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.
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."
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"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.
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.
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—