so that despite his sangfroid, he could
hardly thrust his company upon her.
The hunting season brought the girls a new excitement. Gladys was an
accomplished and fearless rider, and Kitty not a whit behind her in
daring. They set their hearts upon following the hounds.
Mrs. Stanton expressed some disapproval, but did not forbid Gladys to
hunt, perhaps being doubtful of her power to restrain her daughter from
doing as she wished.
Mrs. Bland's consent was more difficult to win. She had a nervous dread
of accident, and at first would not hear of such a thing. But in a weak
hour, the combined persuasions of Gladys and Kitty overcame her better
judgment. She was induced to consent for "just this once," and after
that, Kitty contrived to follow the hounds as often as she desired. The
two young ladies, Gladys charmingly equipped and fascinating all the
gentlemen with her grace and spirit, were to be seen at most of the
meets in the neighbourhood.
Admiring comments on their riding reached the ears of their mothers,
and even Mrs. Bland felt some pride, for which she afterwards bitterly
reproached herself, in her daughter's bold horsemanship. She ceased to
feel much fear, remembering how well the girls rode, and that they had
promised to do nothing rash.
"This is the last time, mother; really the last time," cried Kitty
Bland, one bright morning in February, as she came down stairs in her
riding habit and hat and met her mother's reproving shake of the head.
Her words were truer than she knew.
The sun was shining in at the bay window, but the air outside was sharp
with frost, and Hilda with a woollen shawl about her shoulders was
hanging over the fire. A warm colour glowed in Kitty's face. The cold
only exhilarated her. She looked so fresh and strong and glad as she
stood at the window, impatiently flourishing her whip, eager to be in
the saddle and off.
"I wish you would shut the door," said Hilda, in a pettish tone. "You
never think that any one else is in the room."
"All right; here's Gladys. I'm off now," cried Kitty. "Good-bye!"
Hilda hardly took the trouble to respond. She had risen in a miserable
humour, but had anything been needed to complete her dissatisfaction,
the mention of Gladys would have been enough. It annoyed her to hear
the girl's merry tones greeting Mrs. Bland, who stood at the door to
watch Kitty mount.
"We shall have a lovely run; the day is perfect," Gladys said.
A burst of merry laughter followed some remark of Mrs. Bland's, and
then the girls moved off. Hilda saw them pass the window, for the
meet to-day was at an old manor form, "down the Hundreds." A low moan
escaped her.
"Some girls have everything that heart can wish," she said to herself.
"It is good to be Kitty. She is for ever off to some pleasure or other.
She has never known a trouble; if she had, she might understand my
feelings."
Ere the day was over Hilda recalled these thoughts with bitter pain.
A terrible shock roused her from her self-absorption; for three hours
later, Kitty was carried insensible across the threshold of her home.
Her horse had fallen with her, and she was seriously injured—how
seriously could not yet be ascertained; but her condition was such as
gave rise to the worst fears.
Aldyth learned the news an hour later, when Gladys, white and
shivering, came home attended by Guy, who had been at hand when the
accident happened, and had rendered all the service in his power.
Gladys was too shocked and confused to give a clear account of what
had happened. "I only know that the hounds were in full cry, and we
were tearing after them. I saw a fence—it was not very high—and I never
thought of there being a ditch the other side. 'Come, Kitty,' I cried,
'we can do this,' and went for it. I fancy some one called to me to
stop."
"I shouted to you," said Guy. "I thought you must be mad to go at it
like that."
He wished he could recall the words when he saw Gladys's face become
convulsed with grief. He would not willingly have added to her pain.
"I was mad!" she sobbed, hysterically. "I was wild with excitement; I
felt no fear even when I saw what a leap it was Pansy was taking. But
the next moment there was a crash, a cry, and I saw that Kitty's horse
had fallen in the ditch, and she was beneath him. Oh, the horror of it!
I can never forget it. She looked like death when they lifted her."
"Oh, do not say so!" implored Aldyth. She turned to Guy in an agony of
fear. "It is not so bad as that? She will recover?"
"God grant she may!" he murmured, more moved than she had ever seen
him. "But—it was enough to kill her."
And that was all the comfort Aldyth could gleam from them.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
KITTY SHOWS THE STRENGTH OF HER CHARACTER.
THE stroke of calamity which had fallen on her home roused Hilda Bland
to an awful sense of the realities of life. She had been living in
selfish dreams, nursing a sickly sentimentalism, with the assurance
that she was altogether an exceptional being, exceptionally high-strung
and sensitive, and wrapped in a misery which no one could understand.
Self-pity had combined with self-admiration to blind her to the fact
that there were other sorrows in the world besides her own. She had
seen herself a patient sufferer, misconceived, slighted, unpitied; one
singled out by fate for the endowment of peculiar sorrow.
And all the while she had been as one who dreams of storms in his
warmly curtained bed. But now a real blast had awakened her to a
sudden, pained perception of what human life is in a world where death
and pain and loss are God's ministers to man.
There was nothing romantic in the blow that had shattered their happy
home life. Hilda's heart sickened within her at the thought of the
terrible injury, of the faint chance that Kitty would survive it, and
the almost certain consequence that the life, if preserved, would be a
helpless, maimed existence. And to think that on Kitty, of all persons,
such a doom should fall—Kitty, always so full of life and energy, who
liked to try her strength in every form of exercise, who never seemed
to feel fatigue.
It was impossible to associate pain and helplessness with Kitty. Yet
Hilda knew that many another bright young life had been blighted by a
similar catastrophe. Such trials had been, and would be again. And it
was vain to risk the why and wherefore.
"It is God's will," her mother was able to whisper in the midst of her
anguish; but to Hilda that thought could yield no support. She had not
learned to trust the will that embraces and controls all human life.
If it were God's will so to afflict Kitty, then God was regardless of
human agony, she said to herself.
Despite her cherished desire to become a nurse, Hilda was at first of
little use in the sick-room. She lacked the nerve and self-control
demanded of one who would serve there. But she was hardly needed, for
nothing would induce Mrs. Bland to quit the bedside. Without flinching
outwardly, she stood at her post, helping the surgeons, watching,
waiting, praying, until the hour when the experienced surgeon summoned
from London for consultation assured her that the patient would
live—would live—guarding himself from using any expression that should
convey the idea of restoration to health.
But at first it seemed enough to know that Kitty would not die. There
was room for hope to flourish if life were granted. With tears in
her eyes, Hilda told the good news to Aldyth, who came every day to
see her, and was her chief comfort in this season of sorrow. Aldyth
made the most of each gleam of hope, though in the background of her
mind was the drear probability which the gossips of Woodham, finding
something not unpleasantly thrilling in the contemplation of Kitty's
crippled life, had decided must be the result of her accident.
"Mr. Russell Smith is coming down again in a few weeks' time," Hilda
said. "Meanwhile it is such a comfort to know that the worst danger is
over."
"And Kitty is conscious now?" Aldyth said.
"Yes, she knows us. We cannot tell how much she can remember. She gave
me such a faint sad little smile this morning—it made me cry—and she
said to mother, 'Cheer up, mother; I am not going to die.'"
"Does she suffer pain?"
"Terrible pain. They give her morphia to deaden it; but even so she
suffers. I see her clench her hands and bite her lips to keep from
crying out. She is so brave, poor Kitty!"
"Yes, she was always brave," said Aldyth.
"Oh, if this had happened to me, I could understand it," exclaimed
Hilda, bursting into tears. "I deserve to suffer—I have led such a
selfish, idle life. What were my troubles, after all? I was strong
and well, and could enjoy everything; but to be stricken down like
Kitty—oh, it is terrible!"
"Gladys cannot forgive herself because she led Kitty into danger," said
Aldyth. "She feels it very much."
"I dare say; I keep thinking of how easily it all might have been
prevented; and I know mother must reproach herself bitterly for
yielding her consent to the hunting. But it is of no good to dwell on
that now."
"No; it is too late," said Aldyth, sadly, as she rose to take her
departure.
"Must you go?" said Hilda, clinging to her. "Well, it is good of you
to come. Give my love to Gladys, and tell her she must not be hard on
herself."
"Thank you. She and mother are going to London on Thursday to spend a
few weeks. I trust the change will do them both good, for mother needs
it as much as Gladys. She sleeps so badly, and is losing her appetite.
I want her to consult a physician, but she declares that a doctor can
do her no good."
"No doubt the change will set her up. So you will be alone; I am
selfishly glad, for I hope to see the more of you."
"Auntie will be with me a great deal, but of course I shall often be at
Woodham. Indeed, I cannot keep away now; I am always thinking of Kitty."
Miss Lorraine was pleased to stay at Wyndham with Aldyth whilst her
mother was away. She was not a frequent visitor there at other times.
She could chat more freely with her niece in her own home. She had
never felt much affection for Mrs. Stanton, and often found her
patience and tolerance severely tried when in her company. It vexed
her to see how completely Mrs. Stanton made herself mistress of her
daughter's house. Her tastes, her wishes ruled everything. The servants
instinctively appealed to her on every matter; Aldyth's reign was
merely nominal.
"I would not stand it, if I were Aldyth," Miss Lorraine would say
to herself, perfectly aware, however, that this state of things was
exactly what Aldyth desired. She never dreamed of maintaining her
rights in opposition to her mother; the home was for her mother, and
her pleasure, her comfort should be the chief consideration; she was
ready to defer to her wishes in every possible way. But if a question
of duty were involved, Aldyth could hold her own. When her mother
denounced Aldyth's scheme for establishing a country home for factory
girls as "Quixotic in the extreme, and an absurd waste of money," her
words had surprisingly little effect.
"I am sorry you think it absurd, mamma," Aldyth said, calmly; "but
I mean to try how the plan will work. I could not feel at ease in
possessing so much if I made no effort to share my good things with
some of my less fortunate sisters."
"I think you have managed to share them pretty considerably already,"
said Gladys, who was present. "I do not believe your old uncle would
have left you Wyndham if he could have foreseen that we should all come
and live here. Certainly you inherited it by rather a fluke, for Guy
says he is sure that Mr. Lorraine meant to make another will."
"It is very bad taste of Guy to name such a thing to you. I wonder you
let him!" cried Mrs. Stanton, with sudden passion in her voice.
"Oh, there was no harm in it," said Gladys, carelessly.
Aldyth looked at her mother in surprise.
Her eyes were ablaze, a crimson spot burned in each cheek, the hands
which held her work trembled visibly. She met her daughter's wondering
glance, and quailed before it. For a moment she could almost imagine
that Aldyth read her guilty secret. She shuddered at the very thought
of such a thing. It would be dreadful if Aldyth were to discover what
she had done. Would it be better to make discovery impossible by
destroying the will? From that hour, her mother left Aldyth free to
spend her money as she would, carefully refraining from any comment
that might provoke discussion of Aldyth's inheritance or her uncle's
possible intentions.
By the end of March, the Cottage was in a habitable condition. And
whilst her mother was absent, Aldyth busied herself, with her aunt's
assistance, in fitting it up for the reception of her guests. It was
pleasant work. Aldyth loved to imagine what would be the sensations of
certain of those toil-worn working girls from the East-end, when they
found themselves amidst the green fields and copses of Wyndham.
But ever her heart was shadowed by the thought of Kitty Bland. Her
condition did not greatly improve. Again the eminent London surgeon
was summoned to give his opinion. His words fell heavily on the hearts
of Kitty's friends; yet he did not withhold all hope. The spine had
received serious, perhaps permanent injury; but it was possible that
Nature, aided by every means science could suggest, might in time
effect a cure. Just possible, that was all; and no one could say how
long the cure might be in progress. Only the faintest thread of hope to
cling to amidst the present certainty of pain and helplessness.
Aldyth was deeply grieved when Hilda told her the state of the case.
How could Kitty bear it?
"Does she know?" asked Aldyth.
"Yes; she insisted on knowing what the surgeon had said. Mother could
hardly bear to tell her, but she took it so quietly; she even tried to
smile, and said, in somewhat of her old funny way: 'You have me safe
now, mother; I can never run away from you again.'"
"What a spirit she has!" said Aldyth.
"Ah, indeed! But you know I almost wish she would give way; it must be
a terrible strain to bear up as she does, for I can see that her heart
is breaking the while. It is for the sake of mother. Kitty was always
so good to mother. She would like to see you, Aldyth; she said so this
morning."
"Then I should like to see her," said Aldyth, but not without a sense
of inward shrinking.
Hilda went away, but returned almost immediately to say that Kitty
wished to see Aldyth at once.
"I am not to come in," Hilda said, as she opened the bedroom door.
"Kitty wants to have you to herself."
A folding screen stood near the door. Aldyth had to advance to the
other side of it ere she saw Kitty. Then she received a painful thrill.
The pale, worn face, with its strained look of suffering, was so unlike
the face of her old friend; the eyes, unnaturally large and dark in
contrast to the shrunken features, met hers with a pathetic appeal for
sympathy.
Kitty's lips moved, but no sound passed them. The sight of Aldyth was
too much. Emotion could no longer be suppressed. A sudden rush of tears
made speech impossible.
"Kitty!" was all Aldyth could say.
Then she cast herself on her knees beside the bed, clasping Kitty's
hand and showering kisses on it.
Mrs. Bland's knitting lay upon a chair. It was well that she had
been called away. Kitty's overburdened heart was relieving itself by
passionate sobs; the tears rained down her cheeks as fast as Aldyth
could wipe them away. Aldyth had no words to give her, only tears and
kisses; but these were not without power to soothe. Gradually the storm
passed. Kitty made an effort to quiet her sobs.
"Forgive me, Aldyth," she said brokenly. "You cannot know what it is."
"No, I cannot know," Aldyth's words faltered too; "but I feel for you
so much."
"I know you do. Every one feels for me; I almost wish they did not. If
I could cry out, it would be easier, but I cannot give way for their
sake. It is hard enough for mother as it is."
"It is brave of you to bear it so, Kitty."
"Brave! Oh, Aldyth, you do not know; if you could read my heart, you
would not call me brave. I have no courage to face the future. Always
to be like this!"
"Not always, I trust. Remember, there is hope."
"I dare not cherish that hope," said Kitty, mournfully. "No; it is best
to say always. I do not suppose it makes much difference to a prisoner,
when the door of his prison closes on him, whether his imprisonment is
for life or a long term of years."
"It must be good to hope," said Aldyth; "there will be alleviations."
"Will there? Oh, you mean that I may perhaps be wheeled about on an
invalid couch, now to this room, and now to that, and taken into the
garden once in a while. I! Who used to go anywhere and do anything.
Aldyth, I cannot bear it!"
"Strength will be given you, dear Kitty. And you have always been so
brave."
"Ah, but this requires a different sort of courage. Aldyth, did I ever
tell you that when we were in Brittany we saw the old castle where the
'Lady of La Garraye' lived? Mrs. Lancaster bought the book, and I read
it. The sad story made such an impression on me. I remember thinking on
that bright morning, as we rambled about in the neighbourhood of the
old castle, what a terrible thing it would be to have all the happiness
swept out of one's life in that manner. Health, beauty, strength—all
gone in a day! I felt that I could not bear it; and now it has come to
me."
"If I remember rightly, the end of the story was not sad, Kitty,"
Aldyth said.
"No; she became resigned to the will of God; she found peace," Kitty
said tremulously. "Oh, Aldyth, it is easy to talk of resignation when
one is not tried."
"Yes, indeed; I have no right to speak of it," said Aldyth; "but—"
"Go on," said Kitty, as she hesitated: "say anything you like to me,
Aldyth; I know you only want to help me."
"I was thinking that resignation is often the highest courage. To bear
pain and weakness and loss of freedom with fortitude is a proof of
bravery in no degree inferior to his who wins the Victoria Cross. You
have read the 'History of a Short Life,' Kitty?"
"Yes, and I remember. I know what you mean; but I shall hardly win my
Victoria Cross."
"You will; not in your own strength. You are not left to yourself.
Kitty, I shall pray that you may be able to say: 'I can do or bear all
things through Him that strengtheneth me.'"
Kitty gently pressed the hand that still held hers, but did not speak.
Tears were gathering afresh in her eyes, but they were no longer
bitter, hopeless tears. She lay for some time without speaking, and
Aldyth, thinking her exhausted, kept silence also. Their hearts drew
very close to each other, and to the Unseen Presence in the stillness.
Then Mrs. Bland entered, bringing some lovely flowers that a friend had
sent.
Kitty roused herself to admire them. They must be brought close, that
she might enjoy their perfume. She smiled on her mother as she bent
over her. She charged Aldyth with a message for Gladys, then she
whispered in Aldyth's ear as she kissed her—
"Come again soon—come often; you must help me to win my Victoria Cross."
Aldyth readily promised; she was so thankful to see a gleam of comfort
on Kitty's face.
Mrs. Bland crone out of the room with her, and she too begged Aldyth to
come often.
"You have done her good," she said; "she has opened her heart to you,
and it has relieved her. But it is wonderful how she bears it. Such
courage, such fortitude! She makes me ashamed of myself."
And Aldyth turned away with the thought that Kitty was proving herself
a true heroine, although she had passed for a commonplace mortal.
CHAPTER XXIX.
A MIND DISEASED.
MRS. STANTON came home looking little better for her month's stay in
town. Her face had still a worn and harassed look, and she responded in
a fretful tone to Aldyth's loving greeting.
"Yes, I am very tired. The train was late at Wickham; it is so tiresome
having to wait there. Oh, what a dead-alive place Woodham looks after
London! I really do not know how I can exist here."
Aldyth had brightened her mother's room with fresh draperies and spring
flowers, but, pleasant as the room looked, Mrs. Stanton's heart sank
within her as she entered it. The place was associated for her with
sleepless nights, painfully insistent thoughts, and a heavy weight of
dread. She shivered as her glance fell on the wardrobe in which, locked
away in her travelling desk, was the will which she dared not destroy,
dared not even look upon again, but desired to keep hidden for ever.
"You are cold," said Aldyth, hastening to give the fire a stir. "The
wind is very chill, although the sunshine is so brilliant. But spring
is advancing; you will be surprised to see how bright the garden looks."
Mrs. Stanton turned to the window, which commanded one side of the
garden. On the path below were Gladys and Guy, searching the violet bed
for flowers, and laughing and talking merrily the while.
"Here already!" exclaimed Mrs. Stanton, in a tone of annoyance, as she
drew back. "Guy might have spared us his company for this one evening.
It is silly of Gladys to encourage him as she does."
"Sometimes I wonder if Gladys really cares for him," Aldyth ventured to
say.
"Aldyth!" exclaimed her mother, in a tone of reproach. "What do you
mean? Pray give your sister credit for some common sense. How is it
possible that she could care for Guy?"
Aldyth might have replied that attachments are not invariably founded
on common sense principles. Even the most prudent are occasionally
betrayed by feeling. But she kept silence whilst her mother continued
impatiently, "If your words mean what I suppose, you must know
that such a thing is out of the question. I could never give my
consent—unless, indeed, Guy's position were materially changed."
Mrs. Stanton's cheeks flushed as she uttered the last words. She might
well shrink from seeing Guy Lorraine.
"Go down, Aldyth," she said, presently, "and see if that man is likely
to stay long. I shall not come down whilst he is below."
"Very well, mamma," said Aldyth. "I am sorry he has come, since you
dislike him so."
"I do dislike him," said Mrs. Stanton. "I dislike him more and more
each time I see him."
The next moment the words seemed to her a dangerous admission, and she
wished she could recall them.
Aldyth found that Gladys had already dismissed Guy, who had merely
looked in on some slight pretext in order to ascertain if she had
arrived. His visit had been highly entertaining to Gladys. His
appearance, his words, his ways, all moved her to ridicule. She began
to give Aldyth instances of his absurdity, laughing at him so heartily
that Aldyth felt it was foolish of her to imagine for a moment that
Gladys could seriously care for him. She launched her satire at him
with such vehemence that Aldyth felt compelled to say a good word on
his behalf.
"Come, come, Gladys," she said, "Guy is really not so bad as that.
He is not lacking in physical courage. How is it that you and mamma
dislike Guy so much?"
"Does mamma dislike him?" asked Gladys, changing colour.
"So she has just declared to me; but I think she is perhaps out of
sorts. She does not look well, Gladys. The change has not apparently
done her much good."
"She has been out of sorts, not to say cross, all the time," replied
Gladys. "I fear I am rather a trial to mamma. The prince who is to
make my fortune declines to appear. We met Captain Walker in town,
Aldyth, and mamma had all kinds of plans for bringing him here; but,
alas, he was about to sail for India with his regiment. That was a
disappointment for mamma. He would have made such an aristocratic
son-in-law."
"Gladys, it is very naughty of you to talk in that way."
"Now, Aldyth, you know it is true. Well, we have fresh schemes now.
My mourning is to be slighted; mamma has bought me some charming grey
and white gowns. We spent every penny of your cheque. There are to be
dinner parties and tennis-parties and what not this summer. It is to be
hoped they will have the desired result, and that I shall soon cease to
be a pensioner on your bounty."
"How can you speak so!" said Aldyth, reproachfully. "It is unkind of
you. As if I were not your sister! Gladys, promise me you will never
allow any feeling of that kind to draw you into a marriage to which
your heart does consent."
"You dear, romantic old thing!" cried Gladys, throwing arms about her
sister and kissing her warmly. "No, I will promise nothing of the kind;
it would not be fair to mamma." Suddenly relaxing her embrace, she ran
off laughing.
At night, when Aldyth was helping her mother to undress, Mrs. Stanton
said to her, "I wish you would stay with me to-night, Aldyth; I feel so
nervous. I shall sleep better if I have a companion."
"Very well, mamma," said Aldyth, "that is easily arranged."
"I should like to have you always with me," said Mrs. Stanton, with
more feeling than she often betrayed. "You must never leave me, Aldyth."
"I never will, if I can help it, mother dear."
"But perhaps you will marry, some day," said Mrs. Stanton, looking at
her daughter.
"That is not likely, mamma."
"You have never seen any one for whom you could care?"
The colour rose in Aldyth's face, but she answered steadily, "I have
not the least idea of marrying any one, mamma. All I want is to stay
with you and take care of you."
Mrs. Stanton was content.
Aldyth had spoken in sincerity. Not that she had forgotten John Glynne.
She could not wish to forget him. It would always be good to have known
such a strong, true man. But she had resolutely striven to put from her
any hope inspired by the memory of his parting words. The chance was so
slight. He might never return; but if he did return, the circumstances
of her life would still separate them. With her mother depending wholly
upon her, the path of duty was plain; she could not turn aside from it,
nor would she heed any selfish whisper that should suggest to her a
happier way.
The springs were always cold at Woodham, but this season had more than
its share of east wind. It was June ere the weather set in really warm.
Mrs. Stanton grumbled continually at the climate, and really suffered
from its severity. She was falling into a debilitated state of health,
which rendered her very susceptible to chills. Aldyth did her best to
relieve the gloom which weighed on her mother's mind. It seemed but
a natural effect of the great change that had occurred in her life.
Aldyth would remind herself of this when her mother was more than
usually irritable and restless.
Mrs. Stanton could no longer reasonably complain of the dulness of her
home. Visitors came frequently to Wyndham as the spring advanced. Mr.
Greenwood found business to bring him to the Hall almost every week.
It was discovered that the new tennis-ground at Wyndham was one of the
best in the neighbourhood. Gladys, so pretty and gay, won admirers of
both sexes, and had Aldyth been of a smaller nature she might have felt
jealous of the amount of attention bestowed on her sister. Even as the
heiress of Wyndham she had often to play a secondary part.
But Aldyth was not ambitious of social distinction, and the
tennis-parties were spoiled for her by the thought of Kitty Bland, a
champion player, lying helpless on her couch of pain. Aldyth spent many
an hour with her friend, and Gladys too went frequently to see her.
After that first meeting, Aldyth rarely saw Kitty give way to tears.
Her cheerfulness was indeed a continual astonishment to Gladys. Gay,
idle, as Gladys often appeared, Aldyth could perceive that she was
not quite so thoughtless as she had been before Kitty's accident. The
time spent with Kitty moved her to reflection. She gradually gained
some insight into the secret of Kitty's brave endurance, with the
result that she became dissatisfied with herself, and began to long
for a higher life than the mere pursuit of pleasure which had hitherto
contented her. Kitty's days of enforced idleness were not so fruitless
as she imagined; she was exerting a lasting influence for good on other
lives.
Spring gave place to summer, but Mrs. Stanton's spirits did not
improve. She would exert herself and appear animated when visitors were
present, but on their departure she sank back into a weary state of
depression.
One evening Aldyth came back from a visit to Miss Lorraine, and found
her mother alone in the drawing room. She had a book in her hand, but
she was not reading, when Aldyth's sudden entrance caused her to start
nervously. Aldyth sat down and began to draw off her gloves. She would
enliven her mother with a piece of news she had learned. Clara Dawtrey
was engaged to be married.
Miss Lorraine had told the news in her usual racy style, and Aldyth's
eyes sparkled with fun as she recalled her aunt's words. She had not
the least idea that Clara's engagement could make any difference to her.
"What is amusing you so, Aldyth?" her mother inquire in rather a
fretful tone.
"I have heard some news," said Aldyth, nodding her head. "Who is
engaged to be married, do you think?"
"Do not ask me to guess," said Mrs. Stanton, impatiently; "I hate
guessing things."
"Well, then, it is Clara Dawtrey. As aunt says, 'her efforts are at
last crowned with success.'"
"And who is the gentleman?"
"Oh, no one we know. A Mr. Gould, of London."
"What name did you say?" asked Mrs. Stanton, in such a quick, nervous
tone that Aldyth looked at her in surprise.
"Gould is the name. He is a solicitor, and several years older than
Clara. He is somehow connected with Essex, aunt says, and Clara Dawtrey
told her that he had had some acquaintance with uncle."
"Uncle?" repeated Mrs. Stanton, feebly.
"Yes; Uncle Stephen, I mean. What is the matter, mamma? Do you know
anything of this Mr. Gould?"
"Certainly not. How should I?" asked Mrs. Stanton, sharply, vexed with
herself for betraying agitation.
"Something is the matter; you are feeling ill?" said Aldyth, rising,
and looking anxiously at her mother's pallid, shrinking countenance.
"I am not well," said Mrs. Stanton, and a burst of tears relieved her.
"My head aches. It is going to thunder, I believe. Yes, there must be
thunder in the air."
"It does not feel to me like thunder-weather," said Aldyth, glancing at
the sky.
But the storm Mrs. Stanton dreaded was of another kind. Gould She could
not mistake the name; it was too deeply impressed on her mind. She had
read it on the hidden will. James Gould was the signature of one of the
witnesses.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE WRONG DISCLOSED.
"GOOD weather for the corn, Miss Aldyth, but not altogether comfortable
for human beings."
The speaker was Mr. Ralph Greenwood, and he was alighting from a chaise
at the entrance to Wyndham. Aldyth had just stepped into the road from
a field to the left, and he chose to get down and walk with her.
"It is hot," said Aldyth, who, however, in her white and large hat
looked by no means oppressed by the heat.
The broad flat fields were one blaze of sunlight, and only the faintest
zephyr stirred the leaves. Aldyth smiled to see the little lawyer
wiping his brow with an air of resignation. She was alone, save for her
usual attendant, a beautiful Scotch collie.
"It was good of you to drive out on such a warm afternoon," she said;
"there is no shade whatever along that road. But come this way; it is a
nearer and pleasanter path to the house."
She opened a little gate into the grounds, and they followed a narrow,
winding path through the shrubbery. The man in charge of the chaise
drove slowly on along the carriage drive.
"Ah, this is pleasant," said Mr. Greenwood, recovering his usual brisk
manner. "I have come, Miss Aldyth, because there is a little matter I
must name to you."
"Oh, if it is business, please do not begin upon it till I have had a
cup of tea," said Aldyth, imploringly; "this weather does not stimulate
one's brains."
The lawyer laughed.
"Perhaps not," he said, "though your appearance gives a contrary
impression. I feared my coming might rouse you from a siesta, but your
energy is beyond everything. How many miles have you been walking in
this fervent heat?"
"Not one," said Aldyth. "I have only been to the Cottage. A fresh party
of girls came from London last evening. It is good to see their delight
in the place. Despite the heat, it seems like a Paradise to them."
"They would hardly be conscious of the heat here after East London," he
replied. "I shudder to think what those courts and alleys must be like
on such a day as this. Then your plan is working well?"
"Yes, fairly well," said Aldyth. "Poor old Mrs. Dibbins was at first
rather frightened of the girls, but she is learning how to manage them.
They are rough, poor things; they have no idea of enjoying themselves
quietly; but we shall tame them by degrees. I go down every day for a
little while."
"It is very good of you," said Mr. Greenwood.
"No, it is not good," said Aldyth, shaking her head; "it is just my
hobby. I can assure you few things have given me more pleasure than I
have found in arranging this home. I am so glad I have the means of
doing it."
"Then you have become reconciled to your riches?" he said, with one of
his quick, shrewd glances.
"I believe so," said Aldyth, simply. "I value the power that money
confers; I am afraid I should not like to lose it now."
"Strange things happen in life," observed the lawyer, thoughtfully
stroking his chin.
His words had no particular significance for Aldyth. She supposed them
to refer to her unexpected acquisition of the property. They were
approaching the house. She led him across the lawn, and they entered by
one of the drawing room windows.
Aldyth regretted the unceremonious entrance as she saw her mother
rise, pale and dismayed, from the sofa. Yet Mrs. Stanton was not
unprepared for visitors. She wore a black gown of some light diaphanous
texture, elegantly made, and becoming well her tall, graceful form. She
conquered her nervousness by an assumption of the most queenly dignity.
Mr. Greenwood thought her demeanour absurdly "high and mighty;" but
he was moved to pity by the look of suffering stamped on the pale,
handsome features.
"This hot weather is trying you, I fear," he said, kindly. "You do not
look strong."
"I am in my usual health, thank you," she replied, so haughtily that
his remark seemed an impertinence.
"We must have some tea," said Aldyth, moving towards the bell; "that is
what we want—Mr. Greenwood most of all, since he has driven along that
hot, dusty road to speak with me on business."
"If it is business, I had better go," said Mrs. Stanton, half rising
with a languid movement.
"Mamma!" cried Aldyth, reproachfully. "As if my business were not
yours!"
Mrs. Stanton sank back into her place. She was longing yet dreading to
hear the lawyer's business.
"It is nothing to make a mystery of," said Mr. Greenwood, in his easy,
cheerful manner. "I only want Miss Aldyth to be kind enough to let me
look through her uncle's papers once more. A curious fact has come to
light."
The blood flew into Mrs. Stanton's face, her heart throbbed wildly, her
breath came fast. What was he about to say?
"You have heard of Mr. Gould, Miss Dawtrey's fiancé? He is a solicitor,
practising in London; his office is in Chancery Lane. Well, Mr. Guy
Lorraine has lately made his acquaintance, and has heard from him a
strange story. It seems that Mr. Stephen Lorraine, only a few months
before his death—in April, I believe it was—went to London and called
on him. He said he wished to make a will, and must have it drawn up
at once, that he might sign it without delay. He gave certain clear,
concise directions, and waited there in the office for three whole
hours till the will was ready for his signature. Gould and his clerk
were the witnesses. Mr. Lorraine insisted on carrying the will away
with him. There was no time to make a copy."
"Then that was what brought uncle to London!" The words escaped Aldyth
almost unawares.
"You knew of his being there?"
"Yes, I met him most unexpectedly in Oxford Street. I remember he had
a small packet in his hand. He made me promise to tell no one of my
meeting him—he did not want it talked about at Woodham."
"Ah, that was it," said the lawyer quickly; "he wanted to do it on the
sly, without my knowing anything about it. He was ashamed to let me
know that he had changed his mind. I had put things to him as strongly
as I dared. But what a mistake it was! Why could he not have come to
me, his own lawyer, and let me draw up another will for him?
"Now who is to say what has become of this last will? Did he change his
mind a second time and destroy it, intending the former will to stand?
Or have we overlooked this, his last will, and is it yet to be found?
This is a vital question for you, Miss Aldyth. You understand, do you
not, that the will by which you inherit was made in January of last
year, and would be invalid if a later one were found?"
"I understand!" said Aldyth.
She was startled but not confused by the lawyer's words. In a moment
her mind had grasped the whole situation. She saw all that it involved
for Guy, for herself, for her mother. A few minutes before she had been
rejoicing in the power her wealth gave her; now it seemed probable
that the wealth had never been hers. Well, she had been happy without
riches, and she could be happy without them again. Her mother would
feel the change most.
For a few moments Aldyth dared not glance towards her mother; she
wondered that no word or sound escaped her. Whilst these thoughts were
passing through Aldyth's mind with lightning speed, the lawyer went on
talking in courteously regretful tones.
"It is much to be deplored that there should be any question as to
the validity of the will. Mr. Lorraine ought to have acquainted use
with his intentions. It is a very awkward thing when a later will is
discovered, after one has been proved and put into execution. Mr.
Gould avers that this later will bequeathed Wyndham and most of the
property to Mr. Guy Lorraine; he, naturally, is much excited by the
intelligence. I told him I was sure you would have no objection to my
instituting a thorough search for the missing document."
Aldyth's mind had taken a new flight during his deliberate utterances.
She was recalling the words her uncle had said to her as they sat
together in Hyde Park, recalling too the drear hour when she stood by
his bedside, and he had vainly striven to say to her something which
was believed to have reference to his will.
"Uncle did not destroy that will," she exclaimed aloud, in a tone of
conviction; "it will be found somewhere in this house, I fully believe.
Search for it by all means—search everywhere. How I wish we had known
of it before!"
An exclamation from Mr. Greenwood startled her.
She turned to see her mother falling in a fainting fit to the floor.
During the next two hours, Aldyth had no thought of any one save her
mother. Mrs. Stanton recovered from one swoon only to sink back into
another. Her condition was so alarming that a messenger was despatched
with all haste to seek the doctor.
Mr. Greenwood lingered in the drawing room, not knowing whether to go
or to stay, and making vain offers of service to every one who came in
his way, till Gladys took pity on him, and managed to get from Aldyth
the keys of the library, after which he found plenty of occupation.
The medical man appeared to think seriously of Mrs. Stanton's
condition. He inquired if she had sustained any shock that could
account for it. It could hardly be called shock, Aldyth said; but she
had heard what might well cause her anxiety. Perhaps, he suggested, it
was the last of a series of mental disturbances—the "last straw" of the
proverb. The symptoms indicated a shattered condition of the nerves
and a complete prostration of strength. Aldyth could not say that her
mother had of late had great worries; but she had certainly for some
time seemed restless and unhappy, and doubtless the loss of her husband
and the ruin of his firm were sufficient cause.
It was evening ere Aldyth found leisure to go down stairs and see
what Mr. Greenwood was doing. She found him in the library. He had
thoroughly ransacked the bureau, and in doing so had discovered the
secret recess.
"Look!" he said, as he pointed it out to her. "This was what led me to
the discovery. The third drawer was unlocked; it would not quite close.
I searched for the cause, and saw this bit of white stuff caught at
the back. Pulling out the drawer to free it, I saw a little nick in
the wood, which let me into the secret of the hollow beyond. Now, that
piece of stuff was never worn by Stephen Lorraine. Some one has been
prying here. Was it one of the servants, do you think?"
"No," said Aldyth. "Mrs. Rogers kept the keys; she would not let one of
the servants have them; and my trust in her is absolute."
"Yes?" said the lawyer, with a rather dubious air.
Aldyth bent to examine the fragment of linen. It was of the finest
lawn, apparently torn from a frill, such as her mother had been wont
to wear in the sleeves of her crape gown. Aldyth's colour rose with
the thought. Various possibilities suggested themselves to her mind.
She could not have told why it was, but from that moment, the idea
that her mother was concealing some knowledge of the later will took
possession of Aldyth's mind, and refused to be dislodged. She turned to
Mr. Greenwood, speaking rather tremulously—
"Mrs. Rogers had nothing to do with this, I feel certain; but I will
make inquiries, I will try to ascertain if any one has been to the
bureau."
"It will be well, to do so," he replied.
"Will you search further to-night?" she asked.
"No, not now. I must be getting home," he said.
"You will have some dinner before you start?"
"No, thank you, I must not stay. Mrs. Greenwood will be expecting me. I
shall be out again in a day or two. Mrs. Stanton will be better then, I
trust."
"I hope so," Aldyth said. "But I feel uneasy, her pulse is so high."
It was indeed many days ere Mrs. Stanton could be pronounced on the way
to recovery. She developed a kind of low fever, and though her life was
never in actual danger, her condition was such that Aldyth suffered
much anxiety.
Part of the time she was delirious, and the words she uttered in her
delirium seemed to confirm the painful impression Aldyth had received.
Something evidently weighed on the mind of the patient, something she
was anxious to conceal.
Was it a wrong done to Guy, that his name was so often on her
lips, uttered in tones of aversion and dread? What was it that she
persistently declared to be "no crime under the circumstances?"
Crime! The word thrilled Aldyth with horror. Could it possibly be that
her mother had destroyed the will by which Guy should have inherited
Wyndham? Aldyth could not seriously entertain the idea, and yet the
fear haunted her. Miserable was her anxiety and suspense as she watched
beside her mother's bed, performing every duty with the tenderest care.
The very thought of her inheritance had become a torture to her. What
if she had no right to the home she occupied? What if she were daily
spending money that was not hers?
Meanwhile search had been made throughout the house, in every possible
and impossible place, for the missing will. Only the sick-room had not
been searched. Aldyth longed for the day when she might satisfy herself
with regard to that, but it would have been impossible for her to look
through drawers and cupboards without her mother's permission.
The fever passed, but left the patient so reduced in strength, that her
progress towards convalescence was of the slowest. Mind as well as body
was sadly depressed. Aldyth did not need the doctor's hint to convince
her that there was a burden on her mother's mind which retarded her
recovery.
In vain Aldyth tried to discover its nature. It was impossible to give
help whilst confidence was resolutely withheld. Mrs. Stanton never
alluded to the lawyer's visit, nor inquired the result of his search.
She might have forgotten all about it, yet Aldyth felt sure that she
had not. Was not this the cause of her deep-drawn sighs, her weary
movements, and the sleeplessness which defied the doctor's drugs?
One warm afternoon, Mrs. Stanton lay on the couch in her bedroom.
"We shall soon have you down stairs now, mamma," Aldyth had said, as
she helped her into her dressing-gown.
But her mother only shook her head and sighed. The thought of resuming
her old life was distasteful to her. She had taken a dislike to
Wyndham, and her strongest desire at the present moment was to escape
from the place. Yet her heart clung to the comforts and luxuries which
Aldyth's inheritance had secured for her.
"It is very warm," she murmured, presently. "Where is that palm-leaf
fan, Aldyth? It is lighter to hold than this one."
"I could not find it yesterday," Aldyth replied; "perhaps it is in the
wardrobe."
She opened the doors as she spoke.
The next minute, Mrs. Stanton saw with a thrill of dread that Aldyth
had mounted a chair, and was searching on the top shelf of the
wardrobe. A hectic colour suddenly glowed in the cheeks of the invalid;
her voice was sharp to shrillness, as she exclaimed—
"What are you doing, Aldyth? You will not find it there. Come down at
once; you know I cannot bear people to turn over my things."
Startled by her mother's manner, Aldyth sprang down. "Why, mamma, I
was doing no harm," she said; "there is hardly anything on that shelf
except your travelling desk."
A shudder ran through Mrs. Stanton's weakened frame. She was ashamed to
meet her daughter's eyes, full of wonder at her excessive agitation.
Aldyth's glance was penetrating; she half read, half guessed the cause
of that agitation. Hence her next remark—"Mamma, I may soon have to ask
you to let me look through your wardrobe and drawers."
"What do you mean?"
"I promised Mr. Greenwood I would look everywhere for that will. Do you
remember about it?"
For a few moments Mrs. Stanton could not reply. Her face grew ashy
white to the very lips. Then she rallied herself to utter the retort,
"What right has he or any one to suppose that it can be amongst my
things? That wardrobe contains only what is mine."
"He supposes nothing of the kind," said Aldyth; "I only want, for my
own satisfaction, to be able to assure him that the will is nowhere in
the house."
Mrs. Stanton's lips moved, but no sound passed them. She could not
utter the untrue word. Something within her said that it was vain to
struggle longer; further concealment was impossible. Yet she shrank
from the disclosure that must be made.
"Mother, do you know anything about this will?"
Mrs. Stanton covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.
"Mamma! Then it is so. Tell me—where is it?"
No reply. Mrs. Stanton began to sob.
"Mamma, I must know." There was sternness in Aldyth's voice now. "You
have not destroyed the will?"
"No, no; not that!" cried Mrs. Stanton, excitedly. "Nothing so bad as
that. You will think it very wrong, I know; but I did it for the best."
"What did you do for the best?" asked Aldyth, trying hard to control
herself, but with an inevitable hardness in her manner. "You found the
will, I suppose. What have you done with it?"
"Yes, I found it," sobbed Mrs. Stanton, "and I have not had a happy
moment since. It is up there, Aldyth. You were near it just now. In the
travelling desk."
In another minute, Aldyth had the desk in her hands.
Directed by her mother, she found the key and opened the desk. There
was the will, and a glance assured Aldyth it was the one that Mr. Gould
had drawn up for her uncle.
"How long is it since you found this?" Aldyth inquired.
"Oh, a long time ago," sobbed Mrs. Stanton. "Aldyth, don't look at me
like that. It cannot matter so very much."
"I must know when," said Aldyth, firmly.
"Well, then, it was the day after I came to Wyndham. Mrs. Rogers gave
me the keys, and I thought I would amuse myself by looking through the
bureau. It was in a secret recess behind some drawers. Oh, I wish I had
never found it! It made me miserable."
"Wish rather that you had never concealed it," cried Aldyth, unable
to suppress her indignation. "How could you bear to go on living so
for nearly a year, living in a home which does not belong to us, on
an income to which we have no right, living like common thieves and
swindlers?"
"Aldyth, how can you speak so!"
"I cannot gloss it over, mamma," said Aldyth, coldly. "It was an act of
dishonesty, look at it how you will. Guy was kept out of his property.
But there shall be an end to it."
"What are you going to do?" asked Mrs. Stanton, in a frightened tone,
as Aldyth turned to quit the room.
"I shall send for Guy at once that he may hear what you have told me."
"Not from me!" cried Mrs. Stanton, excitedly. "I could not tell him.
And there is surely no need to tell him everything. It is enough that
the will is found."
"It is not enough," said Aldyth, decidedly. "Guy has a right to know
all. Nothing can justify further concealment. If I were you, I would
make a full confession to him."
"That I can never do," sobbed her mother. "I could not bear the shame,
the exposure."
"Then I will tell him," said Aldyth. "It may not be necessary for
others to know, but I must insist upon Guy's being told all."
"You are unkind to me, Aldyth!" cried her mother, passionately. "You do
not care how much I suffer."
The words smote Aldyth. Was her proud sense of the wrong done to
herself as well as to Guy rendering her pitiless? She remembered her
mother's weakness, her recent illness, and the doctor's fear of a
relapse, all the suffering which her sin had caused her. She went back
and spoke in a softer tone as she bent over her mother.
"Forgive me, mamma, if I seem harsh and cruel. You do not know what
this is to me. I would not for the world have had you act so. But it
cannot be helped now, and you have suffered greatly. It only remains
for us to do all in our power to make amends to Guy. And we must begin
by full confession. There is no other way to peace for those who have
sinned. It is when we confess and forsake our sin that we find mercy."
"I never meant to do anything so very bad," sobbed Mrs. Stanton; "but
I thought it would be so dreadful for us all to be poor. Gladys's
prospects would be ruined, and Cecil's education stopped. I am sure I
did it for the best."
Aldyth's face grew stern again.
"It can never be well, to do what is wrong," she said, abruptly. Then,
feeling that words were of little use, she left the room, carrying the
will with her.
Gladys was not to be found, so she sent Mrs. Rogers to take care of her
mother, and sat down to write a few lines to Guy. They were quickly
written and the note despatched.
Aldyth breathed more freely when this was done. She went to her room,
and the first thing which met her eyes was the portrait of her mother,
on which her affection had feasted through the long years of absence.
Mrs. Stanton's wan, wasted countenance of to-day had little resemblance
to the lovely contour of the photograph; and no less a contrast did her
mother's character, as Aldyth now knew it, present to that of the ideal
mother whom Aldyth had worshipped in her heart through all those years.
Ah, the pity of it! Aldyth's heart throbbed with pain as those fancies
of the past came back to her recognized as illusions. It was her
mother who had done this wrong, this dishonourable action. With what a
burning sense of shame and degradation Aldyth realized the truth! She
had not dreamed that she would ever be called to share the burden of
her mother's sin. It pressed upon her cruelly. She felt as if she were
the guilty one. How could she confess to Guy the wrong that had been
done him? It was useless to ask. There was no evading the task, and she
summoned all her resolution for performance of the painful duty.
CHAPTER XXXI.
HOW GUY WAS PACIFIED.
GUY LORRAINE was filled with wonder as he read Aldyth's brief note—
"DEAR Guy,—Will you call to see me as early as possible to-morrow?
A fact has come to my knowledge which is of importance to you, and you
should know it without delay.
"Your affectionate cousin,
"ALDYTH."
His mind being much occupied with the subject of his uncle's will, his
first guess touched the truth. Had another will come to light? His face
flushed with pleasure at the thought.
He lost no time in obeying the summons. The morning was still fresh as
he rode through the country lanes to Wyndham. His mind dwelt pleasantly
on the change that the day's news might possibly create in his life.
He was in such good humour that he indulged in some prospective pity
for Aldyth, and resolved that if the case were as he supposed, he would
deal generously with her and her family.
And Gladys—his heart beat faster at the thought—how would such a change
affect his position towards her? It might be that the Stanton family
need not be entirely losers by this turn of fortune.
Arriving at the Hall, he was ushered into the empty drawing room. The
open windows gave a pleasant view of the sunlit lawn. Gladys's music
was scattered untidily on the grand piano, her fan lay on a chair,
and he spied, too, the quaint little bag in which she kept a pretence
of fancy work. His quick eyes had but time to note these ere Aldyth
entered.
She was very pale; her eyes had the strained look of sleeplessness,
her expression was anxious. It struck Guy that Aldyth was losing her
good looks; she looked older; her charms would not bear comparison with
those of Gladys. Then he saw what her left hand held, and his heart
leaped within him.
"Good morning, Guy," said Aldyth, without giving him her hand; "I am
glad you came at once."
"You have news for me."
"Yes," said Aldyth, her lips trembling nervously, "I have a painful
confession to make. We have wronged you sadly, Guy. We had no right to
live at Wyndham; it was never mine. Here is uncle's latest will."
"You have found it!" he exclaimed with eagerness.
He took it from her and unfolded it with trembling hands. The colour
rose in his face as he read. Aldyth, watching him, saw with a sinking
heart that he had failed to take in the meaning of her words. All he
had grasped was the fact of his heirship. At last he turned to her, his
face glowing with a satisfaction he vainly tried to veil.
"This is a strange turning of the tables, Aldyth."
"Yes," she said uneasily.
He could not wonder that she looked ill and troubled. It was hard
on her, of course. Yet in truth she had given no thought to the
considerations which he imagined must disturb her. "I am sorry for your
sake, Aldyth."
"Oh, do not be sorry for me," she said; "at least not till you know
all."
"Ah, by the by, how did you find this? Mr. Greenwood assured me he had
searched everywhere."
Aldyth was silent. Her face grew colourless. She could not bring
herself to say, "It was found in my mother's bedroom, where she had
concealed it."
Guy looked at her in amazement. "Where was it, Aldyth? Why do you not
speak?"
"Because it hurts me to speak," she said unsteadily. "Yet it is right
that you should know all. Guy, I told you I had a confession to make.
You have been greatly wronged. The will has been kept back. Do you
understand?"
"Kept back," he repeated, his manner changing. "Do you mean to tell me
that this will has been deliberately suppressed? Who has dared to do
such a thing?"
Aldyth could not answer. Her hands were tightly clasped before her. She
looked up at him with eyes that seemed to beg for pity. But her silence
only angered him.
"Aldyth, I insist upon knowing all. Who has dared to fool me thus? Do
you not know that it is a deed that the law can punish? And whoever
has done this thing—Tomlinson, Greenwood, whoever it is—I will have
justice."
"Oh, Guy, do not say that!"
"I do say it, and I mean it too. Tell me all, if you please."
"I am trying to tell you. The will was found last September."
"September! And this is August. Who found it? Ah, you do not answer!
Aldyth, have you been conspiring to keep me out of my property? I could
never have believed it of you, though I know a woman's conscience is
elastic."
"Guy! How dare you traduce our sex in that way!" exclaimed Gladys,
suddenly entering by the open window, her hands full of flowers.
She knew nothing of the cause of Guy's early visit. Aldyth had shrunk
from informing her of their mother's wrong-doing. If she supposed the
words she overheard to be playfully spoken, she was undeceived when she
saw Guy's angry countenance, and Aldyth, standing before him, pale,
trembling, with drooping head.
"What in the world is the matter?" exclaimed the astonished girl. "You
two are never quarrelling! Aldyth, my own dear Aldyth, tell me what it
is."
At the sound of her voice, Aldyth's composure gave way. She sank on to
a couch and began to sob.
Gladys turned haughtily to Guy. "Perhaps you will give me an
explanation of this extraordinary scene. I should like to know how you
could think of addressing such words to my sister, as those I chanced
to overhear."
Guy's colour deepened now from embarrassment. He shrank from Gladys's
flashing eyes. It was like a bad dream to find himself in antagonism to
her. But something forced him to answer sullenly—
"You are probably unaware of what has just been revealed to me. Here
is a will, bearing my uncle's signature, duly attested, by which he
left me Wyndham and most of his property. This will some dishonourable
person found so long ago as last September, but has judged it her
interest to conceal until now, and doubtless would have concealed it
longer had not Gould put me on the scent by informing me that uncle had
made a later will."
Gradually Gladys took in the meaning of his words. They caused her a
shock of surprise, but she recovered herself and said—
"You cannot mean to insinuate that Aldyth is that dishonourable person!
I am ashamed of you if you have entertained such a thought for a
moment—you who have known Aldyth all your life."
"I do not say it was she," replied Guy awkwardly; "but I should like to
know who did it."
Gladys threw herself on the sofa beside her sister.
"Aldyth, dear, tell me," she murmured, her lips close to Aldyth's face,
"tell me all about it. Never mind him—he is horrid; whisper it to me."
"Oh, Gladys, can you not guess?"
"Guess what?"
"It was mamma who found the will—and hid it."
A change came over Gladys. Her colour faded; the lines of her face
hardened.
"I might have known," she muttered, beneath her breath. Then she rose
and stood before Guy. "You may despise me as much as you like," she
said, "but not Aldyth. It is our mother who has tried to keep you out
of your property—our mother, I say; but she is more mine than Aldyth's.
We are of one kind—capable of any meanness. She has robbed you, and
doubtless she would say she did it for my sake. Oh, we are a bad lot!"
"Gladys!"
"I mean it. You may heap any disgrace you like on us, only spare
Aldyth. It is her misfortune to be connected with us."
Here Gladys's voice faltered. It was rarely she gave way to tears, but
now she sank on to a chair, and hot tears of shame and sorrow rained
down her checks.
The effect on Guy was electrical. In a moment, he was beside her,
uttering passionate words. "Gladys, how can you speak of disgrace!
There shall be none; no one shall ever know. Do you think I cannot, for
your dear sake, forgive your mother any wrong she has done me? Despise
you, indeed, when I love you like my life! Only say that you will share
everything with me, and trust to me that all shall be well."
"No, Guy; not now," said Gladys, gently pushing him from her. "Mother
would never have let me whilst you had only the farm, and now—now I
cannot. I will not have it said that I changed my mind because Wyndham
turned out to be yours."
"Would it be a change of mind?" Guy was happily inspired to ask. "Were
you quite indifferent to me before? Darling, give me the right to call
you my own, and we can keep our own counsel about Wyndham for the
present. If you can love me, what does it matter how people talk?"
"You are very good; we do not deserve—" Gladys began.
But her lover would not listen to such words.
Meanwhile Aldyth had vanished, and neither of the two knew at what
moment she slipped away.
As soon as she had regained composure, Aldyth went to her mother's room.
Mrs. Stanton's face wore an expression of pain. She looked anxiously at
her daughter, saying only—
"Well!"
"I have told him," Aldyth replied. "It was hard, but—I felt—not
undeserved. He was, of course, very indignant."
"Ah, what did he say? Will he turn us out at once?"
"I think not; his feelings were softened when I came away. Gladys was
with him, and—I think—I suppose, mamma, you would not object to him as
a suitor for Gladys now?" Almost involuntarily Aldyth's voice took an
inflection of scorn as she asked the question; but Mrs. Stanton did not
appear conscious of it, as she replied calmly—
"Certainly not: it would be the best thing possible under the
circumstances."
Guy succeeded in overcoming Gladys's scruples, for in a few days the
fact of their betrothal was the talk of Woodham. The more momentous
news concerning the inheritance of Wyndham was for a time known only
to Mr. Ralph Greenwood and his brother, the banker; but the legal
processes which had to be taken rendered it impossible to keep the
matter a secret long.
Great was the excitement it created amongst Aldyth's friends. The
Blands at first refused to believe that it was more than an idle
rumour; but they soon heard it confirmed by Aldyth herself.
"Yes, it is true," she said one afternoon, as she joined the group
on the lawn in Mrs. Bland's garden, "it is true; I am no longer the
mistress of Wyndham."
It was late in September, but the afternoon was warm and bright as that
on which our story began. The garden was still gay with flowers; there
were even a few late roses to be seen here and there. Kitty's conch
had been wheeled on to the lawn, and she lay in the shade of an old
apple-tree. Gwendolen, now finally released from her boarding-school,
was lounging in the hammock; Hilda sat by Kitty, with a book on her
lap, from which she had been reading aloud; Mrs. Bland, knitting in
hand, was also seated near.
All faces turned with keen interest to Aldyth as she appeared. Hilda
sprang to meet her. No question was asked; Aldyth's words were uttered
in response to their eager glances.
"You are our own dear Aldyth, whatever has happened," said Mrs. Bland,
as she warmly kissed her.
"But I am very sorry, Aldyth," said Hilda, in a commiserating tone; "I
am indeed."
"Don't be sorry for me," said Aldyth, briskly, "I am not altogether
sorry myself. If the truth had come to light a few weeks after I
entered upon my inheritance, I should have been really glad. But now,
of course, there are many things to regret. I wish, oh, I wish very
much that I had known earlier!" She ended with a sigh.
"How was the will found, Aldyth?" asked Gwendolen, full of curiosity.
"Is it true that it was in a secret drawer of old Mr. Lorraine's desk?"
"It was in a secret compartment of my uncle's bureau," Aldyth said,
and moved, as she spoke, to Kitty's side, to ask how she was, and to
express pleasure at finding her in the garden.
"Yes, it is good to be here," said Kitty, her face serene and bright;
"I never loved our dear old garden as I do now. Sometimes I feel as if
I wanted to kiss the flowers, they look so kindly at me—as if they were
blooming just for me. Oh, I cannot tell you the good flowers do me; I
could almost say they talk to me, Aldyth, for there is a language of
flowers. I do not mean the silly meanings sentimental persons attach to
certain flowers. What I want to say, if only I knew how to express it,
is that flowers have a way of speaking to the heart."
"To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears,"
repeated Aldyth.
"Yes, that expresses it. Wordsworth understood the language of flowers.
Do you remember his lines to the daisy?—
"'When smitten by the morning ray
I see thee rise, alert and gay:
Then, cheerful flower, my spirits play
With kindred gladness;
And when, at dusk, by dews opprest,
Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest
Hath often eased my pensive breast
Of careful sadness.'
"Now look at that cluster of Michaelmas daisies: have they not an air
of cheerfulness?"
"They have indeed," said Aldyth, smiling; "but, Kitty, it is something
new to hear you quoting poetry."
"I dare say it is; but I am learning to appreciate Wordsworth. Hilda
and I are studying literature together. I should not wonder if I were
to become intellectual after all," said Kitty, with a merry light in
her eyes.
"Kitty is finding what precious companions books can be," said Hilda.
"There is nothing like them for lifting us out of ourselves, and
helping us through weary hours."
"Oh, but they do more than that," said Aldyth. "The best literature
helps us in a higher way than by simply making us forget our troubles.
It teaches truths that inspire us with strength and courage to endure."
"You are right," said Kitty. "Aldyth, dear, I can see that you have
needed that kind of help of late. There is a shadow on your face that
tells tales."
"I have had many worries," said Aldyth, colouring.
"You must have had," said Mrs. Bland. "Your mother will feel this
change very much."
"She does," said Aldyth, looking grave. "She is still far from strong,
and that perhaps makes her more low-spirited than she would otherwise
be."
"Have you made any plans yet?"
"Only for the immediate future. We all go to London on Saturday, to
stay some weeks. There is Gladys's trousseau to be seen to, you know.
Then mamma would like to go to Brighton for a while."
"To Brighton!" said Hilda. "That is where Mr. Greenwood talks of going."
"I know," said Aldyth. "I believe he suggested it to mamma."
Kitty and her mother exchanged quick glances.
"When will the wedding be?" asked Gwen.
"Some time before Christmas," said Aldyth. "We are to return to Wyndham
for the wedding, as Guy wishes it to take place there. So you see we
shall break off our connection with the Hall by degrees. I must say
that Guy has behaved most kindly, most generously, in the whole affair.
I have reason to be very grateful to him."
Aldyth spoke with unwonted emphasis. It seemed to her due to Guy, whom
she had often disparaged, that she should make this statement which
meant so much more to her than it could to those who heard it.
"I should think he ought to behave well to you!" cried Gwen. "He is one
of the family now, since he is going to marry your sister."
A quick thought made Aldyth glance at Hilda. Her face showed no sign of
disturbance. If the thought of the approaching wedding gave her pain,
she was well able to hide the feeling. Presently she rose, and calling
Gwen to help her, went into the house to prepare the afternoon tea.
Kitty's eyes followed her lovingly, as she said in a low tone to Aldyth—
"Is not Hilda good and brave now? I am sure she must feel Guy's ready
transference of his affections, but she will not let it depress her.
Oh, she is becoming a grand girl."
"I know a grander," said Aldyth, bending to kiss her friend. "Dear
Kitty, you gather so much brightness about your couch that we are apt
to forget what it must mean for you."
"It means good," said Kitty, brightly. "Yes, indeed it is not so bad as
you think; I will not be persuaded that I am a pitiable object."
Aldyth smiled as she turned away.
A pitiable object indeed! Kitty was rather one to be envied. She had
learned the hardest lesson life can teach us—that of resignation,
and had won the peace which is the reward of such attainment. Kitty
had never been able to talk cleverly about poetry, she had seemed
insensible to its beauties, but now she was making of her own life a
poem.
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS.
"ALDYTH, I want to have a talk with you," said Gladys, that night,
following Aldyth into her room as they were about to retire to rest; "I
hope you are not very sleepy."
"I am not," said Aldyth, who of late had been driven to woo sleep with
no happier result than usually attends such wooings; "let us talk by
all means."
She drew forward the easiest chair for Gladys, who was never
indifferent to her personal comfort, then seated herself by her
sister's side, looking down admiringly on the pretty, flossy hair and
the flushed cheek that rested against the chintz cushions. Gladys
looked so bright and happy. She was well content with the prospect
before her.
The girl who had entered with zest into the gaieties of town life,
and won admiration in crowded assemblies, had adapted herself with
remarkable ease to a country life. She had no illusions concerning
the man she had promised to marry; but she had a genuine affection
for him, nevertheless. She knew he was not heroic; had he been, he
would probably not have suited her so well. They had kindred tastes,
and Guy's easy good nature could be trusted to yield to her wishes
when they did not exactly coincide with his own. Gladys would in all
likelihood get her own way in the future as completely as she had in
the past; but Guy would be quite happy in following her lead. Aldyth
saw this with satisfaction.
"I have been talking with Guy about your home, Aldyth," Gladys said,
"and he agrees with me that it must not be given up. He says that as
long as the plan works well, and the girls behave themselves, the
Cottage shall be used for no other purpose."
[Illustration]
"That is very good of Guy, and good of you, Gladys," said Aldyth,
flushing with pleasure. The thought that she would no longer be able to
maintain this country home for her working girls had caused her much
regret.
"It is not good at all; I shall never be good like you, Aldyth, though
I mean to try," said Gladys, wistfully. "I want you to tell me how you
manage, and I will try to do all I can for the girls. And if you will
give me the address, I will send some flowers to London, whenever they
are sufficiently plentiful."
"Oh, thank you!" said Aldyth, delighted. "That is very kind. You shall
come with me to the Cottage to-morrow, if you like; and I will show you
the little things I always look after myself. But the chief thing is
to speak a kind word to the girls, and make them feel that they have a
friend in you. That is not difficult."
"Not to you, perhaps; but I doubt if I can act such a part," said
Gladys, shrugging her shoulders.
"Don't act it, be it," said Aldyth. "Begin to serve, and you will soon
find it easy to love those you serve."
"Shall I?" said Gladys. "Well, I mean to try. You have often made me
feel how selfish and useless a life I led—you and Kitty Bland. I am
ashamed of myself when I see Kitty so brave and cheerful, thinking ever
of others."
"You are learning to think of others," Aldyth said.
"I hope so," Gladys said; "but perhaps it is only a whim of mine, and I
shall fall back into the old ways after a bit."
"You must not let it be a whim, Gladys."
"I'll try my best," said Gladys; "but, Aldyth, I hope you will still be
able to do a good deal for the Home yourself. I hope you will not go
far off. Have you any idea where you and mamma will live?"
"Not the least," said Aldyth.
She had tried more than once to approach the subject with her mother,
but Mrs. Stanton had always evaded it.
"Well, perhaps it is best to leave it for the present," Gladys said.
"You must come and see me very often. I shall want your help if I am to
become a better woman."
"It is not my help you want, Gladys. The secret of a true life is to be
found here, and God will give His help to all who ask it."
As she spoke, Aldyth laid her hand on the small neatly-bound copy of
the New Testament that lay on her table. Gladys's face grew strangely
grave. There was an earnest look in her blue eyes as she turned them
on Aldyth. For a few minutes neither spoke. Then Gladys rose to say
good-night. No other word was spoken, but the heart of each was
thrilled with a new happiness as they clasped each other warmly ere
they parted.
A few days later, Aldyth, her mother, and sister were in London. Visits
to shops, dressmakers, and milliners filled up most of their time.
Mrs. Stanton had agreed with Aldyth as to the necessity of making
the preparations for Gladys's wedding as simple as possible, but it
was evident that her idea of simplicity differed widely from that of
Aldyth. She was driven to wonder uneasily how the bills were to be met
which her mother ran up without the least hesitation. She could not but
be aware that it would be a very difficult matter for her mother to
keep her expenditure within the limits of the small income that was all
Aldyth could now command—the interest of the six thousand pounds her
uncle had bequeathed to her in his later will.
Aldyth was met by many practical difficulties as she tried to plan out
their future. What was to be done with Nelly? She would leave school
at Christmas, but she was too young and in no way suited to take the
post of a governess. There seemed no possibility now of her having the
art training on which her heart was set. Guy had promised to extend
a helping hand to Cecil till he could stand alone, but it was not to
be expected that he would do anything for Nelly. The main burden of
anxiety seemed to rest on Aldyth. Mrs. Stanton complained and lamented,
but never really pondered the problem of the future. And whilst Aldyth
worried herself over ways and means, her mother calmly decided that the
state of her health rendered it imperative that they should spend a few
weeks at Brighton before they returned to Wyndham.
It was whilst at Brighton that Aldyth, taking up the "Times" one
morning, saw an announcement which thrilled her heart with sympathetic
pain. Mrs. Glynne was dead. Aldyth had not known her, but her aunt's
account of her old friend and her simple, happy home at Highgate, as
well as John Glynne's words respecting his mother, had conveyed to her
mind a very vivid impression. It was almost like losing a personal
friend. It grieved her to think of the sorrow of the bereaved. What
a blow it would be to John Glynne! Was the mail carrying him the
melancholy news, or had he heard of his mother's critical state in
time to hasten to her side and receive her last farewell? His quiet,
undemonstrative demeanour hid a heart of rare warmth and tenderness.
Aldyth knew him well enough to know something of the strength of his
love for his mother, and how deeply he would feel parting with her. She
longed for fuller information than was afforded by the bare newspaper
paragraph, but the longing remained unsatisfied, for, strange to say,
Miss Lorraine in her letters made no allusion to her friend's death.
Towards the end of November Aldyth was again at Wyndham, and ere the
month was out, Gladys's wedding took place. A simple wedding it was
said to be, but it was a simplicity which required the richest white
satin and the daintiest etcæteras. Mrs. Stanton could never have
forgiven herself if she had allowed Gladys to be married in a common
fashion.
The good people at Woodham appreciated the spectacle prepared for their
delectation, and many were of opinion that a handsomer bridegroom or a
prettier bride had never crossed the threshold of the parish church.
Aldyth and Nelly were the bridesmaids, and looked exceedingly well in
their cream cashmere and rose colour. But perhaps the most impressive
figure in the little group gathered in the chancel was that of Mrs.
Stanton. The strong sea air had driven away every trace of her illness;
her fine form, her handsome features, her masses of silvery hair had
never looked more imposing, and she bore herself with even more them
her usual grace and dignity. Robed in silver-grey silk and wearing a
bonnet of the same delicate hue, it was remarked that she looked almost
like a bride herself. Perhaps it was soon to lay aside her widow's
mourning, but a daughter's wedding was an exceptional occurrence.
The church bells clanged joyously throughout the day; but by four
o'clock the excitement at Wyndham was over, and the happy pair had
driven away to catch the London express. The usual sense of blankness
which follows the departure of the bride made itself felt. Aldyth
strove with the feeling, but it was inevitable that the parting
with her sister and the ending of her brief experience of home life
should cause her keen regret. No plan for the future had as yet been
determined on. The time had come when her mother could no longer refuse
to discuss the matter. Something must be decided.
Not till night came could Aldyth secure a quiet talk with her mother. A
few of the guests were persuaded to spend the evening at the Hall. Mr.
Greenwood and Miss Lorraine were the last to leave, the banker having
offered that lady a seat in his brougham. Miss Lorraine drew her niece
aside for a moment in the hall.
"Ah, Aldyth," she said, tenderly, "I can see how you feel losing Gladys
and—all these changes. But you will try to make the best of things, and
remember there is always a home for you with me whenever you want one."
Aldyth smiled and thanked her; but she wondered at her aunt's words.
How could she want a home? Her home must be with her mother, and she
hardly supposed that Miss Lorraine would be willing to receive them
both for an indefinite period.
But the future was to take a form of which she had never dreamed.
As soon as the guests were gone, Mrs. Stanton dismissed Nelly to bed,
then calling Aldyth to her, she said, with rather a nervous smile—
"Let us have a talk, Aldyth. Now the wedding is over, we can think of
our own affairs."
"Willingly," said Aldyth, stirring up the fire and preparing for a cosy
time. "Have you thought where you would like to live, mamma?"
"Well, hardly," said Mrs. Stanton, fingering nervously the gold
bracelet which adorned her arm. "To tell the truth, some one has
thought of that for me. You will be surprised when you hear what I have
to tell you."
"You are not thinking of going to Melbourne again?" asked Aldyth, the
thought suggesting itself that her mother might wish to return to the
place where so many years of her life had been passed, and where was
her late husband's grave.
"Oh no," said Mrs. Stanton, quickly; "what could make you say that? I
suppose it is my fate to live at Woodham, for the fact is, Aldyth, I am
going to marry Mr. Greenwood."
"Mamma!"
"Yes, it is true. Of course you are surprised. I felt certain you would
be. But I believe I am acting for the best."
Aldyth was more than surprised, she was astounded. She could hardly
believe her ears. And yet perhaps she should not have been so much
surprised. Mr. Greenwood had been a frequent visitor at Wyndham; they
had seen much of him at Brighton; she had often thought with pity
of his dreary life in that large empty house. She had heard people
say that he would do well to marry again. No, it was not altogether
surprising; still, the possibility of her mother's contracting a third
marriage had never crossed her mind.
"Have you nothing to say to me, Aldyth?"
"I hardly know what to say, mamma, I am so surprised."
"It is surely not an unheard-of thing," said Mrs. Stanton, in an
aggrieved tone. "You might be glad. Mr. Greenwood is so kind, so
generous. He is most anxious to receive us all into his home. He is
very fond of you. He said especially that he hoped you would live
there."
"He is very kind; but I could not do that," said Aldyth, quickly.
The banker was her dear old friend, yet she felt a singular dislike to
the idea suggested.
"Why not?" asked her mother, with a frown. "You do not think what you
are refusing—such a comfortable home, and he would be ready to indulge
you in every way."
"I know he is very kind," said Aldyth; "but, mamma, when you cease to
want me, I would rather go back to auntie. There is a home for me with
her."
Mrs. Stanton was silent, pondering this proposition. On the whole, it
commended itself to her.
"Well, it will be a good home for Nelly," she said, presently. "Mr.
Greenwood will give her every advantage. She will be able to paint to
her heart's content."
Yes, it might prove a happy thing for Nelly. Aldyth could see that; she
could see all the attractions that this new scheme of the future must
have for her mother. Perhaps she ought to be glad, but she could not be
glad yet; she was half-stunned, and there was a dull pain at her heart.
"Are you vexed about it, Aldyth?"
"No, mamma, not vexed, I think; but I can't get over my surprise all at
once."
"You will hardly get over it, I fear, before the prospect is realized,"
said her mother, with rather a forced laugh; "it would be foolish in
our case to make much to do about it. We are to be married in London,
in three weeks' time, and shall spend the winter in the south of
France. Mr. Greenwood thinks that after my illness, I should not risk
the cold of Woodham. I told Gladys of our plans, but I thought you had
better not know till her wedding was over."
Mrs. Stanton spoke rapidly, being anxious to get through with all it
was necessary to say.
Aldyth heard her with increased astonishment and some bitterness of
feeling. Whilst she had been burdened with anxiety for the future, this
plan had been her mother's cherished secret. It was a plan in which she
had no part. Her mother's marriage, it seemed to her, must exclude her,
to a great extent, from her mother's life. She was no longer to be her
mother's guardian, she would hardly be needed by her mother now. She
felt that she was thrust on one side.
"Will you not kiss me and wish me happiness?" asked Mrs. Stanton, when
the silence between them was growing painful.
"Certainly, mamma; I wish you happiness now and always," said Aldyth,
kissing her gravely.
Then she went away, and Mrs. Stanton breathed a sigh of relief,
thankful that she had got through the disagreeable task of telling
Aldyth.
Aldyth profited by her aunt's advice, and tried to make the best of
this most unexpected turn of affairs. She hid the pain she felt, being
aware that most persons would have judged that she had no cause for
pain.
Even Mrs. Bland and Kitty, who could enter into her feelings as no
other friends could, were inclined to think the event a fortunate one
for Aldyth. As wife of the wealthy banker, her mother would have a
position entirely to her mind. Such a home as Aldyth's limited means
could provide would never have pleased her. But they breathed no hint
of this to Aldyth. They knew too well how her heart clung to her mother
with a love which still, in spite of every shock it had met, strove
to excuse and, if possible, veil her cold selfishness and sad lack of
principle.
Nelly received the news cheerfully. She liked Mr. Greenwood, and could
look forward to the new home life. She was charmed to find that her
future stepfather shared her enthusiasm for art, and delighted beyond
measure when he promised that she should study at South Kensington. It
was arranged that she should at once be enrolled as a student in the
Art School, and should reside with friends in London till Mr. and Mrs.
Greenwood returned from their sojourn abroad. And Miss Lorraine, with
no slight satisfaction, looked forward to Aldyth's again making her
home with her at Myrtle Cottage.
The New Year was not many days old when Aldyth returned to Woodham.
She had seen her mother married at a West-end church, in all the glory
of her silver-grey robe, surrounded by a little knot of well-wishing
friends. She had bidden her a hurried farewell ere she drove away
with her husband to Charing Cross, and then Aldyth and her sister
had returned to the home of the friends with whom Nelly was to spend
the next few months. Aldyth had yielded to their persuasions, warmly
seconded by Nelly, to spend Christmas with them, and the season had not
passed unhappily.
Now she came back to take up once more the old dropped threads of her
former life at Woodham.
It so happened that Aldyth had been unable to inform her aunt by what
train she would travel down, and there was no one at the station to
meet her. It was a clear, cold afternoon, and leaving her luggage to
be sent on, she walked the short distance to the Cottage. She met no
friend on the way. The Blands' windows were deserted, but Miss Tabitha
Rudkin, from her post of observation on the other side of the road, saw
her pass, and connected her arrival with that of another visitor who
had unexpectedly appeared at Miss Lorraine's on the previous day. But
Miss Rudkin could not believe in the fortuitous nature of the visit.
She was not so easily hoodwinked, she said. Of course it was a planned
thing.
Arrived at her aunt's gate, Aldyth paused for a moment to gaze at the
wide-stretching prospect she loved. The view was unusually clear. She
could see the long arms of a distant windmill rising black against the
sky, and the spire of Wickham Church standing forth from a background
of pearly grey. Old thoughts, old memories swept back upon her with the
sight, and their influence was saddening.
"'Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; it is her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy,'"
she murmured to herself as she entered the garden; but though she knew
this source of joy her own, she was hardly able to rejoice at that
moment.
The little maid who opened the door gave a start of surprise at seeing
her. Not having been long in Miss Lorraine's service, she hardly knew
Aldyth, and was dismayed at her early appearance.
"Miss Lorraine never thought you would be here till the evening," she
said; "she will not be back herself till six."
And Aldyth remembered that it was the afternoon on which her aunt held
her "mothers' meeting."
To arrive before one is expected is seldom a cheering experience.
Although there was no house in which she should feel more at home, a
sensation of dreariness and loneliness oppressed Aldyth as she went
up stairs to her old room. The little maid followed her, uneasy and
apologetic.
"Mistress told me to light the fire," she said; "but I didn't think
there was any hurry."
"It does not matter," Aldyth said.
But the maid at once set about the neglected duty, with the result that
the room was soon full of smoke.
Aldyth's depression increased. The room had not the old familiar
aspect. She missed her books and pictures, which had been removed to
Wyndham whilst she dwelt there, and were now lying in a large chest
waiting to be unpacked. She was free to devote herself once more to the
studies which she loved, but there was little joy in the thought. Hers
was a nature which finds its highest freedom in the bonds of duty.
It grieved her that the ties that for a brief period had bound her so
closely to her mother and sisters were snapped. The rapid changes of
the last two years had left her restless and unsettled. There seemed no
purpose in her life now. She hardly knew how she should settle again in
her aunt's home.
But it would never do to begin thus. She fought with her despondency;
she took herself to task. In a world where so many needed love and
sympathy, was there not work for every one? Would not new duties come
to her? God had a purpose in her life, a place for her to fill.
"I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our incompleteness,
Round our restlessness His rest."
Aldyth smiled, too, as the words came to mind. She shook off her
discontent with the dust of travel, and having freshened her
appearance, quitted the smoky room and ran down stairs.
There a surprise awaited her. The servant, bewildered by her sudden
appearance, had not thought to mention the fact that Miss Lorraine had
a guest. As Aldyth entered the drawing room, a gentleman rose quickly
from a chair by the fire. Did her eyes deceive her, or was it indeed
John Glynne?
"You are come!" he said, by no means surprised to see her. "Miss
Lorraine assured me you would not arrive before six o'clock. I was
coming to the station to meet you; I am sorry to have missed that
pleasure."
And Aldyth had her welcome at last; but it took her some minutes to
recover from her astonishment.
"You are the last person I expected to see," she said; "I thought you
were a long way off."
"Ah, you did not know I had returned. I resigned my post and came home
on account of my mother's illness."
"Then you were with her," Aldyth said, in tones soft with sympathy.
"Yes, I was with her. It is a great comfort to me to remember those
last days."
And he told her about them, talking as he could not have talked to Miss
Lorraine; indeed, to no other being could he so have opened his heart.
Aldyth said little in response, but her sympathy made itself felt
without words, and the few she uttered were dear to him.
"Your sister is well, I hope?" she said, after a pause.
"Quite well," he answered; "she is going to be married."
"That will be your loss," said Aldyth.
"It will; but she will be happy."
"Are you going abroad again?"
"No, I have found work in London."
Aldyth made no remark on this. She was silent, thinking of the evening
when they had parted at the field gate, and of all that had happened
since.
"Aunt has told you all the news, I suppose," she said at last. "You
know what has happened to me—that my mother has gone from me—that our
home is broken up?"
"I know," he said, looking earnestly at her; "you feel these changes
very much?"
"I feel—some things," Aldyth replied, a strange tremor in her voice. "I
don't mind losing Wyndham, but I do feel losing my mother. It is hard
to think that she no longer wants me—that no one wants me now."
The words had scarcely passed her lips ere she would have recalled
them. They sounded so weak, so selfish.
John Glynne did not deem them so. They seemed to make that possible
which was his heart's most cherished desire. He rose; he moved to the
window and stood there in silence a few moments. Then he came back and
stood before Aldyth. She looked up and met his glance, which held hers
spellbound.
"Aldyth, I want you," he said.
And she gave herself to him without a fear.
THE END.
RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BUNGAY.
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