"The hope I dreamed of was a dream,Was but a dream; and now I wakeExceeding comfortless, and worn, and old,For a dream's sake."
Were other things dreams too? Was she indeed foolishly, romantic, as her mother had said? Were her ideals mistaken? The glorious visions of the poets, were they illusive? The grand possibilities that life had seemed to her to hold, as she studied the inspiring utterances of the great teachers of mankind, were they too phantasmal? Was there indeed no poetry in life, and would she be wiser if she consented to follow the dictates of vulgar, worldly prudence?
In the heart-sickness caused by the shock of her first real disappointment, Aldyth questioned everything. What was the good of life if it were so low and sordid, so barren of all that is truly noble and elevating? But presently, healthier feelings returned to her.
She had taken refuge in her room, and was sitting gazing dully before her, when a ray of wintry sunshine entering through the window gleamed on a tiny bunch of violets which Nelly had placed on her dressing-table. Aldyth caught them up, and their beauty and sweetness comforted her. After all, the world was not the dreary place she had been imagining it.
God was in the world, God, working ever for righteousness and purity and loveliness, and God was love. Did not the poet Browning say that the grand lesson of life was to learn love—what love had been, what love might be?
"I believe in love and God," said Aldyth to herself; "and, God helping me, I will be true to my ideal of what my life should be. I will not love my mother less because she is not just what I had fancied she would be. Is not a certain amount of forbearance necessary in every human relationship? I will strive to be to my mother all that a daughter should be, and perhaps in time she will come to think as I do about things. I hope she did not see how impatient and angry I felt just now."
And Aldyth dried her eyes, and seeing that the sunshine looked inviting, put on her hat and jacket and set off to take her usual remedy for depression—a good walk.
CONTRASTS.
WHEN Nelly had been sent to school, Aldyth found herself more at leisure.
Gladys was always good-natured and bright; there was something very charming in her pretty, careless ways. It was impossible to help loving her, and yet after she had lived with her for weeks, Aldyth felt that she knew her no better than on the first day of their meeting. It seemed impossible to have a quiet talk with Gladys; she was always self-occupied, restless, eager about trifles. Apparently she did not know what serious thought was. She had inherited her mother's gift of fascination, and, like her, knew how to use it for the accomplishment of her own ends.
Aldyth could never have said that her sister treated her unkindly; yet again and again, she found herself gently pushed on one side that Gladys might take the lead.
Gladys had been first in the family for too many years to be willing now to resign her premiership in favour of Aldyth just because she, too, was her mother's daughter and nearly three years older than herself. But she did not assert her supremacy in any disagreeable manner, and Mrs. Stanton endeavoured to veil her preference for Gladys.
"You do not care for dancing, Aldyth, so I must not take you to this party;" or, "This entertainment is not intellectual enough for you," she would say, when invitations came in. And Aldyth, not without heartache, yet in all sincerity, would reply that she would rather remain at home.
Aldyth used to look forward to the Saturday of each week, for early on that day Nelly would come home from school.
She and her young sister had become the best of friends, and found much enjoyment in each other's company. It was good for Nelly to confide to so sympathetic a listener the details of her school life. Her mother had neither time nor inclination to interest herself in them. Her main anxiety concerning her youngest daughter's education was that she should learn to speak French and acquire a good deportment.
Nelly had good abilities, but she was naturally indolent. The training she had received had not taught her to love knowledge; but now, under Aldyth's influence, she began to take an interest in literature. She was working well at her drawing, and cherished the hope of being an artist; and when Aldyth pointed out to her the fact that every kind of knowledge may be of service to a painter, she bestowed more pains on her general school work.
Aldyth could not doubt that her stepfather was a man of wealth, for Mrs. Stanton and Gladys spent money lavishly, and the style of their home was most luxurious. There were so many servants that Aldyth could find no domestic duties to perform. She was at no loss how to employ her leisure.
Mudie's Library supplied her with the books she desired to read, and all the varied means of culture that London affords were open to her. But there were times when Aldyth's conscience smote her for leading a selfish, aimless life, and she longed for her poor people at Woodham, and the many occupations of her busy life there. However, work for others always comes to those who are willing to undertake it, and ere long it came to Aldyth.
One day, Gladys having a pleasanter engagement in prospect, Mrs. Stanton took Aldyth to visit some friends at Blackheath. There was a small party invited to meet them, and amongst the number were a clergyman and his wife, in whom Aldyth soon felt considerable interest. Mrs. Wheatley was a small, frail-looking woman, but full of life and energy. Her features were plain, but her countenance had a charm which beauties might envy, for it betokened rare intellectual power combined with all that is good and sweet and womanly. Aldyth felt drawn to her at once, and probably the attraction was mutual, for as soon as an opportunity occurred, Mrs. Wheatley moved to a chair beside Aldyth and began to talk with her.
How is it that half an hour's talk with some persons seems equal to months of intercourse with others? In an incredibly short time Aldyth felt perfectly at home with Mrs. Wheatley, and could talk to her as if she were an old friend. To her surprise, Aldyth learned that this delicate, refined-looking lady lived in one of the least desirable localities of the East-end of London, having resolutely determined, contrary to the advice of physicians and friends, that she would make her home in her husband's parish, and live among the poor people she desired to help and raise.
"You must not believe all that you hear about Whitechapel," she said brightly to Aldyth. "People talk of the impossibility of getting fresh air there; but even in Whitechapel there is a breeze sometimes, and when it is close and heavy in the streets, there is fresh air at the tops of the houses. Our rooms are on the fourth story of the house, and there is the flat roof of a tenement on which I can take a walk when I choose, and where I am trying to cultivate some plants. Nor is the moral atmosphere so hopeless as some would make out. I could show you brave men in Whitechapel, whose patient endurance of a hard and painful lot is absolutely heroic, and women whose pure, noble lives, under circumstances the most adverse, would put duchesses to shame. I know they have often taught me lessons I needed to learn."
Aldyth was much interested. It was vexatious that just then the lady of the house should come to her with a request that she would play something; but she could not refuse. She went at once to the piano, and played a bright little gavotte by Gluck; then, being urged to play again, she gave one of Schubert's exquisite, entrancing melodies. Mrs. Stanton was not without satisfaction in her daughter's performance and the admiration it won. She wished that Gladys could have been persuaded to give more attention to her practising.
Happily no one had taken Aldyth's place, so she was able to return to Mrs. Wheatley's side.
"You play very well; it is a pleasure to listen to you," said that lady, simply. "I wish you would come and play to my working girls some evening."
"Your working girls?" said Aldyth.
"Yes; we have established a club for girls employed in factories and workshops. It is open every evening from seven till ten. We have various amusements for them, and we try to teach them sewing and cooking. We have a good piano, and I am always glad to get some one to give us some music. Besides, it is so easy for a girl like you to win an influence over them."
"Indeed, I will gladly do anything I can," said Aldyth; "I should really like to help."
"I am sure you would," said Mrs. Wheatley; "it is a work that appeals to a girl's heart. These girls have to support themselves when quite young. Many of them have left their parents, and live in poor lodgings, sharing their room, perhaps, with several others, and when their work is done, they have no place of recreation save the streets or the music-halls. A warm, well-lighted room, where they can spend the evening pleasantly, is a great attraction to them. We have some rough, intractable girls to deal with; but we hope gradually to soften them by kindness, and I am sure you would be a great help in doing so."
"I will try what I can do," said Aldyth. "I will come next week, if mamma will let me."
Aldyth was sure that her mother would not allow her to go unattended to Whitechapel, so before naming the matter to her, she spoke of it to one of the servants, explained to her the kind of work in which she had been invited to join, and asked whether she would be willing to share it by accompanying her once a week to the East-end. The servant, an honest good-hearted girl, was proud and pleased that Miss Lorraine should seek her assistance, and gladly consented.
Mrs. Stanton made no objection to Aldyth's plan, though she thought it an incomprehensible whim of hers to wish to go to such a horrible place. It was a happy thing for Aldyth that her mother rarely interfered with her wishes, except when they were adverse to her own.
So Aldyth went to her work in Whitechapel, and made acquaintance with the factory girls of the East-end. It was work in which she soon became deeply interested, and it inspired her with many new solemn thoughts about life.
As Mrs. Wheatley had foreseen, the girls "took to her" at once, for women of the lower classes are quick to recognize a "real lady" when they see one, and to feel the charm of her gentleness and simplicity. Aldyth's pleasant look, her smile, the sweet tones of her voice, her fresh, pretty gowns, and the dainty, flower-like neatness of her person, could not have charmed any male admirer more than they charmed these girls. They clustered about her, they applauded the bright, well-chosen music she gave them, and they watched eagerly for the chance of a talk with her.
Aldyth had no difficulty in gaining their confidence. They could see that she liked to hear all they could tell her about themselves, and one by one they told her of the troubles and hardships of their lives, not complainingly, but in a simple, matter-of-fact manner, that was touching in its very unconsciousness.
One evening Aldyth, returning tired from Whitechapel, met Gladys alighting from a carriage at the door of their home. She had been spending the evening in a very different fashion at the house of some friends. She followed Aldyth into the dining room, where a light supper awaited her.
"I will sit with you while you take your chocolate," Gladys said, throwing off her cloak and sinking gracefully into an easy-chair by the fire. "The Andersons are so nice, Aldyth; I've had the most delightful time. You were a silly not to come with me instead of going to those stupid girls at Whitechapel."
Aldyth looked at her sister for a moment, ere she replied.
Gladys, dressed all in white, with her pretty neck uncovered and her coronal of golden hair gleaming in the lamplight, never looked more fair.
But Aldyth had a sudden painful sense of the contrast presented to her sister by the girls she had left, as young as Gladys, and some of them as fair, but with weary faces and thin, bent forms, whose clothes were shabby and tawdry, and whose lives had so little of what was bright and pleasant in them.
"Oh, Gladys!" she said. "Don't grudge our girls any pleasure I can give them by going. If you only knew what their lives are! If I were one of them, I think it would make me feel bad to look on a girl like you."
"And why, pray?" asked Gladys, with an air of surprise.
"Because you have so much to enjoy, and they so little," said Aldyth. "Most of them are as young, if not younger than you, and a few of them—forgive me, Gladys—are almost as pretty. I often long to try the effect of dressing them in fresh, becoming frocks. But their lives are hard and rough. Most of them toil from eight in the morning till eight at night, and some of them, who call themselves 'shop girls,' work till even later. There was a girl to whom I spoke to-night, a bright young girl of fifteen, and when I offered her a book, she told me she could not read because her eyes were so bad, owing to her having to do her work—stitching babies' bibs—under a strong gaslight all day long. Another girl, who has to go up and down many flights of stairs during the day, could not join in a game because her ankles were so dreadfully swollen. Does it not seem hard that some young girls should have to live so, whilst others have everything that heart can wish, and nothing to do but enjoy themselves? I am sure when I look on those girls, I am ashamed to think what an easy, self-indulgent life I have always led."
There was a passionate quiver in Aldyth's voice as she spoke, which showed that tears were not far from her eyes. Gladys was not unmoved by her earnest words.
"But they belong to the working class," she said. "They cannot expect to lead such lives as ours."
"Oh, they know that well enough," said Aldyth. "It is wonderful to me how patiently they bear their hard lot. 'Ladies have fine times of it; it is good to be born a lady,' I heard a girl say to-night; but it is rarely we hear such remarks. And yet, human nature is the same in every class, and these girls have the same feelings as you and I."
"Aldyth!" said Gladys, in a sceptical tone.
"Indeed they have," said Aldyth. "They yearn for happiness as we do, they feel the same eagerness for every attainable pleasure; they love things that are bright and pretty. Ah, you should have seen how eager they were for a few flowers I took to-day. The bunch was gone in no time, and the girls who could not get a flower were sadly disappointed. I had to promise that I would bring some more next week. I shall ask aunt to send me some from Woodham. The primroses must be coming out there now."
"It is very good of you to take so much trouble," said Gladys.
"Oh, I think we more fortunate girls are bound to do all we can to help and gladden our poor sisters," said Aldyth. "Do you know when I was with them to-night, I kept thinking of those words in the Bible—'Who maketh thee to differ from another? And what hast thou that thou didst not receive?' I think we are apt to forget that all the good things we have received—our education, accomplishments, personal attractions—are all trusts, given to us to be used for others, and not simply for our own enjoyment."
"Oh, don't be so dreadfully solemn!" exclaimed Gladys, suddenly springing up. "Aldyth, you really must marry a parson, for at a pinch, you could make his sermons for him, and it would be a great pity such a talent should be wasted."
"Why not say at once that I should mount the pulpit and preach?" asked Aldyth laughing. "But, Gladys, I do wish you would come to Whitechapel with me some night. It would give the girls such pleasure to hear you sing."
But Gladys held up her hands in horror at the idea.
"I could not really, Aldyth. You frighten me by proposing such a thing. I should be afraid of catching smallpox or something dreadful if I went there. Oh, surely one martyr is enough in a family! Ah, yes, you may shake your head. I know I'm a sad girl—I know I care for nothing but pleasure—but that's my way, and you must take me as I am."
"Oh, Gladys, you do not mean that. It would be a poor thing to live only for pleasure," Aldyth said.
"I do mean it, you dear old mentor," said Gladys, stopping her mouth with a kiss; "and I do not find it a poor thing either, so there! But now it is time we got our beauty sleep, so, if you are ready, we will go up stairs."
Aldyth found in her room a letter from Hilda, and, tired though she was, she could not resist reading it ere she went to bed. The envelope felt thick, so she might expect a good budget of news, and with pleasurable anticipations, she tore it open and sat down to read the contents. This was what Hilda had written:—
"MY OWN DARLING ALDYTH,—Am I not very good to reply to your dear letter so soon? But you will not wonder when you hear the exciting story I have to tell. You know, I dare say, that since Sultan went lame, and the veterinary said he would need a long rest, your uncle has bought a new horse for the gig. He is a splendid animal as far as appearance goes, but Miss Lorraine said from the first that he had a vicious look. However, your uncle thought he had got a good bargain, and he must needs go out with John in the gig to try him. Guy wanted to drive him for the first time, but your uncle would not hear of it. He was still very displeased with poor Guy; nothing he did gave satisfaction. However, Guy occupied the back seat of the gig, and came into Woodham with them; but seeing that the horse was going all right, he got down at the post-office, and said he would walk home. To tell you the truth, Aldyth dear, he meant to linger about the town with the hope of seeing poor little me."Well, Mr. Lorraine called on his dear friend, Miss Rudkin, and John walked the horse up and down whilst he was there. Whether the delay irritated him, or whether he took fright at a tramp who was coming along the road with a sack on his back, it is impossible to say, but Mr. Lorraine had hardly taken his seat ere the horse began to plunge wildly, and when John whipped him, he bolted. Old John was powerless to hold him in, and he went down town like the wind. Kitty was at the window and saw the horse run away, and she says she shall never forget it. Fortunately the road was clear."The horse tore down the High Street till close upon the corner where the old church juts out, and what would have happened then no one dare say, if Guy—dear, brave, noble Guy!—had not come to the rescue. He was standing talking to some one outside the saddler's, and saw the horse coming. In a moment he was in the road, gave one bound, and caught the reins, and, hanging on with desperate strength, forced the animal to stop. How he did it, I cannot imagine, it makes me tremble even now to think of it; but you know how strong he is, and now he has proved that he is as bold as he is strong."Oh, Aldyth, you can never laugh at Guy again, or run him down. You ought to be very proud of your brave cousin. But I forget that you will be anxious to know how your uncle was after such a fright. He really bore it wonderfully well. He was a little faint at first, and they took him into Hall's and gave him some brandy. In half an hour he seemed all right, and oh, Aldyth! He thanked Guy before everybody, and said he had saved his life, and called him a brave fellow. And, only think, the next day he insisted on going for a drive again with the same horse, only Guy drove, so no harm came of it. But would any one except Mr. Lorraine have done such a thing?"I met them as they were driving, and your uncle nodded to me quite pleasantly, and Guy looked so pleased. Oh, I hope it is not very foolish of me, but I cannot help thinking that perhaps after all, things will come right for us. Surely, Mr. Lorraine must be kind to Guy, now he has saved his life!"Miss Lorraine has just been in on her way home from Wyndham, and she says she believes that her uncle is more affected by the shock than he will own. She thought him looking very shaky."Oh, Aldyth, how I wish you were here! There is so much I should like to tell you, and it is impossible to put everything in a letter. Mr. Glynne's sister has come to stay with him for a few weeks. She seems a very nice girl, and we have invited her to spend Tuesday with us. But I must not write more now. With fondest love, dearest Aldyth,—"Your devoted friend,"HILDA."
Here was news indeed! All desire of sleep vanished from Aldyth as she read it. She was moved both to thankfulness and to self-reproach as she thought of her uncle's danger and Guy's brave conduct.
"Perhaps I have been too hard on him," she said to herself. "Perhaps there is more in him than I suppose. Anyhow it was a brave deed, and I am glad, oh, so glad and thankful, that he had strength and courage to do it."
One effect of Hilda's letter was to awake in Aldyth a longing to return to Woodham. She had now been absent from the little town for several months, and it was with somewhat of home-sickness that she recalled all the varied interests of her life there. It was spring weather now, and amid the London streets and squares, she yearned for the country lanes and the woods and fields bright with primroses and cowslips.
And to think that Mr. Glynne's sister was now at Woodham! Aldyth would have given much to make her acquaintance, and to join in the long walks which she would be taking with the Blands. But she sagely reflected that we cannot have everything at once in this life. She had—what for years had been her heart's chief desire—the society of her mother and sisters, and she must be content to resign her old life at Woodham, which, as she now saw plainly, had been full of quiet happiness.
She was finding a niche in her new home, and learning daily that even in London there were many who needed her. Her stepfather, who whilst the days of his wife and Gladys were wholly occupied with gaiety, seemed to grow more and more weary and depressed, often sought her help in little matters for which his wife had no leisure and seemed glad of her company. Cecil came to her with tales of his hospital experiences, and found to his surprise that Aldyth knew more about surgery than most girls, and could listen with intelligent interest to the "horrors" at the very mention of which his mother and Gladys stopped their ears.
And Nelly looked forward with delight to the pleasant "outings" which Aldyth contrived that they should have together almost every Saturday afternoon. Even Gladys invariably sought Aldyth whenever she needed assistance of any kind. But to her mother, despite tender words and caresses, Aldyth could never feel that she was very near and dear. The long years of separation seemed to have left between them a void that could not easily be bridged over.
HILDA IS HAPPY.
THREE days had passed since Aldyth received Hilda's letter. Her aunt had sent her a full account of what had happened, and a few curt, but not unkind, words from her uncle had assured her that there was no need for her to feel any anxiety on his account.
It was about five o'clock on a bright afternoon, and Aldyth, having had occasion to go to a shop there, was walking in Oxford Street. She was near Regent Circus when, to her great astonishment, she perceived her grand-uncle a few yards in front of her, stepping cautiously from an omnibus. He did not perceive her, and she looked at him for a moment or two, hardly able to believe her eyes. Her uncle, who professed to dislike London so much, and had not been known to visit it for years!
Indeed, it was a great event for him at any time to go beyond twenty miles of his home. But there he was, in his old velveteen coat, his white hat, his drab gaiters, just as Aldyth was accustomed to see him at Woodham, but looking strangely out of place on the London pavement. She hurriedly made her way to his side.
"Uncle! I little expected to see you in Oxford Street."
He turned, surprised and pleased, yet his manner betrayed some discomposure.
"Ah, Aldyth, is it you? Well, it is a happy chance that we should meet thus. Yes, you may well be surprised to see me here; but business brought me to town. I came up on business."
Aldyth could not remember that her uncle had ever come up to London on business before. He was wont to manage all his business through the agency of Mr. Ralph Greenwood.
"Were you coming to see me, uncle?" she asked.
"Well, no, I was not," he answered, still with a shade of embarrassment in his manner; "I have finished my business, and I thought I would take a little look about town before going home by the evening train."
"Then you will come and see mamma?" said Aldyth, eagerly. "She will be so pleased to see you."
The old man did not at once reply. He only smiled a peculiar, grim smile, which said, as plainly as words could utter it, "But I should not be pleased to see her."
"Do you really think she would be pleased?" he asked sarcastically, after a few moments. "Suppose she had some of her fashionable friends with her, would she be delighted, do you think, to see a queer, old-fashioned countryman like me come into her fine drawing room?"
"I do not believe that would make any difference, uncle," Aldyth said.
He laughed sceptically.
"Ah, my dear, you must excuse me," he said; "I knew your mother before you were born."
Aldyth's cheeks were burning. She wished he would not speak of her mother in that contemptuous tone.
"I am glad I happened to meet you," she said, "since otherwise I should not have seen you at all. Shall we go into the Park and sit down for a little while? It is quite warm, and I want to have a talk with you."
He assented with evident pleasure. In a few minutes they were at the Marble Arch, and entering the Park found a quiet seat under some trees.
"Aldyth," said her uncle suddenly, "you will be good enough not to mention to your mother that you have seen me to-day; and do not name it when you are writing to Woodham. I do not wish my coming up to town to be talked about there."
Aldyth promised; but she could not but wonder that her uncle should think it possible to keep people at Woodham from knowing that he had made a journey to town.
Presently she expressed her thankfulness for his recent escape from danger.
"Yes," he said, thoughtfully, "it was a narrow escape,—a narrow escape indeed. And Guy acted like a hero. He saved my life at the risk of his own; there's no denying that. How he hung on to that brute of a horse I can't tell. His wrists feel the strain yet."
"Oh, uncle, I hope you do not drive that animal still," Aldyth said.
"Well, no, I suppose I shall have to give it up; he's not safe in the shafts. Guy can ride him. Guy is a good rider. Sometimes I think that perhaps I have been too hard on him; he is a good fellow, is Guy. I did hope I should have seen you married to him, Aldyth; but I suppose it cannot be."
"No, uncle, it can never be," Aldyth said.
"I had set my heart on it," he continued, sadly, not angrily; "but you young people have a way of thwarting all my plans. You must have your own way, however things go. I thought you cared for Wyndham; I thought you would have taken a pride in the old place."
"I do love Wyndham," Aldyth said.
"Yes, but you do not care to live there—at least, not as Guy's wife. Aldyth, tell me, you would not be one to pull down and alter the old place, if it were in your power to retain it as it is?"
"Certainly not," said Aldyth, wondering at the question; "I am not one to desire change. I like things to be as they have always been."
"Ah, yes," he said, musingly. "Well, there is no saying how things will be. Perhaps some other girl will be the mistress of Wyndham. Would you mind if it were so, Aldyth?"
"Why, no, uncle," said Aldyth, "I assure you, I have never thought of such a thing as being the mistress of Wyndham. Guy and I are really not at all suited to each other."
"Yes, but there are other ways," he said. There was a pause of some minutes, and then he asked, abruptly, "Are you and Hilda Bland as good friends as ever, Aldyth?"
"Oh, yes, uncle, indeed we are."
"Does she write to you?"
"Yes."
"Ah, well," he said, and his voice quavered as he spoke, "there is no saying how things will be at the last. I change my plans, and then I change them again. Sometimes I think I am getting old and weak, and do not know my own mind. But I mean it for the best. However things are, I mean it for the best. I suppose I have a right to do as I like with my own? They'll find fault with me, no doubt, when I'm gone; but I mean it for the best."
His voice had dropped, and as he rambled on thus it seemed to Aldyth that he had forgotten where he was and that she was by his side. She had fancied him unchanged when first she saw him; but now it seemed to her that there was a change in him, though it was one not easy to define.
She laid her hand on his, and he looked round with a startled air, but recovering himself slowly, he said, "I don't know why I should talk about going. I am not so very old. Several of my ancestors lived to be ninety, and why should not I? I have always lived temperately. Why should not I see ninety, please God?"
"I trust you will, uncle," Aldyth said, gently; "but now, at what time does your train leave for Woodham?"
"Eh? The time; half-past six, to be sure. What's the time now? Oh, I don't trust any of your London clocks." And he pulled out the huge gold repeater familiar to Aldyth from her childhood. "Ah, I must leave you, child. I am glad we met. When are you coming to Woodham again? You do not look so well as when you left us. Tell me, are you happy with your mother and sisters? Do they treat you properly?"
"Yes, indeed they are very kind to me; I have nothing to complain of," Aldyth said, but nevertheless there was a yearning in her heart for Woodham and its peaceful, pleasant ways.
"Well, if they do treat you badly, you know where to come," her uncle said.
As they walked through the Park to the nearest entrance, many a passer-by looked curiously at the quaint old squire and the tall, graceful girl by his side, whilst he on his part bestowed a fierce scrutiny and more or less unflattering comments on every person or equipage that met his gaze. When Aldyth had seen her uncle into a cab for Liverpool Street, she hurried homewards, and reached the house barely in time to change her dress and appear at the dinner-table as usual.
Her mind was full of her uncle during the evening, and she found it difficult to avoid mentioning him.
A few days later, Aldyth received a second letter from Hilda, the contents of which gave her both surprise and pleasure.
"Oh, Aldyth," Hilda wrote, "you will hardly believe the good news I have to tell you. I can hardly believe it myself, though it makes me so happy—I cannot tell you how happy I am. But I must explain. On Saturday mother had a most polite note from Mr. Lorraine, begging her to come on Monday with her two daughters to spend the day at Wyndham. The carriage should be sent for us at any hour that would suit our convenience. You may imagine how surprised we were, for Mr. Lorraine had been barely civil to us since the day he called here and behaved so rude, and I do not think mother had forgiven him for telling her she did not look after her daughters properly."However, I persuaded mother it was her duty to forget that now, and Kitty wanted to see the horses at Wyndham, and I—Ah, I need not tell you how I felt about it! Anyhow, mother accepted the invitation, and about noon we started for Wyndham."The dear old man—yes, I can call him dear now—received us with charming courtesy. He had arranged that Guy should take me and Kitty for a ride in the afternoon; was it not good of him? You can fancy how delighted Kitty was, nor was I less so; and as for Guy, I never saw him in such spirits. Kitty rode Pansy, and the lovely creature was so tricksy. She does not get exercise enough now you are away."But now for the most wonderful item of my news. It was easy to see that the squire was in a very good humour with Guy. Well, whilst we were riding, Mr. Lorraine had a long talk with mother, and told her he had decided to let Guy take his own way with regard to his marriage, and if he still wished to marry me, he was free to do so."And to make a short story of it, Aldyth, we are now engaged, and in a day or two, all Woodham will know it. But, of course, you must be the first friend to hear of it; I know how glad you will be. You can sympathize with me in my happiness as no one else can. Oh, I am happy. I can say with Juliet—
"My true love is grown to such excess,I cannot sum up half my sum of wealth."
"I wonder what people will say when they hear of my engagement? It will be a surprise, for it has always been said that you would marry your cousin. But, talking of gossip, what do you think is Miss Rudkin's latest piece of news? She declares that your uncle went to London by the first train on Wednesday morning, and that he drove all the way to Wickham, and took the train there, in order that people should not know that he went! Did you ever hear anything so absurd? I suppose you have not seen him in town?"
There was much more in the letter, which Aldyth read several times. She was delighted to hear of Hilda's happiness, and inclined to esteem Guy more highly than she had ever done before. It never occurred to her that she had any cause to deplore the engagement, as likely to be detrimental to her own prospects. Aldyth was not wont to concern herself greatly about her future, and she had never felt anxious to know her uncle's intentions with respect to his property. A healthy, happy girlhood has no temptation to be greedy after wealth. It seemed to her a fortunate circumstance that her uncle's horse had run away, since Guy's gallant conduct had so softened the old man's feelings as to make him for once renounce a cherished wish.
And so people had said that she would marry Guy! It was not surprising, but it vexed her to think of it. Had Mr. Glynne heard it said? The colour deepened in her cheeks as she asked herself the question. Well, if so, he would now know that it was a mistake. Aldyth was glad to think this; she did not like the idea of his supposing that she would be willing to marry Guy.
Hilda's letter had put Aldyth into excellent spirits. But when she hastened to share the news with her mother and sister, the brightness of her mood was checked. Mrs. Stanton heard it with feelings that were beyond control.
"You can pretend to be pleased at this, Aldyth?" she asked, in a tragic tone.
"There is no pretence about it, mamma. I am unfeignedly glad that Hilda is to marry Guy. I used to doubt if he were good enough for her; but I think better of him now."
"You ought to be ashamed to talk so!" cried her mother, in tones sharp and high. "I have no patience with you. To think that you might have been the mistress of Wyndham! You should bewail your folly instead of rejoicing. One would think you had no sense."
Aldyth stood silent; but it was not without a strong effort that she kept herself from uttering hot, indignant words.
"Now you have crossed his wish, I dare say your uncle will not leave you a penny," continued Mrs. Stanton. "You might, for the sake of us all, have played your cards better than that. I hope you will not infect Gladys with your stupidly romantic notions."
Here the flow of Mrs. Stanton's eloquence ceased abruptly, for Aldyth turned without a word and quitted the room.
"You need not have dragged my name into the discussion, mamma," said Gladys, with scorn in her tones. "You might know that I belong to another order of being, and could never act like Aldyth."
"I hope not, indeed," said Mrs. Stanton, devoutly. "I trust you have more wisdom."
"I don't know about that," said Gladys; "though the Bible does say that 'the children of this world are in their generation wiser than the children of light.' You and I belong this world, mamma. I rather fancy Aldyth must be one of the 'children of light.'"
"What do you mean by speaking in that absurd way? It is not like you, Gladys."
Aldyth had hurried from her mother's presence that she might not be over-mastered by an impulse to relieve her irritated feeling by quick, passionate words. She had a great dread—born of the sacred idea of motherhood she had ever cherished—of being driven to utter bitter, unbecoming words to her mother. It was no uncommon thing for Gladys to address her mother disrespectfully. Angry words sometimes passed between them, though they were good friends as a rule. But if Aldyth ever had a scene with her mother, she knew that the thought of it would leave an indelible stain upon her consciousness, and turn to bitterest irony the hopes of past years.
Mrs. Stanton did not again refer to Guy's engagement; but she treated Aldyth with marked coldness during the next few days. But, as if to atone for her mother's unkindness, Gladys' manner towards her sister was more affectionate than usual. It was she who insisted that Aldyth should accompany them to the Horticultural Gardens on Saturday afternoon. Aldyth consented with some reluctance, for she would have preferred to spend the time with Nelly, as usual. But she could hardly regret that she had come when they reached the gardens, which were looking their loveliest in the first fresh beauty of the spring.
Mr. and Mrs. Stanton seated themselves under the trees to listen to the band, but the girls preferred to move about, admiring the flowers and observing the well-dressed crowd. Some of the ladies were so fair and so charmingly dressed that they seemed to rival the flowers in beauty. Aldyth did not wonder that many eyes were directed towards her sister; she saw no one prettier than Gladys in her gown of palest blue and large white hat. But attractive as was the appearance of Gladys, Aldyth did not suffer total eclipse as she walked by her side. Several persons inquired the name of the tall girl who was Miss Stanton's companion, and decided that though she might not be called beautiful, there was something very interesting about her.
Aldyth went so little into society that she did not expect to meet any one she knew. Gladys stopped now and then to chat with acquaintances, and was careful to introduce her sister; but Aldyth felt herself amidst strangers, till suddenly, as she stood on the outskirt of a little group, a gentleman paused before her, bowing, and saying, in tones of pleasurable surprise—
"Miss Lorraine! This is an unexpected pleasure. Somehow one seems to forget that it is possible for Woodham people to come to London."
It was Captain Walker.
Aldyth greeted him with pleasure, and they entered at once into an enjoyable chat over Woodham affairs. He had not heard of Guy's engagement, and the news seemed greatly to please him. Aldyth was amused at the warmth with which he expressed himself on the subject.
Presently Aldyth introduced him to Gladys, and a little later to her mother, who, deciding at once that the young man had a distinguished appearance, received him most graciously. Captain Walker remained with them as long as they stayed in the gardens. As he saw them into their carriage, Mrs. Stanton informed him that they were always "at home" on Sunday evenings, and begged that he would give them the pleasure of his company on the following evening.
Aldyth had always liked Captain Walker, and it was a pleasure to her to see an old friend who knew all about Woodham and her life there. She was sorry that her mother had invited him for Sunday evening; for ever since her coming to London, she had made it a rule not to join the party gathered in the drawing room on that evening. The Lord's day was sacred and precious to Aldyth. She liked to feel that it was different from every other day. It was no hardship, but a pleasure to her, when at Woodham, to attend both services at the church, and to spend the afternoon with her class in the Sunday school.
But Sunday observances were deemed irksome in her mother's home. In her Australian life, Mrs. Stanton had forsaken the religious habits of earlier days. She had learned to laugh at the old-fashioned Sabbath of her childhood, and she considered that she had sufficiently recognized the sacred character of the day if she attended a short service in the forenoon. That over, the rest of the day might be given to pleasure and self-indulgence.
Aldyth could see little difference between Sundays and other days in her new home, but she could not bear so to waste the day she found so helpful if rightly spent. She had the courage to avow her convictions on the subject, and to make a point of attending an evening service. Mrs. Stanton laughed at her Puritanical notions, but left her free to do as she liked. Nor did she raise any objection when Nelly began to accompany her sister. Mrs. Stanton found her youngest daughter not easy to manage; she was apt to get cross and sulky if anything put her out, so that her absence when visitors were expected was rather a relief than otherwise.
Aldyth thought it probable that she would be urged to remain at home on the following evening, but, rather to her surprise, no notice was taken of the fact that Captain Walker was her friend. She went to church as usual, and afterwards remained quietly in her room till the visitors had departed. Coming down stairs then, she found her mother and Gladys in high good humour.
"It was a pity you took yourself off," Gladys said. "We have had a delightful evening. Captain Walker asked where you were."
"You never told me, Aldyth, that he was nephew to Sir Richard Courtenay," said Mrs. Stanton in a tone of reproof; "for aught I knew he might have been just anybody."
"I had forgotten it, mamma," said Aldyth. "Now you mention it, I remember hearing Guy say that he was related to Sir Richard Courtenay."
"You should remember such things," said Mrs. Stanton, frowning. "Why, Mrs. Gibson tells me it is not at all unlikely that the baronetcy may fall to him."
"Well, I never heard that," said Aldyth.
"Whatever he may be in the future, he is very nice now," said Gladys. "He understands music perfectly. He says my voice reminds him of Antoinette Sterling. He is going to bring his violin with him when next he comes."
It was not long ere the captain repeated his visit. Aldyth was at home, and, much to his satisfaction, she accompanied his violin on the pianoforte. As they played one favourite piece after another, it seemed like a return of the old days at Wyndham. But Aldyth was careful that Gladys should not feel herself excluded from the evening's entertainment. It was found that her voice went charmingly with the violin, and she was persuaded to sing several times. But however the captain might applaud, a quick ear would have detected that Gladys' musical performance lacked the accuracy and finish of Aldyth's.
It was a difference akin to that which distinguished the characters of the two girls. Aldyth had studied music with the thoroughness which marked her pursuit of every kind of knowledge; in her desire after perfection, she had spared herself no pains, shrunk from no sacrifice of time and pleasure, with the result that she had attained a beautiful touch, and played with rare power and expression. Gladys had studied in a superficial, half-hearted fashion, wishful only to acquire a certain effectiveness. It followed in consequence that Captain Walker, although he had likened her voice to that of Antoinette Sterling, was perfectly aware that her singing was very faulty, and her choice of songs poor.
"Captain Walker," said Aldyth, leaning back from the piano to address him when they had just finished a brilliant fantasia, in which he had played his part with great skill, "I wish you would come to Whitechapel some evening and play to my factory girls."
"To Whitechapel!" he repeated, with an air of surprise.
"My dear Aldyth!" exclaimed Mrs. Stanton, in a tone of rebuke. "How can you ask Captain Walker to go to that dreadful place? If you choose to go there yourself, you cannot expect that your friends will like to do so."
"No place can be too dreadful for me to which Miss Lorraine goes," said the captain. "I shall be only too happy to be of any service to her there."
"Oh, thank you," said Aldyth. "It would be so kind of you to come and play to the girls some evening. They are very fond of music."
"I call it a poor compliment to Captain Walker to ask him to play to a lot of low factory girls," said Gladys. "What can they know of good music?"
But Captain Walker did not appear to regard the request as uncomplimentary. He looked pleased, and listened with interest as Aldyth talked to him about the work at Whitechapel. He readily promised to help, and a day was fixed for his visit.
But there was a cloud on Mrs. Stanton's face as she heard the arrangement made, and Aldyth soon learned that she had given annoyance to her mother and sister.
A SUMMONS TO WYNDHAM.
CAPTAIN WALKER came to help to entertain the factory girls—not once only, but several times. He endured with a good grace hearing himself described as "the man with the fiddle," and played his best to a clamorous audience, who talked and squabbled through his finest passages, but showed their appreciation of his performance by applauding vociferously at the close.
Aldyth reflected that she had never given him credit for so much good nature as he now manifested. Fond as he was of high-class music, he could even condescend to play a festive jig for the amusement of the girls. Aldyth felt much gratitude for his willing assistance, and she was far from comprehending how sweet to him were her acknowledgments of the same. It never occurred to her that she was the attraction which drew him so often to Whitechapel. She gave him credit for feeling a genuine interest in the work, for she did not suppose that it was for her sake merely that he took so much trouble.
Yet in truth the motive which actuated Captain Walker was one which has drawn many another man into a temporary performance of good works. He had been charmed with Aldyth whenever he met her at Woodham or Wyndham; but he had shared the common belief that she was destined to marry her cousin, and had steeled his heart to resist the attraction she had for him. But now he knew she was free, there was no resisting the fascination of her society. He could hardly have explained wherein the strength of that fascination lay.
He had been much in society; he had seen many women who were prettier than Aldyth. He admired Gladys Stanton; it amused him to talk and laugh with her; but she never excited within him a painful sense of his own inferiority, nor caused him to approach her with timid, tender reverence. But Aldyth was different from any other girl he had ever known. She had all the freshness and brightness of girlhood, and yet she was a woman in her exquisite sympathy and kindness, her strong self-reliance, her unswerving pursuit of all that was good and true.
He had a new revelation of the gentleness and purity and kindness of her nature when he saw her surrounded by the rough, coarse girls who gathered about her at Whitechapel. Rough as they were, they grew gentle in her presence. A word, a glance even, from her was often enough to check a quarrel. Never had he felt more convinced of the womanly sweetness of Aldyth's character; yet, at the same time, there swept over him a feeling that his love was hopeless.
But the feeling did not last—how should it? Captain Walker's past experience had not prepared him to expect disappointment, so he made the most of his opportunities seeing Aldyth, and they were many; for Mrs. Stanton lavished invitations on the distinguished-looking captain, and seemed to think no party of pleasure complete without him. But her efforts were not crowned with the success she desired. As the hot, sultry days of July set in, and every one was planning a tour or talking of the seaside, Mrs. Stanton began to feel seriously dissatisfied with the result of her endeavours.
In vain she had thrown Gladys as much as possible into the company of Captain Walker. Nothing seemed likely to come of it. Mrs. Stanton began to suspect that it was Aldyth's fault. If only she had not that craze for factory girls! It was too bad of her to drag the captain to that horrid Whitechapel once every week.
One night, as Aldyth was brushing her hair preparatory to going to bed, her mother, who with Gladys had been spending the evening out, came into her room, looking sadly perturbed.
"Ah, you are not in bed," she said, as, all resplendent in satin and lace, she sank into a chair. "I want to have a talk with you about our plans, if you are not too tired."
"I am not very tired," said Aldyth, sitting down and shaking back her hair.
"Have you been to Whitechapel this evening?" asked Mrs. Stanton, abruptly.
"Yes, mamma," said Aldyth.
"And Captain Walker with you?"
Something in her mother's tones brought the colour into Aldyth's face.
"He was there," she replied, slowly, "and he kindly saw me home."
"Why did he not come in?" asked Mrs. Stanton.
"Really, I suppose, because I never thought of asking him," said Aldyth.
An expression of impatience escaped her mother's lips.
"I cannot understand you, Aldyth. I should have thought you would have wished to help and not hinder your sister's happiness. Have you not noticed how often Captain Walker comes here? And of course it is to see Gladys. You must have observed it."
"He comes here a great deal, certainly," said Aldyth, with some embarrassment.
A few days earlier she could have accepted her mother's explanation of the motive of the captain's frequent visits; but since then one little thing and another had occurred to put her on her guard, and to-night he had let fall a word which had forced her to receive a wholly unwelcome idea.
Mrs. Stanton was quick to see her embarrassment. "Surely you are not thinking of him for yourself, Aldyth?" she said, in a cold, suspicious tone.
"Mamma!" said Aldyth, flushing crimson.
"Oh, I suppose you are shocked at my outspokenness; but what is the use of mincing matters? I should like to know what you do mean, that I may act accordingly."
"I have no such meaning as you impute to me, mamma," said Aldyth, proudly.
"Well, then, I will be quite frank with you," said Mrs. Stanton. "I can see that Captain Walker greatly admires Gladys, and I should fail in my duty as a mother if I did not do all in my power to secure her a happy marriage."
"But can you be sure that it would prove a happy marriage?" Aldyth ventured to ask. "It seems to me that those only are true marriages which are arranged by Providence. If we girls are to marry, God will bring it about in His own good way. I do not believe in planning and scheming."
"Then it is because you are foolish and inexperienced," said Mrs. Stanton, sharply. "I have no patience with your ridiculous, old-maidish notions, Aldyth. Few girls would marry well if their mothers did not take some trouble on their behalf. If you like to throw away your own chances, you need not interfere with those of Gladys."
"I have no wish to do so," said Aldyth.
"Forgive me if I seem cross," said Mrs. Stanton in a gentler tone. "You do not know how worried I am. It is of the utmost importance to us that Gladys should marry well, and, soon too. The fact is, she is a great expense, and we are not nearly so well off as we appear. Mr. Stanton has had great losses in his business. Sometimes I fear we shall come utterly to grief. So, you see, Gladys must make a good marriage."
Aldyth was silent for a few moments. She pitied her mother as she noted her weary, harassed look. But the plotting and planning, the keeping up of pretences in which her mother trusted, seemed to her hateful.
"Would it not be better to reduce your expenses at once?" she suggested presently. "We should do very well in a smaller house and with fewer servants."
"Such a thing is out of the question," said Mrs. Stanton, hastily. "We must keep up appearances, at any cost, till Gladys is married. But I want you to understand how critical the position of things is; I want you to promise me that you will not stand in your sister's way."
"Mamma! As if I should!" said Aldyth, with some indignation.
"Well, then, I will say what I came to say," continued her mother. "We are thinking of going to Eastbourne at the end of the month. Captain Walker talks of going there too; but I thought, perhaps, you would rather return to Woodham for a few weeks. Your friends would be delighted to see you, and there is no air like one's native air. Besides, there it your uncle to be considered."
Aldyth did not at once reply. The idea of going to Woodham was welcome; but the way in which it was suggested gave her pain. It was too evident that her mother wished to be rid of her.
"Yes, I should like to go to Woodham, if you would rather not have me at Eastbourne," she said at last.
"My dear love! Of course we should like to have you with us. I was only thinking what would be best for you," said Mrs. Stanton, rising, and coming to kiss Aldyth and stroke her hair.
But Aldyth was beginning to know the value of her mother's graceful caresses.
"You might join us afterwards at Eastbourne," Mrs. Stanton said, still playing with Aldyth's hair; "but I think it would be well for you to go to Woodham first. Why should you not go at once? You look as if you needed a change. You are not used to London; the hot weather is trying you. Write to your aunt to-morrow, and say that you will come."
"I can scarcely start at a moment's notice," said Aldyth, in a voice unusually high and hard. "There are arrangements to be made at Whitechapel; you must please allow me time to settle things a little."
"Certainly, love, arrange it as you will," said her mother, dropping a light kiss on her brow. "I am only anxious for your welfare. Good-night." And she glided away, leaving Aldyth smitten with a tense of intolerable pain.
But Aldyth was not to have time for the arrangements she desired to make. Had Mrs. Stanton waited a few hours, she would have seen her end accomplished without the aid of artifice. Early on the following day a telegram was brought to Aldyth. The sender was Miss Lorraine, and the brief message ran thus:
"Your uncle seriously ill. Come at once."
In less than an hour, Aldyth was on her way to Woodham. It was a hot journey, and the heat of the day was at its height as she came into the well-known little station. Who was that standing on the platform? Her heart beat more quickly as she saw John Glynne. He came forward to help her from the carriage.
"How are you, Miss Lorraine?" he said, and there seemed such kindness in his warm, firm hand-clasp. "Your aunt has allowed me to have the pleasure of meeting you, as your cousin could not be spared. The carriage is waiting to take you to Wyndham. Have you any luggage?"
"Only a small portmanteau," said Aldyth. "How is my uncle? The telegram, of course, gave no particulars."
"He is very ill, I grieve to tell you," said John Glynne. "He was seized with apoplexy when he was dressing this morning. Of course at his age there can, I fear, be little hope for his recovery."
"I suppose not," said Aldyth, tremulously. "I thought him altered the last time I saw him."
"And when was that?" asked Mr. Glynne.
"Oh, some months back, when he came to London," said Aldyth, off her guard.
But seeing he looked surprised, she recollected herself, and said, hastily: "But I should not have mentioned it. I forgot that uncle begged me to tell no one that he had been to London. It was such an event in his life to leave home for a day that he seemed ashamed that any one should know of it. It was only by chance it came to my knowledge."
"Really!" said John, smiling. "Well, the secret is safe with me."
He secured her portmanteau, accompanied her to the chaise, and saw her seated beside old John. Then they shook hands once more.
"I shall see you again," he said. "You will stay some little while now you are here?"
"Oh yes," Aldyth said, smiling brightly on him.
He had said little, but his manner had told her how glad he was to see her. And despite the sad occasion of her coming, Aldyth was glad to find herself at Woodham.
After the noise and stir of London, the repose of the country was delightful. The old High Street had the same familiar aspect. There was Mrs. Bland in the bow-window, smiling and nodding. Miss Rudkin's high cap and sausage-like curls appeared above the wire blind on the opposite side of road.
And now they had turned from the town, and were on the long straight road to Wyndham. The scent of hay was wafted across the hedges; fields of mellowing corn, with poppies glowing here and there, bowed before the breeze; cattle rested beneath the trees, or cooled themselves in the ponds; all the broad, flat landscape seemed to breathe peace, And with a keen sense of contrast, Aldyth recalled to mind the dim, close streets of Whitechapel.
After she had gathered all that old John could tell her of her uncle's illness, she paid little heed to his garrulous repetition of the facts. She gazed lovingly on every familiar scene, and let the restful beauty of the day enter into her heart.
As they drove up to the Hall, Guy appeared on the steps to welcome her. He looked pale and excited, and he talked rapidly, though in subdued tones, as he led her into the house.
"He is no better," he said; "unconscious most of the time, though sometimes he seems to understand what we say. He keeps talking, but so incoherently it is difficult to understand him. But he has asked for you several times; he utters your name distinctly. No, you must not go up stairs till you have taken something. There is luncheon for you in the dining room. What will you have? Coffee? Wine? You shall have what you like, but you must take something."
"Poor uncle!" said Aldyth, sitting down and allowing Guy to wait on her. "Does he suffer much, do you think?"
"The doctor says not," Guy replied. "It is sad to see the poor old man lie in such a state; but still at his great age, it is not to be expected that he can recover. Eighty-one! Who would wish to live longer than that?"
Aldyth did not linger long below. It was with a feeling of awe that was almost dread she entered the darkened room where the old man lay. She had never been brought into close contact with death, and she felt instinctively that this was the chamber of death.
Miss Lorraine, quiet and watchful, sat at one side of the bed, the old housekeeper at the other. Between them lay the stricken man, his face strangely altered, the pupils of the eyes contracted, the expression one of deep distress, whilst he babbled inarticulately, and his hands restlessly roamed over the coverlid.
"Do not be frightened, dear," said her aunt, coming to meet Aldyth, and leading her to the bedside. "I am glad you have come, for he has mentioned you several times. There—'Aldyth,' he said. Did you not hear it?"
But Aldyth, unaccustomed to illness, could make nothing of his incoherent utterances.
"Aldyth," he said.
"Bring Aldyth," repeated Miss Lorraine. "Speak to him, dear; let him know you are here."
"Uncle," said Aldyth, bending down to him and speaking very clearly; "uncle, I am here. Do you understand? It's Aldyth."
"Ay, Aldyth," he murmured; "Aldyth and Guy. Bring Aldyth; I want her."
"I am here, uncle," Aldyth said again. "Is there anything you wish to say to me?"
"Ay, I want Aldyth," he murmured. "I want to explain—Aldyth and Guy—Guy and Aldyth—the two children are always together. Tell her—" Again he sank into confused babblings. Presently his voice was raised again, and even Aldyth could distinguish the words, "Bring Aldyth—I want her."
"Dear uncle, I am here," she said, and took hold of his hand. His fingers closed convulsively over hers.
"Don't leave me," he said, and it seemed that for the moment he recognized her. He made an eager movement, half raising himself in the bed, and began to talk rapidly and inarticulately. He appeared trying to tell her something, but scarce a word could Aldyth understand.
"There's something on his mind, if only he could make you understand," the housekeeper said. "There! 'My will,' he said—I heard the words quite plain."
"I did not hear it," said Guy, who had come into the room, and stood near Aldyth.
"You may fancy he says anything," observed Miss Lorraine.
"There was no mistake about that," said the housekeeper, with an air of superior sagacity. "Now he's talking about the farm—don't you hear?"
At that moment, the prolonged howl of a dog rose from beneath the windows, startling and affrighting the worthy old soul.
"You know what that means?" she whispered. "It's a sure sign. Not but what I knew before. There was a robin this morning singing close to the front door, and I knew that boded ill. Ah, me! The poor old master! But we must all go when our time comes."
Hour after hour passed wearily by, and brought no change but increased weakness and restlessness and more imperfect articulation. Life was slowly ebbing. The doctor paid his last visit and went away, with no expectation of seeing his patient again in life.
All night the laboured breathing, the sad struggle, so pitiful to witness, went on. Guy, unable to bear the scene, went away ere the end came; but Aldyth was not to be persuaded to quit her place beside her uncle. All night she and her aunt watched him, and her hand held the cold, heavy hand of the dying man till life had fled.
Then at last she broke down and wept from mingled sensations of relief and pain. Miss Lorraine had stood by too many deathbeds to be thrilled and unnerved as Aldyth was. She soothed the girl, and put her tenderly to bed.
Aldyth, oppressed by a sense of the gloom and mystery of death, presently sobbed herself to sleep, without giving a thought to any consequences her uncle's death might have for her. The hopes and fears that were alternating in Guy's mind, and causing him much inward agitation, lay quite outside her consciousness.
THE MISTRESS OF WYNDHAM.
"YOU do not surely mean that nothing is left to Guy?" said Miss Lorraine, in a troubled tone.
Some hours had passed since the squire breathed his last, and she was with Mr. Ralph Greenwood in the old-fashioned library. The blinds were down, and even the outside venetians closed, shutting out the July sunshine and making twilight in the room.
The lawyer, his pince-nez on his nose, sat before the squire's old bureau, turning over some papers in a quick, business-like manner.
"By no means," he said, briskly. "No, no, it is not so bad as that. Guy has five thousand pounds and the farm at Wood Corner. Not a bad provision for a young man, but a poor equivalent for the heirship."
"When was this will made?" asked Miss Lorraine.
"At the beginning of the year. Guy had had a disagreement with his uncle. It was a great mistake, as I told him at the time. I did my best to soften Mr. Lorraine's feelings. I all but refused to make the will; but if I had done so, he would have sent for some one else. What a pity it is young people are so unpractical! Why could not those two have married now, as every one expected of them?"
"But uncle seemed to have got over that annoyance," said Miss Lorraine. "He received Hilda Bland kindly, and gave his consent to the engagement. I thought Guy was quite reinstated in his favour."
"It seemed so," said Mr. Greenwood. "I am sure I quite hoped to have the pleasure of setting this all right some day. I told the squire so when he signed the will; but you know the kind of man he was—a wee bit obstinate, don't you think? Nothing harder for him than to retract. It seems Guy was able to persuade himself, from something his uncle let fall, that the matter had been set right; but I know nothing of it. I suppose he delayed sending for me. There is nothing more common than for men to put off business connected with their wills. We lawyers are constantly meeting with such instances."
"Then you think he intended to make another will?" suggested Miss Lorraine.
The lawyer shrugged his shoulders. "He never confided his intention to me," he said; "but it seems to me that after the brave way in which Guy saved his life—and he was evidently touched by it—he should have cherished some such intention. However, he did not do it; so we must make the best of things as they are. I am afraid it will be a sore disappointment to Guy."
"He will feel it, no doubt," said Miss Lorraine; "and, for one, I am sorry that things were not equally divided. Does all the rest come to Aldyth?"
"Well, not absolutely," said Mr. Greenwood. "Five hundred pounds go to Miss Tabitha Rudkin, and you, Miss Lorraine, receive the same sum. Then there are several small legacies and bequests to local charities. But Miss Aldyth has Wyndham and the bulk of the property. She will be a rich young lady when all is told."
"I never expected he would leave me a halfpenny," said Miss Lorraine, coolly; "and I cannot say I am glad Aldyth should be so rich. It will hardly increase her happiness."
"That's as it may be," said Mr. Greenwood. "I don't myself think it well to make girls too wealthy; there is danger of their fortunes falling into unworthy hands. But Mr. Lorraine was careful to take certain precautions. The man who marries Miss Aldyth will find that he has no control over his wife's fortune, and will touch none of it after her death, supposing he should survive her, unless he consent to take the name of Lorraine."
"Ah!" said Miss Lorraine, expressively. "That was like uncle, to try to order things as he would, even after his death. Well, Aldyth is not likely to be married at present—perhaps she never will be."
"And meanwhile," said the lawyer, "she is the mistress of Wyndham—not an unenviable position."