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"I never thought that you were." The words slipped from Aldyth almost unawares. "But what a pity," she added quickly, "you did not find this out before; it would have spared Hilda so much suffering."
"It was a pity," he said gravely; "but you are hardly the one to reproach me, Aldyth, since it was mainly your fault."
"My fault! What do you mean?" she demanded.
"You know of whom I first thought," he said, insinuatingly; "I hoped I had overcome that feeling. I fancied I could love Hilda, but I found it was a mistake."
"Do not speak of that, if you please, Guy!" cried Aldyth, her eyes flashing indignation on him. "I will not hear such words. I cannot trust myself to say what I think of your conduct, it seems to me so unworthy a man, not to say a gentleman."
She turned from him in anger as Miss Lorraine appeared at the drawing room window, beckoning to them to come in. Aldyth had to fly to her room to cool her burning cheeks and recover self-possession ere she took her place at the tea-table.
"To think that men are like that!" she said to herself; with a feeling of general distrust. "And Hilda, I have not a doubt, is at this moment breaking her heart for his sake. Poor girl, how I pity her! And yet I can easily see that this sorrow may be a blessing in disguise."
Aldyth scarcely spoke to Guy during the remainder of his visit, but Miss Lorraine continued to pet him, and his self-complacency showed no reduction.
A STRICKEN HEROINE AND A SHAMELESS SUITOR.
"DO leave me to myself, Kitty; it is the only kindness you can do me now."
Hilda Bland was the speaker, and as she spoke, she turned her head on the pillow, so that her sister could see no more of her than a mass of loosened, disordered hair. Kitty stood by the bed holding a tray on which was set out a meal which might have tempted the most fastidious appetite. But Hilda would not so much as look at the dainty morsel of chicken, and Kitty's expression was a curious combination of pity and impatience.
"Really, Hilda, I cannot see any sense in starving yourself; you will not improve matters by falling ill."
"If I could only be ill enough," sighed Hilda; "if I could only die!"
"If you absolutely abstain from food, you will die," said Kitty, in a matter-of-fact tone; "but I should call it cowardly to put the extinguisher on yourself in that fashion, and it would be cruel to mother."
"It is easy for you to talk," murmured Hilda; "you have had no trouble; you do not know what it is to be deceived by one whom you loved and trusted. I feel that all happiness is over for me, and I can only drag out a hopeless, miserable existence. Do you wonder that I am sick of life?"
"Perhaps not, dear," said Kitty, gently. "You have been very badly treated, no doubt; but Guy has acted so mean a part that if I were you, I would pluck up heart and show that I did not think him worth caring about. There are many things in life to live for still."
"I am weary of them all," said Hilda. "'We are weary, my heart and I,' I keep thinking of those lines. Everything has become hateful to me. I only want to lie still and be let alone. I can never bear to walk out in Woodham again."
"You feel so now, but the feeling will pass," said Kitty. "If only you would rouse yourself and face your trouble bravely, it would be so much better. I know it is a trouble, but many another girl has had such a disappointment, and there are worse troubles."
"It is easy to say so," said Hilda, bitterly; "but you know nothing about it. You have never loved as I have."
"And I devoutly hope I never shall," Kitty could not help saying; "but if such trouble came to me, I think I should do my best to bear it bravely. It is God who sends us trouble, and He means it to work our good."
"I don't see that there can be any good in my trouble," said Hilda, "and I do not believe God sent it. It is Guy who has deceived me and made me wretched."
"Nothing can happen to us apart from the will of God," said Kitty, "and He will help us to bear our sorrows if we put our trust in Him. When trouble comes to me, as I know it must some day, I hope I may be able to resign myself to His will, and learn the lesson He means it to teach me."
It was rarely Kitty spoke thus seriously, and her doing so, showed how anxious she was to help her sister. No one gave Kitty credit for much thoughtfulness; but, as is the case with many a lively girl, the hidden currents of her life were deeper than her friends supposed. It was not by chance that she was always cheerful, good-tempered, and unselfish. At the root of her character lay a simple but strong religious faith, and she had never forgotten the resolve made at the time of her father's death, that she would be good, and do all in her power to cheer and help her mother.
But Hilda was not in a mood to profit by her sister's words.
"I dare say you think so," she said, impatiently; "but wait till your turn comes—though I am sure I hope you may never know such trouble as mine. Do take that tray away, Kitty; it is impossible for me to eat."
So Kitty went away, feeling that she had wasted words, and that probably the best thing for Hilda at present was to be left alone.
But, notwithstanding this reflection, scarce half an hour had passed when she again appeared in her sister's room.
"Aldyth is down stairs," she said. "She is so sorry, Hilda; she feels as we all do. Would you like to see her?"
"Oh no!" cried Hilda, excitedly. "The last person I should wish to see! I do not say she is to blame; but it is her having Wyndham which has caused all my misery."
"Really!" exclaimed Kitty, finding her sister incomprehensible. "I should rather think it was Guy being what he is. It seems to me well that you have found out in time, that he is one person in prosperity and another in adversity."
With that Kitty left her sister and descended to the drawing room, where Aldyth sat talking with Mrs. Bland. The mother's kindly face wore a look of care, but she spoke cheerfully.
"Poor child!" she said. "She feels it sorely now, but I thankful it is no worse. If she had married him under the impression he was a hero, and then found out, when it was too late, that he was of common clay, it would have been a far greater misfortune. I fear her love would not have borne that strain, and it is a terrible thing for a woman to find herself bound to a man whom she can neither love nor respect.
"I always felt they were not suited to each other. I fancy Guy did not know his own mind; it was a caprice, which opposition strengthened. I think few men are capable of making right choice of a wife before they are twenty-five. But it is hard that poor Hilda should have to suffer for his lack of discretion."
"She will not see you, Aldyth," Kitty said; "there is no rousing her anyhow."
"I am afraid she finds a kind of romantic satisfaction in cherishing and even exaggerating her unhappiness," said Mrs. Bland. "That is the way with you young things when trouble comes to you; you like to think that nothing can ever be the same again; you do not want to be comforted."
"Now, mother, you have never seen me in trouble," said Kitty, lightly; "you do not know how wise I should be."
"No, indeed, child," replied Mrs. Bland, with a tender glance at her eldest girl. "God grant I never may!"
"The best thing for Hilda would be a change," she added, turning to Aldyth. "I had a letter from my cousin, Mrs. Lancaster, a fortnight ago, asking me to let my girls go with her and her daughter for a tour in Brittany. Hilda did not care about it, so we refused the invitation; but I think perhaps she might be persuaded to go now, and as my cousin does not start till next week, I have written to ask if she is still willing to take the girls."
"Oh, that would surely be good for Hilda," said Aldyth. "She has never been abroad. Oh, I hope you will be able to arrange it."
"I should not wonder if Hilda positively refuses to go," said Kitty.
But her sister proved in this instance more tractable than Kitty expected. Life was strong in her after all; and, since it became every day more clear that she was not going to die: absence from Woodham seemed the only condition under which life could be endured. Hilda's pride was, perhaps, as deeply wounded as her affections. She dreaded to meet the observant, perhaps pitying, glances of her acquaintances; she hated the thought of the talk concerning her broken engagement that must be going on in Woodham.
But each wound was deep, and the disappointment was none the less keen that she had perhaps been more in love with love than with Guy Lorraine. She had cherished her love, she had brooded over it, she had fed it with all food of the imagination which she could draw from poet or romance writer. And the romantic love thus fostered was not the strong, clear-sighted love which discerns and comprehends every fact relating to the one beloved. The true Guy, Hilda had never known. The greater on this account was the pain she suffered when her lover began to treat her with carelessness and indifference; the more crushing the blow dealt by the coolly-written letter in which he informed her that he had discovered that he had "mistaken his feelings" when he thought that he loved her, but, was now convinced that they were "not, in the least suited to each other."
As she had brooded over her love, Hilda now brooded over her sorrow; nursing it, magnifying it, letting her fancy play over it, and desiring, not comfort, but due appreciation of the greatness of her misery.
Aldyth was glad when she knew that Kitty and Hilda had started to join the Lancasters in London. She believed that the thorough change and diversion afforded by a foreign tour must help Hilda to recover her spirits.
Aldyth felt deeply for Hilda, whose state of mind she understood perhaps better than Kitty did, for she had seen all along how completely Hilda had deceived herself with regard to the character of Guy Lorraine. It annoyed Aldyth to see how utterly Guy ignored that he had anything to be ashamed of in his treatment of Hilda Bland. He rather seemed to pride himself on the way in which he had acted. It commended itself to his sense of prudence; and he was not the only person at Woodham who regarded his action thus favourably, nor was Clara Dawtrey the only one who derived satisfaction from the thought of Hilda Bland's mortification. But Aldyth could only explain the irreproachable air with which Guy bore himself by the assumption that he was so constituted as to be incapable of certain thoughts and feelings which to her appeared natural and essential. She was destined to receive further proof of this theory ere long.
Aldyth comforted herself with the reflection that it was probably a happy thing for Hilda that the engagement had come to an end. Her sensitive, emotional nature must have suffered constant pain in daily association with one whose ideas were so matter-of-fact, and whose perceptions were obtuse to all that did not immediately concern himself. Aldyth's own feelings towards her cousin at this time were strangely mingled. In her disgust at his conduct towards Hilda, she had shrunk from him, and but for Miss Lorraine's efforts and Guy's persistence in trying to ingratiate himself with her, the reconciliation just effected might have been ruptured as soon as made.
But there was a motive which urged Aldyth to avoid another estrangement from her cousin. Although she was in no way to blame for the fact, she could never forget that her gain had been Guy's loss. It was not a gain that had brought her increased satisfaction; but she knew that his loss had caused Guy much chagrin, and that many persons pitied him on account of it. She was painfully conscious of this whenever she saw him, and it made her tolerant of his society and anxious to do all in her power to make amends to him for his loss.
Guy understood his cousin sufficiently well to divine that this would be her feeling; but whilst Aldyth was racking her brain to devise delicate and practicable modes of making up to him in some degree for what he had lost, he was looking forward to a means of restitution which never crossed her mind. People, seeing the cousins together again and apparently on the old terms, were quick to say that it was plain why Hilda Bland had been jilted. Guy did not trouble himself about what people might say; but to Aldyth, the idea was so impossible that she never conceived that others might entertain it.
She persuaded Guy to accept as a gift from her the horse which he had been wont to ride when he lived at Wyndham, she consulted him on various matters connected with the estate, and allowed him to help her; but at the same time, she treated him with the frankness and occasional severity of an elder sister, though in truth she was his junior. And there was nothing in her manner that could flatter his vanity or encourage the hope he was cherishing.
But the self-esteem of some persons requires little support, and the event which one will regard as impossible will strike another as highly probable. Guy had no idea that the purpose he had formed involved an astounding surprise for Aldyth, and perhaps she should have been better prepared for it than she was.
One warm afternoon Aldyth was in the library at Wyndham, worrying herself over some business details submitted to her by her bailiff, which she could not understand. Her head ached, the heat was stupefying, and her perplexity only increased the longer she studied the account. It was with a sense of relief that she heard Guy's step in the hall, and called him to her. There was a welcome in her glance ere she said brightly—
"Oh, I am glad to see you. Do come and tell me what this man means me to understand by this complicated document."
"Willingly, if I can," said Guy, as he drew a chair to her side. The matter was simple enough to him. He had been accustomed to look after his uncle's business affairs, and in a few minutes he had explained everything Aldyth found puzzling, and also given her a little advice with regard to the business under consideration.
"Tomlinson is a good fellow," he said; "but you must not let him have everything his own way. An agent should not have too much power."
"But how can I help it?" asked Aldyth. "He understands these things, and I do not."
"That's it," said Guy, seizing his opportunity. "You need some one by your side who knows how to manage an estate. Dear Aldyth, I wish you would let me help you."
"You do help me, Guy," she said, puzzled by his manner, but yet far from seeing his drift; "you are very good to help me as you do."
"Ah, but I could be so much more to you, if you would let me," he said, and now his voice took a tender tone which roused her to a sense of danger; "if only you would let share all your burdens and cares; if you would let things be as uncle always meant them to be."
Considering the circumstances of the case, Guy certainly expressed himself with much cleverness, and showed what imaginative language even commonplace minds can command under sufficient stimulus. But the effect of his words was not such as he desired.
Aldyth started up, a flush of anger on her cheek. "Guy, I cannot think what you mean by speaking in such a way!"
"Oh yes, you must know," he said. "I told you before that I loved you." He paused, checked by the scorn he read in her glance.
"I should think that would be a reason for not saying it again," she replied in cold, clear tones, which had an edge of contempt. "If I remember rightly, I made you aware then how I regarded your professions, and you cannot surely imagine that, after all that has happened, and Hilda Bland being my friend, I should regard them otherwise now, especially as—excuse me, Guy, the motive is so evident."
Guy looked down, and his face flushed, but he said doggedly—
"You may say what you like, but I think you owe something to me. You forget that what has happened makes a great difference to me."
"No, I do not forget it," said Aldyth, warmly; "I cannot forget it; I am oppressed by the knowledge that it is so. I would set matters right between us at once, if I knew how."
"There is but one way," he said.
"Then it is a way I shall never take!" she said, her eyes flashing on him. "I would not set a wrong right by committing a greater wrong. I would give you Wyndham to-morrow rather than do that."
"But that would be impossible," he said. "I could not in honour accept such a gift from you."
"I should not have thought considerations of honour would have troubled you, Guy," said Aldyth, unable to resist the retort.
But she was ashamed of it when it had passed her lips, and feeling that there was danger in her growing excitement, she turned to quit the room. Ere she could reach the door, it was opened by a servant, evidently looking for her. On the salver in his hand lay a telegram.
"For you, Miss Lorraine," he said. "A man has ridden from Woodham with it."
Aldyth passed into the hall as she tore the envelope open. The telegram was from Eastbourne, and the sender was Gladys. "We are in dreadful trouble; come to us," was all it said.
LOSSES AND GAINS.
IT was shocking and terrible news Mrs. Stanton had received by telegram from Melbourne earlier in that day. The firm of Stanton Bros. had come to utter bankruptcy, such as reduced to poverty every one connected with the firm, and brought unlooked-for destitution upon many an innocent sufferer. But this was not the whole of the calamity.
The health-giving influences of the voyage had not so invigorated Mr. Stanton that he could sustain the shock of misfortune that awaited him on his arrival at Melbourne. He went to his office almost immediately on landing, and there learned from his brother the critical state of affairs. He had listened calmly, had made full inquiries, and satisfied himself that it was impossible to avoid hopeless, irretrievable failure. Then, without showing any marked signs of agitation, he had returned to his hotel; but on the threshold, his step faltered, a strange spasm passed over his face, and he fell heavily to the ground. It was the last fatal stroke of paralysis. Within three hours he was dead.
But as yet his wife and children knew no particulars, only the bare, cruel facts, conveyed with curt emphasis by the telegram. As they began to recover from the first stunning effect of the blow, their one wish was for Aldyth's presence. The trouble would be less bewildering, less overwhelming, if she were there. Comfort of some kind Aldyth would surely bring.
"Send for Aldyth," Mrs. Stanton whispered to Gladys, in one of the intervals between her fits of hysterical weeping; and Gladys lost no time in obeying.
The girls were very anxious for the coming of their sister, mid made many calculations as to how soon she could arrive, without attaining certainty that she could get to Eastbourne that day.
But the last train, just before midnight, brought Aldyth.
Gladys, watching at the window of their sitting room, saw the cab drive up to the door, and hurried down to meet her. Mrs. Stanton had retired to rest, and, worn out with weeping, was already asleep; Nelly was sitting beside her, so Gladys alone welcomed Aldyth. Gladys, with pale face, pink eyelids, and a weary, anxious expression, looked wholly different from the bright, radiant girl from whom Aldyth had parted a few weeks earlier. Sorrow seems the more pathetic when its shadow falls on one so young and gay.
"Oh, Aldyth, I am glad you have come," she said, clasping her sister in her arms. "Things will seem better now. But is it not dreadful?"
"You forget I do not know what the trouble is," said Aldyth, who had been full of wonder concerning it as she journeyed to Eastbourne.
"Poor papa is dead," said Gladys, "and we are beggars." The two facts were apparently of equal importance to Gladys; but Aldyth only heeded the former.
She was painfully startled: She had always been conscious of the failing appearance of the worn, nervous man, but she was not prepared to hear so soon of his decease, and it struck her as very sad that he should die far away from his wife and children.
"Oh, Gladys!" she said. "I am grieved for you. Poor mamma! What will she do? How was it?"
"Paralysis, the telegram says," replied Gladys; "but we know hardly anything. That was what mamma had feared. Here is the telegram."
And she spread it open before Aldyth, who read—
"Stanton Bros., bankrupt. Robert Stanton died yesterday, shock producing paralysis."
"Oh, how terrible!" said Aldyth. "How terrible the news seems, coming in these few cold words! What a shock for mamma! How did she bear it?"
"She almost fainted, and then she went into hysterics," said Gladys, with unconscious dryness; "but she is quieter now. Mamma says that things have been going wrong in the business for some time, and that papa said that if it came to bankruptcy, we must lose everything. She says she believes we have not a penny."
"Do not let that trouble you," said Aldyth, kindly; "your greatest loss can never be made up to you, but as far as the money goes, I have enough for us all. Oh, I am glad now that uncle made me rich."
And at that moment, Aldyth experienced the utmost satisfaction her fortune had brought her.
"I should have thought you would have been glad before this," said Gladys, "and you won't want a lot of poor relatives hanging on you."
"I should be much poorer if I had not the relatives," said Aldyth. "Where is Nelly?"
"She is with mamma; but I will go and relieve her now. You are to share her room. She has been longing for you to come."
Already Gladys's look had brightened, and she walked away with her usual quick, light step. She was not one to droop long under trouble. Like a bent flower, she could lift her head at the first break in the storm.
In a few minutes Nelly was in her sister's arms. The child's face looked worn and aged; the eyes were unnaturally bright, but showed no signs of weeping. At Aldyth's tender greeting, however, her composure gave way. She broke into heavy sobs as she clung to her sister.
"Oh, Aldyth, is it not dreadful? Poor papa!"
"Yes, dear, it is very sad," Aldyth said.
"I never thought—I never expected such a thing," sobbed Nelly. "Of course, I knew he was not well; but he had been out of sorts a long time, and mamma said the voyage would set him up. It is so sad that he should die away from us all. Aldyth, he should not have been allowed to go back alone."
Aldyth did not at once reply.
"Perhaps not," she said, presently; "but, Nelly, it is vain to think of that now."
"That is what makes it so dreadful!" cried Nelly. "Aldyth, I feel now that I never loved papa as I should. He was just papa, who found the money and saw we had everything we wanted. I took it all as a right, and never was a bit grateful. Do you know, one Saturday after you had gone to Woodham, he came in very tired, when mamma and Gladys were out, and I fetched his slippers and got some tea for him, just as you used to do. He seemed so surprised and pleased. He said, 'Why, Nelly, you are getting as thoughtful as Aldyth.' I felt reproached as he said it, though he did not mean it as a reproach."
"But you are thankful now, are you not, dear, that you did him that little service?" Aldyth said.
"Oh, but it was only that once!" replied Nelly, with a fresh burst of weeping. "He went away so soon after that there was not another opportunity. But I might have served him often, and now it is too late. He is gone from me—my father—and I did not love and value him whilst I had him!"
Aldyth did not attempt to check her tears. She felt that words could not soothe such grief as this. The thought that she had failed in her duty towards her father would long sting poor Nelly's heart; but the pain might be salutary; from it might spring the "peaceable fruit" of love and care for others.
After a pause, Aldyth said—
"Nelly, I am reminded of some words I read a while ago. I think they were Richter's, and to this effect, that the most beautiful wreath we can lay on the grave of our dead is woven of good deeds done to others. We should remember that now. We cannot undo the past; we cannot recall the lost opportunity or the careless word; but we can endeavour to show all the love and kindness in our power to those who still remain with us."
"I will try to be good," faltered Nelly; "but I have such a temper, and mamma and Gladys irritate me so."
"It is never easy to conquer oneself," said Aldyth; "but the victory is worth all the pains. And we have not to fight alone. There is One who will help us, if we put our trust in Him."
They went to their room, and Aldyth helped Nelly, who was quite worn out with the excitements of the day, to undress, and saw her into bed, where she fell asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. Aldyth, too, was tired; but after she had extinguished the light she knelt long in the darkness ere she lay down to rest.
When Aldyth woke the next morning, she felt as if Woodham, Wyndham, the events of yesterday, were all removed to a great distance. The things which a few hours before had been of interest to her now seemed of no importance. Her mind was filled with the thought of her mother's great sorrow, and how she might best help and comfort her.
As soon as she knew that her mother was awake, she went to her room, and was received with a demonstrative affection for which she was hardly prepared.
"Thank God you are come, darling!" said Mrs. Stanton, embracing her. "I want you now, my eldest daughter! I have no one to lean on but you. My husband, my home, everything is taken from me."
And she sank back on her pillow sobbing.
"Mother, darling," cried Aldyth, bending over her with a tenderness almost maternal in her manner—it was as if the mother and child had changed places. "Mother, darling, do not cry so; I will take care of you. I have a home, you know; and that and everything I have is yours. Try to bear up for the sake of your children, who love you and will do all in their power to make you happy."
"Thank you, my darling child," murmured Mrs. Stanton, "You are so good." Then, with a fresh flow of tears—"But it is dreadful to lose my husband so—without a word; and I cannot even look upon his lifeless form. It is so hard."
Aldyth could not speak; it was all she could do to keep from weeping herself, but she kissed her mother and laid her cheek against hers, and the mute caresses were more soothing than words.
Later in the day, Cecil arrived from London, prepared to stay over Sunday with his mother and sisters. He appeared shocked by the news, but it was the pecuniary loss that most affected his spirits, as Aldyth could not but perceive. It touched her to think how slight a hold Robert Stanton had had on the hearts of his children. With whom did the fault lie? Had he lived too absorbed in business to find time for the culture of family affections, or did the infirmity of his extreme shyness and reserve raise a barrier even between him and his children? Aldyth was inclined to explain it by the latter supposition, for the little she had seen of her stepfather led her to credit him with a good heart, keenly responsive to kindness, but incapable, from physical hindrances, of giving ready expression to feeling.
Cecil's mind was in a state of indignant resistance to the calamity that had overtaken them. He was glad to express himself freely when he got an opportunity of talking to Aldyth alone.
"It is all my uncle's fault, I know," he said; "now, you see, when we get particulars, if it does not come out that the failure is entirely owing to some rash speculation my uncle has plunged into. My father let him have things too much his own way. It was a great mistake. It is all very well to talk about affliction, but this is my uncle's doing, and I mean to let him know what I think of his conduct."
"Will that be of any good?" asked Aldyth, gently. "I suppose he and his family are also reduced to poverty. He must deplore his action now as much as you do."
"Whether it is of any good or not, I mean to do it for my own satisfaction," replied Cecil. "It is no joke to have the whole of your income swept away. What am I to do? What is to become of mamma and the girls?"
"Oh, do not let that trouble you," said Aldyth. "Mamma and Gladys are coming with me to Wyndham—there is plenty of room for them there; indeed, I was in despair at the thought that I might have to live in that great place alone. Nelly will go back to school for the present; and you, I hope, will remain in your lodgings near the hospital."
"What, at your expense?" asked Cecil, flushing.
"No, at mamma's, if you like that better," said Aldyth, smiling. "I consider that mamma shares all my possessions."
"It is very good of you," said Cecil, looking relieved, and yet a little uneasy. "You are very generous. I don't believe Gladys would be so ready to let others spend her money."
"Don't say that—it is rather mean; for you cannot possibly tell what Gladys would do under the circumstances. And I cannot see that there is any generosity in giving away what you will never miss. I could not possibly spend on myself the income which is now mine. I don't know what I should have done if this had not happened, for I am not a fine lady. I have an inbred horror of extravagance."
Cecil laughed.
"You are not like Gladys, then. She will help you to spend your money fast enough, if you let her. But I think very differently of you, Aldyth, and I hope some day I may be able to repay you for what you do for me."
"Very well, sir," said Aldyth, laughing. "When I get a broken arm or a sprained ankle, I shall be happy for you to exercise your surgical skill upon it."
Aldyth remained with her mother and sisters for a week at Eastbourne, keeping almost in seclusion. Yet for her it was a busy time, for there were many arrangements to be made, letters to be written, friends to be seen, and every task from which her mother and Gladys shrank devolved upon her.
Mrs. Stanton gradually recovered from the shock of ill-tidings, and after a few days began to move less languidly, and to show some faint interest in the future that awaited her.
"To think that I should live at Wyndham after all," she said to Aldyth. "Your father used to talk of it at one time, when he hoped his uncle would forgive us; but that never came to pass. It is strange that I should go there now, after all these years and all that has happened. But it is rather a dreary old place, is it not?"
"I hope you will not find it so," said Aldyth. "I think it is very pretty in the summer."
Aldyth was glad that her preparations for her mother's visit to Wyndham were about finished ere she was summoned away.
She wrote to inform her aunt of the time when they might be expected, and to beg her to be at Wyndham to welcome them.
Unfortunately the September evening on which Aldyth with her mother and Gladys arrived at Woodburn was very wet, and under driving rain and a leaden sky the High Street and the long straight road to Wyndham looked far from interesting. Mrs. Stanton's countenance, its pale, delicate beauty strikingly set off by the folds of crape which framed it, wore a melancholy expression as she glanced from the carriage at the gloomy prospect.
"I always said I could not bear to live at Woodham," she remarked, with a shiver; "but it is my fate. Well, I am old and a widow now; it does not matter where I live."
This was not encouraging; but Aldyth could not wonder at her mother's depression.
"Not old; beautiful and dear," she said, pressing her mother's hand. "And brighter days will come. Woodham does not always look like this."
"I should hope not," said Gladys, throwing herself back with a yawn as they passed the last house belonging to Woodham. "So this is your carriage, Aldyth? It is rather an antiquated affair, and the springs might be easier. Does your coachman always drive so slowly?"
"Yes, old John has an objection to using the whip," said Aldyth. "He always lets the horses drop into this jog-trot. And it is of no use speaking to him; he is too old to alter his ways."
"Then I should look out for another coachman if I were you," said Gladys.
Aldyth shook her head.
"That would never do," she said. "It would break John's heart to be superseded."
Dripping trees, dripping eaves, a pool under the front windows, and a cloud of vapour rising from the pond, made Wyndham Hall appear anything but a desirable residence as the carriage drove up to the door. Aldyth was grieved that her mother should first see her future home in such an unfavourable aspect.
Mrs. Stanton, in her sable attire, had the air of a queen in exile as she mounted the steps, whilst a servant held an umbrella over her. But Miss Lorraine's cheery face, as she came forward to welcome them, seemed to defy the weather.
"What an evening!" she said. "You will think we have altogether too much water here. It is unfortunate. But we must make the best of it."
"The house is surely damp," said Mrs. Stanton, with a dreary anticipation of rheumatism.
"Not in the least," said Miss Lorraine, briskly; "the walls are too thick for that. There never was a warmer, drier house. They do not build such houses nowadays."
Certainly the dining room, where a bright fire was burning and a meal daintily set out, looked more cheerful.
But Mrs. Stanton's spirits did not begin to revive till Aldyth conducted her to her own room. This was a pleasant apartment with windows looking southwards and commanding a pretty view of the surrounding country. A new carpet had been put down; light fresh chintz draped windows and bed; there were flowers on the dressing-table, and glancing round, Mrs. Stanton could see that her tastes and comforts had been carefully studied. She appreciated comforts, and she gave a sigh of relief, not of despair, as she sank into an easy-chair by the wood fire.
"This is cosy," she said. "Yes, dear Aldyth, I cannot but be comfortable here, and if you will excuse me, I will not go down again to-night. Miss Lorraine is very kind, but I do not feel equal to her talk just now."
"You shall do as you like, mamma," said Aldyth, deftly removing her mother's bonnet and mantle. "I will bring you something to eat here, if you would rather."
"Yes, dear, much rather," Mrs. Stanton said.
And hastily removing her own things, Aldyth went down stairs to arrange a tray for her mother with the food most likely to tempt her appetite.
Miss Lorraine watched her as she set about the task, and was struck with the bright, happy look the girl's face wore.
"You look very happy, Aldyth," she said. "You are very glad to have your mother in your home."
"I am happy," replied Aldyth, with a sweet, glad smile, "and it is home now."
Miss Lorraine had a fleeting sense of discontent. She wondered what her uncle Stephen would have felt if he could have foreseen this result of Aldyth's inheritance, and smiled to think that, had such an idea occurred to him, he would assuredly have left Wyndham to Guy. She could imagine her uncle passing at midnight as a restless ghost through the old hall and groaning at the sight of the huge trunks, belonging to Mrs. Stanton and Gladys, which had just arrived in a cart from the station, and were piled up in the hall, till they could be emptied of their contents and consigned to the lumber room.
"Ah, me!" she reflected, sagely. "It is well we cannot know what is to come after us, and really it is time there was some fresh life about the old place."
A SECRET SORROW.
"Nor know we anything so fairAs is the smile upon thy face."
THESE words were in Aldyth's mind as she sprang up the next morning. The new duty which had come to her, the duty of making a home for her mother and sisters, and doing all in her power to promote their happiness, was very pleasant to the girl's loving heart. It was an easy transition from Wordsworth's familiar ode to the thought of John Glynne. She remembered that he had once spoken to her of the poem. He had appeared to feel strongly the force of the epithet stern as applied to duty. But duty had no sternness for Aldyth at this moment; her inheritance had ceased to be a burden, now that she could share it with others.
The thought of John Glynne lingered in Aldyth's mind while she was dressing. She remembered that the date had passed at which the Grammar School usually reopened, so no doubt John Glynne had returned to Woodham. The year had almost come round to the period at which last year he began his course of lectures. Would he be persuaded to give another course this autumn? Aldyth hoped so, with all her heart. She felt eager to ask her aunt if any such arrangement had been made. If Mr. Glynne gave lectures, she meant to attend them. There was assuredly no good reason why she should not. The distance might be considered a difficulty, but she could have the carriage, and if old John objected to being kept out so late, she would ask her aunt to let her stay at the Cottage for the night.
The pleasant prospect suggested by the lectures heightened the good spirits in which Aldyth had awoke. As she drew up her blind she saw with satisfaction that, though clouds still hung low in the sky, the sun was shining on the soaked lawn and well-washed trees. She hastened to her mother's room.
Mrs. Stanton confessed to having slept "pretty well," but felt unequal to rising at present.
Aldyth next visited her sister.
That young lady still lay in her bed, looking charmingly at her ease and perfectly well, but she at once consented to Aldyth's proposal that her breakfast should be sent to her.
"What a curious old room this is!" Gladys said, looking about her with amused eyes. "Do you know I was horribly afraid last night that a ghost would walk out of that cupboard? And I never slept on a bedstead of this description before. It makes me feel as if I were Queen Elizabeth, or some one remarkable. Did Queen Elizabeth ever come to Wyndham?"
"Not that I am aware of," said Aldyth, smiling.
"Then I need not be afraid of her ghost," said Gladys. "Shall I always sleep here?"
"Not if there is another room you like better," said Aldyth. "I could not but give mamma and aunt the best rooms last night. If I had known you would be coming so soon, I would have had a room got ready for you in a style more to your taste. We could easily make a pretty room of this."
"Yes, we could," said Gladys, eagerly. "Get rid of this catafalque of a bed and that hideous looking-glass, which gives me the flat, square visage of a Dutchwoman, and have a pretty French bed with pale blue drapery—blue is so becoming to me."
"Very well, I'll remember that important fact," said Aldyth.
"I will plan all the room, and tell you how it must be when you come up again," said Gladys. "Ah, is that the sun shining? I am glad. When shall I have a ride, Aldyth?"
"Have you a habit with you?" asked her sister.
"Oh yes; it is in one of the trunks; I don't know which," Gladys replied. "I had a new one soon after you left us, Aldyth. It is dark blue cloth, and I look so nice in it. I rode in the Park several times. Mamma got Captain Walker to escort me once. But I forget that I am in mourning. I shall have to wear my old-black one, I suppose. What a bore!"
"Well, as soon as you can get your habit unpacked, we will see about a ride—weather permitting," Aldyth said.
And she went down stairs, leaving Gladys in the best of humours.
Aldyth and her aunt, who had stayed the night at Wyndham, breakfasted together.
"Auntie," said Aldyth, as she came back from carrying her mother's breakfast to her, "are there to be lectures at Wyndham this autumn?"
"Ah, I am afraid not," said Miss Lorraine, shaking her head. "I have not told you that we are going to lose Mr. Glynne."
"To lose Mr. Glynne!" repeated Aldyth, colouring and turning a startled look upon her aunt.
"Yes, indeed," said Miss Lorraine, "it is a great pity, but I always felt he was too good for Woodham. He has got a good appointment abroad—the head mastership of some school or college at the Cape, I believe."
Aldyth hastily seated herself behind the urn. She felt that she had grown white and cold; the news was affecting her in a way she could hardly understand.
"How soon does he leave?" she ventured to ask, after a minute.
"Oh, his connection with the Grammar School is already severed," said her aunt. "Dr. Wheeler allowed a friend of Mr. Glynne's to take his place. Of course the boys do not like it, and their parents are all sorry to lose Mr. Glynne."
Aldyth silently busied herself with the coffee. Her hands trembled as she lifted the cups.
"Then I shall see him no more," was the thought that pressed painfully on her mind.
"He is coming down here again for a day or two before he leaves the country," said Miss Lorraine, after a pause, "just to get his things and say good-bye to his friends, you know. He could hardly leave us without a word."
"I suppose not," said Aldyth, with a coolness which might have been mistaken for indifference.
"I am very sorry he is going away," said her aunt. "As you know, I took to him from the first. One does not meet with such a man every day. It will be a grief to his mother to part with him."
"Yes," said Aldyth, finding it easy to respond to this remark.
Miss Lorraine talked on, discussing the event from various points of view, and apparently quite satisfied with Aldyth's brief rejoinders.
Aldyth made but a pretence of breakfasting. She was oppressed by a strange heart-sickness, which took away all the joy of her return, and robbed Duty of the bright aspect it had worn to her that morning.
"I might have known he would not stay long at Woodham," she said to herself. "He was so different from any one else I ever knew."
There were various little matters at Wyndham awaiting Aldyth's attention. She went through the business of the morning with a weight of disappointment on her mind. About noon she helped her mother to dress. Gladys, who had been long up, and had made a tour of the house under the guidance of Miss Lorraine, might have waited on her mother; but Mrs. Stanton seemed to prefer the attentions of her eldest daughter, and Gladys willingly gave place to Aldyth.
The morning had been showery, but by the time they all met at luncheon the sun seemed to have conquered the clouds, and there was the prospect of a fine afternoon.
Aldyth asked her aunt, who was about to return to Woodham, if she would like to drive in an open carriage.
"Yes, certainly; it will be much pleasanter," said Miss Lorraine. "Will you not come with me, Aldyth?"
"I do not know whether mamma can spare me," said Aldyth, looking at her mother.
But ere Mrs. Stanton could speak, Gladys said, eagerly—"Oh, do let me go, Aldyth. I want to see what Woodham looks like in fine weather."
"Very well, you shall go," said Aldyth, "and I will stay with mamma."
"No, you go too, my dear," said her mother, "if there is room for you all in the carriage. The drive will do you good."
"The phaeton will take us all, if I drive," said Aldyth. "But I do not like to leave you alone, mamma. You will feel so dull."
"No, dear; it will be good for me to rest quietly," said her mother. "I would rather you went, indeed."
It had occurred to her that she would be glad to avail herself of the opportunity thus afforded to wander through the old house alone, or attended by the housekeeper, whom she wished to question on matters concerning old Mr. Lorraine, about which she was curious.
After a little more persuasion, Aldyth consented to leave her mother to herself, and half an hour later drove off with her aunt and sister to Woodham. Midway they met Guy on horseback.
Aldyth felt the colour rush into her face as she remembered the last talk she had had with her cousin. But Guy's sangfroid was equal to the occasion. No one could look more unconscious of any cause for constraint. He nodded and raised his hat in the easiest manner in greeting to Miss Lorraine and Aldyth, as he reined in his horse, thus compelling Aldyth to draw up also, then cast a quick, admiring glance at the pretty girl on the back seat, whose delicate complexion and sunny hair were thrown into strong relief by her sombre attire.
"So you have come back, Aldyth," he said, carelessly. "When did you arrive?"
"Last evening," said Aldyth. "Let me introduce you, Guy, to my sister, Miss Stanton."
The air of admiration with which Guy made his bow was agreeable to Gladys. She liked the glance that lingered upon her, and the smile with which he said—
"You must have thought you were coming into a second deluge when you arrived last night, Miss Stanton. I shudder to think what Wyndham must have looked to you with the fields about it all swamped."
Gladys gave a light little laugh. "It had a dismal appearance, I must confess," she said. "Aldyth had prepared me for a scene of desolation, but the reality surpassed all the efforts of my imagination. I thought of the prisoner of Chillon, and pictured myself spending weary days and nights within water-girt walls. But happily the sunshine has relieved me of that horror."
"Wyndham is a dismal hole, though," said Guy. "Woodham is bad enough, but Wyndham is a few degrees worse."
"Don't depress me," said Gladys. "I am on my way to discover all the excitements your town can afford."
"Not many excitements, I fear," said Miss Lorraine, whilst Guy shrugged his shoulders significantly. "After all the pleasures you have enjoyed in town and at the seaside, our amusements will seem very commonplace."
"But there are pleasures peculiar to a country life, are there not?" said Gladys with an air of simplicity. "Hay-making, for instance. I should like to try that. I can fancy myself in a great hat, with a pitchfork in my hand, tossing the hay. It would be so charmingly idyllic."
"It would be if you turned haymaker," said Guy, with a meaning glance; "unfortunately the hay-harvest is over, but there are other country occupations—there is the shooting now, you know. But I forget, ladies do not shoot. They hunt, though, occasionally."
"Ah, that is what I should like to do," said Gladys; "if we do not share it, we like to hear about your sport. Do come in sometimes and tell us how the shooting goes."
"With pleasure," said Guy, as Aldyth gave her horse a touch and it moved on.
Guy looked his best on horseback, and Gladys was much impressed by her introduction to him.
"You never told me, Aldyth," she said, "how very good-looking your cousin was."
"Do you think him so?" Aldyth said.
"There can be no doubt that Guy is a handsome man," said Miss Lorraine, decisively; "one seldom sees such regular, well-cut features."
"Handsome is that handsome does," Aldyth reminded herself, as she thought of the suffering that attractive person had inflicted on Hilda Bland.
Having driven to Myrtle Cottage, and seen Miss Lorraine and her packages duly received by the little housemaid, the girls drove on slowly down the High Street, Gladys glancing about her with amusement, and well aware that she was an object of attention.
"How the people do stare!" she said. "One would think they never saw a stranger. Really, this is quite bustling, Aldyth. I did not expect to see such a crowded thoroughfare. It reminds me of Bond Street in the season."
"It does not remind me of Bond Street," said Aldyth, smiling. "This large house on the right is the home of my friends, the Blands; but Kitty and Hilda are away just now."
"Is not Hilda Bland the girl to whom your cousin was engaged?" asked Gladys.
"Yes," said Aldyth, reluctantly, not wishing to discuss that subject with Gladys.
"Whose fault was it that the engagement came to nought?" asked Gladys. "Did she care much for him?"
"A great deal more than he deserved," said Aldyth, her tones, in spite of herself, expressing indignation.
"Girls are sillies," said Gladys, emphatically. "There never yet was a man worth breaking one's heart for. But who is this one coming towards us, Aldyth? He looks rather nice."
Aldyth had already recognized the individual in question, and her heart had given a leap at the sight of him; but she answered quietly enough—
"That is Mr. Glynne. He was one of the masters at the Grammar School; but he is about to leave the town."
"What a pity! I like the look of him," said Gladys. "He is not good-looking, but he has the air of a gentleman."
"He is a gentleman," Aldyth could not help saying.
She was drawing in her horse before the door of the library when he came in sight round a turn in the street. It would have been easy for him, as they were about to alight, to step across the street to speak to Aldyth; but the idea did not appear to occur to him. He lifted his hat courteously, and passed on along the opposite pavement.
A keen, cruel pain seized upon Aldyth. She hardly heard the remarks Gladys was making, or knew how she transacted the business that took her into the shop. One thought possessed her—the thought that John Glynne had only come for a day or two, and that he would go away without her having exchanged a word with him. And yet he could have spoken to her then; and he would not take the trouble to cross the road that he might do so! It was most mortifying to be treated so by one whom she had counted a friend.
With a sense of intolerable shame, Aldyth took herself to task for feeling more interest in John Glynne than he apparently felt in her. But though she was ashamed of it, the feeling was not to be crushed in a moment. Thoughts full of pain and disappointment occupied her mind as they drove home, making it difficult for her to pay proper attention to what Gladys was saying.
"It is growing cold," Gladys remarked, with a shiver, as they turned into the carriage drive to Wyndham; "the days are so short now. It will soon be winter."
Aldyth roused herself with an effort, and tried to recover a bright demeanour ere she saw her mother; but she felt as if winter had already begun.
HOW MRS. STANTON SPENT HER FIRST AFTERNOON AT WYNDHAM.
MRS. STANTON sat alone in the drawing room for an hour after the others had driven away. Aldyth had converted this into a very pretty room. Even Mrs. Stanton could find no fault with the taste she had displayed in bringing out all that was picturesque in the old furniture, and blending with it modern artistic draperies and various objects of modern antique. The chair in which Mrs. Stanton reclined was of the easiest, the long French window by which she sat looked out on a stretch of sunlit lawn, with some bright dahlias blooming against the box hedge, and some fine old trees rising beyond.
Mrs. Stanton's mood as she sat there was one of quiet, half-melancholy content. She was far from being crushed by her bereavement. Her affection for her husband had not been of such a clinging, penetrating nature as to make life seem impossible without him. She had taken the lead in their life, making his will give place to hers, and she now felt quite capable of ordering her own life and that of her children.
As she reviewed the past and looked forward to the future, her thoughts took the form of self-congratulation. She was moved to thankfulness that things were as they were. They might have been so different. What a fortunate circumstance it Was that Aldyth should inherit a fortune just when her mother was about to lose everything! For that all was gone Mrs. Stanton felt convinced from what her husband had told her of his affairs, though she was yet awaiting the particulars that the next mail would bring.
Mrs. Stanton had some fancy work in her lap, but she felt a distaste for any occupation. It was easier to lean back and give herself up to daydreams. Presently her imagination was filling the long drawing room with a party of visitors.
"The place is dull," she thought; "but our life here need not be dull. A country house is pleasant enough when it is full of guests. When a proper time has passed, we can invite whom we like. There are surely some nice people in the neighbourhood. We can give dinner parties and tennis-parties and dances. We must do so for Gladys's sake. Captain Walker could come over from Colchester; Cecil could bring some of his friends from London. We could go up to town for a few weeks in the season, perhaps. I suppose Aldyth could afford it. She has never told me what her income is; perhaps she does not yet know herself; but it can hardly be less than three thousand, and that would cover a good many expenses."
As she thought thus, Mrs. Stanton grew weary of inaction. She was naturally robust, and she was beginning to recover from the shock of trouble, which had not made her really ill. She bethought her that she should like to go through the house, and make herself thoroughly acquainted with what she already regarded as her own domain.
As she rose and crossed the room, she caught sight of the reflection of herself in a long mirror opposite, and was struck with the majestic grace of her tall fine figure in its flowing black robe. After all, she was not old or insignificant yet; life must still have pleasant things in store for her. And there was a revival of energy manifest in her look and bearing as she walked from the room.
She started on her tour of inspection alone, but presently found her progress barred by locked doors, so, returning to the drawing room, she rang the bell and summoned the house keeper to her presence.
Mrs. Rogers came readily, for she, in common with the other servants, felt much interest in the beautiful, elegant widow who had taken up her abode at the Hall. Mrs. Rogers was old enough to remember the time when this lady, then a lovely, high-spirited girl, had been the belle of Colchester, and how her marriage with Captain Lorraine and his consequent disfavour with his uncle had set every one talking. The housekeeper entered with an ingratiating smile on her face, and dropped an old-fashioned curtsey as she stood before the lady.
"I thought I should like to take a turn through the rooms; it would help to pass the time," said Mrs. Stanton; "but I find several of the doors locked."
"Ah, yes, ma'am; I keep the rooms locked that are not in use." replied the old woman. "Miss Aldyth being here so little, I thought it best to do so. There's one room full of Mr. Guy's things. And I have the key of the library, and the keys of the bureau too. Mr. Greenwood told me to lock the room the day after the squire died. When either of the Mr. Greenwoods came, I gave the key to them, and when they went away, they locked the door and brought it back to me. And Miss Aldyth, she said I'd better keep the keys of the bureau, too, in case they were wanted; for you see Miss Aldyth was not always here. She went home with Miss Lorraine a day or two after the funeral. But I'll fetch the keys for you, ma'am."
"Thank you," said Mrs. Stanton, seating herself with an air of leisure.
In a few moments, Mrs. Rogers returned with her key-basket. "Perhaps I had better go with you, ma'am," she suggested. "I fear you may find some of the locks rather stiff, and the rooms a bit dusty."
"No, thank you; I will not take up your time," replied Mrs. Stanton, languidly. "I dare say I shall not investigate very far, and I do not care to feel hurried."
"Very well, ma'am; but if so be you should want me, I'll come in a minute."
"You've been at the Hall a good many years, I believe," said Mrs. Stanton.
"More than thirty years, ma'am."
"Ah, then you've seen many changes. You would remember Captain Lorraine."
"Yes, indeed, ma'am. I remember him well. As nice a gentleman as ever was. And Miss Aldyth's as like him as can be. It seems only right that she should be here in his stead, though I am sorry for Mr. Guy."
"Ah, I have not yet the pleasure of his acquaintance," said Mrs. Stanton; "but from what I have heard I should imagine him an agreeable young man.
"He is that, ma'am. There's no one about here but is fond of Mr. Guy. It was a pity that he offended his uncle—not but what we're all very pleased to have Miss Aldyth here; though, if it could have been—But, there, things may come right yet. There's many a one says they will."
But here Mrs. Rogers saw something in the lady's expression that made her check her garrulous talk.
Mrs. Stanton was quick enough to read what was in the old woman's mind, but she showed no consciousness of it.
"Mr. Stephen Lorraine was one easily offended, was he not?" she asked.
"Ay, that he was, ma'am; and he was one that would never go from his word. If any servant offended him, that servant had to leave forthwith. It was of no use to try and persuade him to overlook a fault; he would not do that, though it vexed him to part with them. It seemed impossible for him to forgive."
"And when was it that Mr. Guy was so unfortunate as to displease his uncle?"
"At the end of last year, ma'am. We could all tell that there was something wrong between them, and when Mr. Greenwood came out on New Year's Day, I guessed what it meant."
Mrs. Stanton let the housekeeper talk on for some time, occasionally interrupting her with a question. But at last, wearying of her garrulity, she dismissed her, and set off again to go through the house.
The closed rooms proved old-fashioned and dingy, with the close, musty atmosphere unused chambers so soon acquire. Mrs. Stanton did not care to linger in them. She found little to interest her till she came to the library. The air of that apartment, too, was oppressive, and she hastened to open the long window which looked on to the lawn. The soft breeze which entered was refreshing, and she sank on to a chair by the window and fell to musing on what the old housekeeper had told her.
So there were those who thought that things would yet be made right for Guy by his marriage with his cousin. Was this the motive that had led him to break his engagement to Hilda Bland? Mrs. Stanton could easily believe that it was so. Indeed, as she pondered it, the case hardly seemed to admit of a doubt, nor was she inclined to blame him severely for what seemed to her a most natural line of action. But nothing now could be further from her desires than the fulfilment of the hope she attributed to him. If Guy wedded Aldyth, Wyndham Hall could no longer be the home of herself and daughters, and the delightful visions in which she had been indulging must come to nought; for it was not to be supposed that he would tolerate the constant presence in his home of his wife's mother, nor would she wish to remain under such circumstances.
But was it probable that Aldyth would be more inclined to accept Guy now than she had been before? Her mother could hardly fear it, as she remembered the emphatic way in which Aldyth had repudiated the idea.
"She will not, unless she is moved by some quixotic desire to restore the property to him," reflected Mrs. Stanton; "and I will do all in my power to prevent that."
With this resolve, she dismissed the unwelcome thought, and gave her attention to her surroundings.
The room in which she sat was that in which old Stephen Lorraine had spent most of his time when indoors. A glance round it sufficed to prove that his tastes were not literary. Though it was known as the library, the books it contained were few, and not of an inviting appearance. They looked as if they might have stood untouched on the shelves for the last fifty years. Above the mantelpiece hung tokens of the love of sport that had characterized Stephen Lorraine in earlier years. Various guns, not of the most modern construction, were to be seen there, a very old fishing-rod, and the brush of a fox. The portrait of a favourite hunter, painted by a local artist, hung on the opposite wall, pairing with the picture of a prize bull, from which it was divided by a large, highly imaginative sketch of a group of sheep which had thriven on a certain much-advertised food.
But what most attracted Mrs. Stanton's attention was a quaint, antique bureau which stood full in her view as she sat by the window. No upholsterer's shop could furnish such an article at the present time, so strongly made, so cunningly devised, with its hanging brass handles and lavishly-disposed brass nails. This surely must be the old bureau of which she remembered bearing her first husband speak. He had spoken of it as a most curious piece of furniture, with numerous pigeon-holes, sliding panels, strange, unexpected recesses.
As she looked at the bureau, a longing to explore it took possession of Mrs. Stanton's mind. Why not? Here in the basket she held was the key of the bureau. This long, curiously-formed key would open the main lock, and these small keys must belong to the inner drawers. Why should she not look into the bureau? Its owner for so many years had passed away; the bureau and all it contained was now Aldyth's property; there could be no harm in Aldyth's mother opening it. Aldyth would certainly be willing that she should.
But though she told herself this, Mrs. Stanton hesitated. In her inmost soul, she could not feel sure that it was right for her thus, alone, to examine the things that old Stephen Lorraine had kept hidden from others. She knew that if she did so, she would not like to speak of it to her daughter.
She turned from the bureau. She stepped through the open window on to the gravel path and took one or two turns up and down the length of the lawn. The temptation grew stronger as she lingered. All was still about her; there was not even a gardener in sight. Mrs. Rogers and the servants were in their own quarters; there seemed no cause to fear disturbance.
"You will never have so good an opportunity again," a voice said within her.
She re-entered the library. Like many another daughter of Eve, she looked at the forbidden fruit till it grew irresistible.
"Why should I not?" she asked herself again, as she drew a chair in front of the bureau and seated herself. "The lawyer must have looked at all it contains, so why should not I?"
She turned the key in the lock, and the bureau opened out easily. The sloping desk, dark with age and ink-stains, bore witness to a long term of service. Behind ran two rows of pigeon-holes. These contained receipted bills, invoices, business letters, nothing that could interest her. But a row of locked drawers at the side yielded more interesting matter. Here were newspaper cuttings, referring to events that she could remember, private letters, which she did not hesitate to scan, and presently, closely wrapped in white paper, she found a lock of a woman's hair.
She did not think of a like discovery in the desk of Swift, with its half-savage, wholly pathetic description: "Only a woman's hair," but she wondered at this revelation of a cherished sentiment in the breast of the old man, whom she had always regarded as harsh and unfeeling. Whose hair had this been—his mother's, or a gift from that Tabitha Rudkin whose name she had heard laughingly associated with his youth? And what was the meaning of this morocco case which lay in the same drawer? She opened it, and saw the miniature of a lovely girl with clear complexion, soft grey eyes, and masses of dark curls bunched on either side her forehead, after the fashion of her day. So young and fair she looked; but her youthful charms had long faded, and the years were many since, at a mature age, Death set his seal to her life, for a few words inscribed within the case told that this was the portrait of old Stephen's mother, who had died at the age of fifty-five.
Mrs. Stanton closed the case with a shiver. She did not like to be reminded of the inevitable lot, and the evanescence of beauty and joy. She tried to shut the drawer; but something was wrong, she could not get it back into its place. Then she saw that the framework of the drawers was somehow awry. Inadvertently she must have touched a hidden spring, for now, at a second pull, the whole nest of drawers swung to one side and revealed a hollow space behind fitted up with pigeon-holes. Here was one of the secret recesses of which she had heard.
But it was empty. No. What was that in the furthest partition? Mrs. Stanton put in her hand and drew forth a long blue roll. But as her eyes fell on certain words written on it, she started and recoiled as though a serpent had bitten her.
"Last Will and Testament of Stephen Lorraine." What had she found? Another will? But not a valid one—that was impossible.
As the thought flashed through her mind, she was unrolling the document with trembling hands. The date was April of the present year. And Mrs. Rogers had said that the other will was made on New Year's Day! This was a later will.
She grew cold and faint as the thought came to her that this will might alter everything—Wyndham might not be Aldyth's; it might not be in her power to give a home to her mother and sisters. Mrs. Stanton felt that she must read the will; she must get to know what its provisions were.
Forcing her mind to the task, she slowly read through the will, grasping with difficulty the meaning of the legal words. When she had finished her face was white and her breath came quickly. That first presentiment, alas! was confirmed. The will changed all. It made Wyndham and the bulk of the property, together with the farm at Wood Corner, over to Guy Lorraine, and left Aldyth with six thousand pounds.
Mrs. Stanton had an instantaneous perception of all that this fact meant for her. She did not doubt that Aldyth would still be willing to share her income with them, but how straitened their means would be! She saw herself and daughters living in a small, inconvenient house, like "common people," Gladys, perhaps, in her youth and beauty, reduced to the humiliation of taking a situation. And Cecil—what would become of Cecil's prospects?
"It is not right, it is not just," she murmured, feeling that arrangements so opposed to her interests could not but be wrong. But must it be so? Quickly came the tempting thought—"No one knows of it but me. Mr. Greenwood did not see it. Perhaps it would never have been found."
What a pity she had been so curious to examine the old bureau! And yet if she had not found this will, another might have done so. Quick came the thought, "I am glad it was not Aldyth who found it."
Yet why? What was she going to do with it, now it had come to light? Not to proclaim the fact at once, certainly. Should she thrust it back in the recess, and leave it for some one else to discover? She shrank from the idea. It would be like having a drawn sword for ever hanging above her head. What then? Destroy it? She turned hot and then cold as the evil suggestion presented itself. Was it not felony to destroy a will? That was a very ugly word. She could not do such a thing as that. And yet—she wished the will were destroyed. She would be glad to know that it would never have power to affect her welfare.