"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 fairAs 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.
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.
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."
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."