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She glanced at it again. The names of the witnesses were strange to her. One had written "solicitor" and a London address after his name. Would he be likely to know that the will had not come into operation? Would it be safe to destroy it? The perspiration rose on Mrs. Stanton's forehead as she asked herself this question. Suddenly, to her consternation, she heard voices close at hand in the garden.
It was Aldyth and Gladys. Whilst she had been searching the bureau, the afternoon had worn away, and they had returned from their drive.
Gladys was planning a tennis-ground, which she wished to persuade Aldyth to have made; but at any moment they might turn their steps towards the open window. In an agony of fear, Mrs. Stanton thrust the will into her pocket. That receptacle was not large enough to hide it; she must hold the folds of her gown together if she would conceal the packet as she escaped to her room.
But first there were the drawers to push back into their place and lock, and the bureau to close. Mrs. Stanton did it all in nervous haste with trembling hands. One drawer would not lock, and she left it open in her alarm, as she heard the girls' steps approaching. She had but time to close her gown, ere the girls were at the window.
"Mamma! You here!" cried Aldyth, in surprise, as she glanced in at the window.
"Yes, dear; you may well be surprised," said Mrs. Stanton, faintly. "But I—thought I should like to look through the rooms—and—and Mrs. Rogers gave me the keys—but—but it has been too much for me."
"I am sure it has," said Aldyth, wondering to see how pale her mother was, and the tremulous way in which she spoke. "You should have waited till I could come with you. Why, your hand is quite cold. I cannot leave you again, if you not take better care of yourself."
"No, do not leave me again," cried Mrs. Stanton, beginning to sob. "It is better for me to have you near. I get thinking of things when I am alone, and I cannot bear it."
"Do not cry, dear mamma. I am here. I will not leave you," said Aldyth, throwing her arms about her mother. "But you must not stay in this chill room. Come into the drawing room."
"No, no; let me go to my own room," said Mrs. Stanton, rising, her right hand still holding the folds of her gown.
Aldyth would have taken the hand to draw within her arm, but Mrs. Stanton wheeled hastily round. "The other side, please, dear; I want to hold up my dress with this hand."
Supported by Aldyth, she moved slowly from the room. Gladys did not immediately follow them. She had not betrayed any anxiety on her mother's account. There was a satirical smile on her lips as she said to herself, glancing round the library—
"It was like mamma to make an inspection of the house when Aldyth was out of the way; but I wonder, did she chance upon a skeleton anywhere, that she was so upset?"
Mrs. Stanton, having gained her bedroom, seemed indisposed for further soothing, and only anxious to send Aldyth away.
"Leave me to myself now, dear," she said, sinking on to a couch in such a way that her pocket was hidden. "I only want quiet; I shall be better when I have rested awhile."
Aldyth did not reflect that her mother had been enjoying quiet all the afternoon. She, too, was glad to slip away to her own room. But no sooner had Aldyth left her, than Mrs. Stanton rose from the sofa, and, having locked the door, found a travelling desk which was fitted with a good patent lock. In this she placed the will, and having locked the desk, put the key away in a drawer, which she also locked; then, mounting on a chair, she pushed the desk out of sight on the top shelf of her wardrobe.
"Anyhow, I will do nothing in the matter till the mail brings me news," she said to herself.
A FAREWELL.
ON the following morning Aldyth found her mother looking white and worn. And in response to her daughters anxious questioning, she confessed that she had hardly slept at all during the night. Yet she was not to be persuaded to rest longer in bed. She was eager to rise, and throughout the day, she showed a restlessness and irritability which was trying to those about her, but was not to be wondered at in one upon whom such heavy trouble had fallen.
In the afternoon Aldyth, who had been packing a hamper of flowers for the benefit of her girl friends at Whitechapel, wished to convey it to the railway station. It was a lovely autumn afternoon, so she proposed that her mother and Gladys should accompany her for the drive, and they should make a long round to Woodham, where she would leave them to return home in the care of old John, as she wished to call at her aunt's.
"But how will you get home if we go on in the carriage?" asked Gladys.
"Oh, I shall have a cup of tea with auntie, and then walk home," said Aldyth.
"Walk!" exclaimed Gladys. "All that long, dull road!"
"Oh, I shall not keep to the road," said Aldyth. "There is a shorter way across some fields. It is a pleasant walk, and I shall enjoy it this evening."
"What, all alone!" said Gladys. "I should be scared to walk by myself in the country."
"That is because you are not used to the country," said Aldyth. "I can assure you, the open fields have no terrors for me."
"But you will be very tired; surely it will not be wise of you to do so, Aldyth," said her mother, feeling more reluctance to the idea than she could easily have accounted for.
"I am not afraid of fatigue," said Aldyth. "I have often walked here from Woodham—sometimes with Guy, sometimes by myself. You will see I shall come in as fresh as a daisy."
Aldyth had set her heart upon having a talk with her aunt, and she was not disposed to lightly relinquish her plan.
Mrs. Stanton looked annoyed, and talked about remaining at home herself, in which case Aldyth would have felt constrained to keep her company. But in truth, Mrs. Stanton was longing to escape for a while from the house where her consciousness of the hidden will seemed an intolerable oppression. No doubt after awhile this nervous, restless feeling would pass, and she would cease to dread self-betrayal, or that strange reluctant impulse to confession which came to her in Aldyth's presence. But whilst she felt thus, it was impossible to sit inactive in rooms in which she had no right to sit. The long drive offered a relief which she could not reject, so she let Aldyth persuade her to get ready, and took her place in the carriage, whilst Aldyth arranged some cushions for her comfort, with more than ever of the air of a banished queen.
It was a pleasant day, and to Aldyth, whose heart had a burden which no one could share, the calm, restful beauty of the autumn day was soothing. Every peaceful country scene on which her eyes fell had its preciousness for her. Here the last load of a late harvest was being lifted, but for the most part the stubble fields lay white and bare, surrounded by the green pastures; here was a cottage orchard, with its gnarled trees bowing beneath a weight of rosy apples; there was an old moss-grown well, with its bucket and pulley; and there a woman whose bees had swarmed in a neighbouring elder-tree, and who was endeavouring to attract them to a hive by means of a jingling performance with a key and a frying-pan.
This last sight made Gladys laugh; but her mother looked on everything with a melancholy, indifferent gaze.
"How dreary this flat landscape is!" she said once. "Nothing to be seen but fields and windmills!"
Aldyth alighted at the railway station, and having consigned her hamper to the care of the station-master, walked up the town towards her aunt's cottage. But as she approached the Blands' house, Mrs. Bland smiled and beckoned to her from the bow-window, and it was impossible to pass without a word. The house door could always be opened from the outside. Aldyth opened it, and stepped in without ceremony.
"All alone?" she said, as she kissed her old friend; "how strange you must feel without one of the girls!"
"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Bland. "Gwen thought I ought to keep her home for half a term, to bear me company, and deemed me a hard-hearted parent because I would not listen to her suggestion. But I do not approve of broken work."
"And what news of the others?" asked Aldyth.
"Oh, fairly good," said Mrs. Bland. "Kitty seems to be enjoying herself very much, and she says Hilda is a little brighter. They are at Dinan. When they wrote, they had been to see the ruined castle in which 'the Lady of La Garraye' lived. Kitty has been reading the poem, and seems much impressed by it. I was surprised at the way in which she wrote. It was as if Kitty and Hilda had changed places. Hilda says little in her letters, poor child. I fancy she would be sorry for me to think she was at all more cheerful. If I can find Kitty's letter, you shall read it."
Mrs. Bland rose to hunt for Kitty's letter amidst the papers on her writing-table. At that moment Aldyth, seated by the window, saw John Glynne walk down the street. The girl was thankful Mrs. Bland's back was turned as she felt the colour rush into her face. That sudden thrill was followed by a deep sense of disappointment and depression. He was gone in the opposite direction to that she was taking; there was no likelihood of her seeing him, and in a day or two at the latest, he would leave Woodham.
Mrs. Bland failed to find Kitty's letter, and Aldyth left without seeing it. In a few minutes, she was at her aunt's. Miss Lorraine welcomed her with a little air of excitement.
"What a pity you did not come a few minutes earlier," she said. "Mr. Glynne was here. He asked after you. I think he would have liked to say good-bye to you."
Aldyth grew white. She could say nothing under the grasp of disappointment. Fate was hard upon her. If she had not seen Mrs. Bland at the window and gone into her house, she would have arrived in time to greet John Glynne. And it seemed to Aldyth at that moment that it would have been worth a great deal just to have said good-bye to him.
If Miss Lorraine noted the quick change of Aldyth's expression, she did not appear to do so. She chatted on with her usual volubility. There are times when it is convenient to have a companion with a faculty of small talk. Such a one is satisfied with the least modicum in the way of response.
"I can see that Mr. Glynne feels leaving Woodham," said Miss Lorraine. "He said he could hardly expect to meet with such kind friends anywhere else. Indeed, I do not think he likes leaving England at all; but it is for the sake of his mother he has accepted the appointment. It will make things easier for her, he says; and she has not been at all strong lately. I am sure I do not know how she will bear parting with him; but there is another brother, you know, who will be at home to take care of her."
"Yes," said Aldyth, faintly, as her aunt looked towards her.
"Mr. Glynne is very fond of his mother," continued Miss Lorraine. "If I were not already convinced of it, I should have known he was a good man, by the way in which he spoke of his mother this afternoon."
"When does he leave?" asked Aldyth, as her aunt paused to take breath.
"Leave Woodham? To-morrow morning, and he sails at the end of the week. But, Aldyth, if you are to walk home before it gets dark, we must have tea at once."
And Miss Lorraine summoned the little housemaid by a vigorous pull of the bell.
In half an hour, Aldyth was on her way home. She was one to enjoy a long, brisk walk; but now her sweet calm face had a weary look, and her step was less elastic than usual. She had started forth a few hours earlier with no definite hope in her heart, but she was bearing back with her an unmistakable weight of disappointment and pain. She did not attempt to analyse her feelings; she did not own to herself that mighty Love had laid his spell upon her—Love at which she had laughed—which had seemed to her more than half a folly, as she had seen it influencing the life of another. She only knew that a shadow had fallen on her heart, that some scarce-defined hope had died, and that life had lost the brightness it wore for her a little while ago.
She had passed out of the road, and was pursuing her way through a deep grassy meadow by the side of a stream, with round bushy pollards growing on its banks. Behind her lay the little town, its red roofs, old church tower, and the broad stretch of water, dotted with sails, forming a fair picture in the clear evening light. No sound broke the stillness save the scarce perceptible ripple of the stream, and the occasional hoarse croaking of a frog. The peace, the solitude was welcome to Aldyth.
But as she stepped round the trunk of a large ash-tree that made a break in the path, she perceived that she was not alone in her enjoyment of the place and the hour. On the rude stile before her, with a book on his knee, which he was not reading, sat John Glynne.
It would be difficult to say which was the more surprised. Aldyth was conscious of an agitation which she could not at once control. She felt that she was blushing and trembling, as he sprang down and advanced to meet her. But she saw a bright look of pleasure in his eyes as he smiled on her and said, with all the old friendliness—
"Miss Aldyth! I am glad! I thought I should have to leave Woodham without seeing you again."
"That would not have been my fault, Mr. Glynne," she could not help saying. "Wyndham is not at such a distance from Woodham as to make it impossible to visit a friend who lives there. Perhaps you do not know it, but you are almost halfway to Wyndham at the present moment."
"I know," he said, with a smile. "Well, I deserve that reproach; but indeed I could not persuade myself that I had any right to call on you in your new home."
"Any right?" repeated Aldyth, biting her lips to hide their trembling. "That is an unkind thing to say. What have I done that I must forfeit your friendship?"
It glanced through her mind that perhaps he blamed her for supplanting Guy at Wyndham. If only he could know what it had cost her to do so! Must the loss of his friendship be part of the price?
"Nothing. How could you suppose that I would willingly give up your friendship?" he said. "But there were reasons why it seemed to me that I should not seek you under your changed circumstances."
"What have my circumstances to do with it?" asked Aldyth, almost impatiently. "Do you think so poorly of me as to imagine that I must change with my circumstances?"
"I am far indeed from thinking poorly of you," he said, quietly.
"Then why," asked Aldyth, impetuously, "why did you hold aloof from me because I had inherited Wyndham? Does that make me any different from what I was before? Am I not the same girl I was when first you knew me?"
"No," he said, slowly; "you are not the same to me as when first I saw you."
Aldyth looked at him in wonder. She could not read his grave, set look.
"What do you mean?" she asked, in faltering tones. "How have I altered? Do you think I am elated at my new position? Oh, you mistake me indeed if you think so! It has brought me no happiness. I never needed a true friend more than I do now. But every one disappoints me."
Her last words dealt a wound to Glynne. It cost him an effort to reply calmly.
"Now you are mistaking me," he said. "When I said that, you were not the same to me, I did not mean that you had changed—far less that you were not worthy the highest reverence man can pay woman. It is my feeling that has become—it is because—"
His tones had grown unsteady. He checked himself abruptly. Glancing at him, Aldyth saw with alarm that he had grown pale, and was under the influence of some emotion which made self-control difficult.
"You cannot understand," he continued, after a moment, finding his words with difficulty; "and how can I explain? Of course I might have made a conventional call on you, like any ordinary acquaintance. Doubtless you have a right to reproach me for a breach of courtesy; but I shrank from it—you were more to me. And you must remember that though no change of circumstances can affect you, it makes a difference in the minds of others; it makes people Judge things differently."
As he spoke in broken, hesitating fashion, there dawned on Aldyth a perception of his meaning. Her face grew crimson, then white. She would have spoken, but what could she say? Words came to her lips, but it was impossible to utter them. Quick thoughts, visions of her mother, her sisters, passed before her mind. She felt like one bound and fettered. It seemed long, but it was but a few moments that they stood in silence, the words that had been spoken vibrating in the consciousness of each. He must have known that she understood him now; but the words he had uttered were followed by none of similar purport. He roused himself, and said, with an abrupt change of manner—
"I must not detain you longer. Will you let me walk with you the rest of the way?"
Aldyth made a sign of assent, and they passed on into the next field. She could hardly have told whether she were happy or wretched. There was a strange mingling of sensations within her, and she had but a confused apprehension of the remarks he was making or the green meadow-path followed. Now a bramble caught her dress, and he stooped to detach it; now he gathered for her a cluster of crimson berries from the mountain ash, and now some yellow marguerites, whilst they talked as best they could on ordinary topics. But presently this pretence at conversation failed, and the last field was crossed in silence.
"You will come in and see my mother and Gladys?" said Aldyth, as he halted at the gate of Wyndham.
"I must ask you to excuse me to-night," he said. "I should like to make your mother's acquaintance, but not to-night. It pleases me to think that you have your mother with you now. Your long-deferred hope is fulfilled at last."
"Yes, at last," said Aldyth.
"You will be happy—I pray God you may be happy!" he said fervently. "And now I must bid you good-bye—till we meet again."
"You are going away—so far," faltered Aldyth; "I shall never see you again."
"Do not say 'Never,' I cannot bear that word," he replied. "Some day—if I live—I shall come back. Do not make things harder for me. You cannot know how stern the duty seems that bids me go."
"Duty seems stern to me too," Aldyth said, with a quiver in her voice, whilst tears dimmed her vision.
She could not utter a good-bye, but she gave him her hand. He held it in his for a few moments, then released it and turned away without another word. She could not move from the spot. She stood gazing after him, till his figure grew indistinct in the gathering gloom. She could just see that he turned and looked back at the end of the path. She waved her hand. Could he see the movement? Probably not, for the next instant he was gone, and only the creeping grey mist met her gaze.
She moved on with slow, heavy step, and before her, in dim outline, with the grey mist gathering about it, stood Wyndham Hall.
Her inheritance—her home! But there was no joy in the thought. Regret filled her heart, stirred by a vision of what "might have been."
"Oh," she sighed to herself, "how I wish uncle had made another will!—how I wish it were not mine!"
But quickly followed the reflection that in that case, things would have been harder for her mother. She could not wholly regret that which gave her such power to comfort and cherish her mother.
AN ACCIDENT IN THE HUNTING-FIELD.
IT was not surprising that Mrs. Stanton should seem sorely depressed after the arrival of the mail from Australia. The news it brought was of the worst. The bankruptcy of the large mercantile house was utter; nothing could be saved from the wreck for the widow and children of the senior partner. They might console themselves with the thought that they were not the only sufferers. Upon every one connected with the business, loss had fallen, and in most cases, it meant ruin.
It was easy to find cause for blame, and public opinion did not spare the principals. Mrs. Stanton might count it a fortunate circumstance that the broad seas now separated her from the social circle at Melbourne which had formerly courted and flattered her.
Aldyth could not wonder that her mother shed many tears over the letters which told all that could be told of her husband's last hours, and gave particulars of the interment. She could comprehend her mother's nervousness and irritability, the evidence of sleepless nights and wearing emotions. But she could not understand the aversion her mother seemed to have conceived for Guy Lorraine.
That gentleman made his call at the Hall not long after his introduction to Gladys. On the first occasion, Mrs. Stanton declined to see him, but Guy, considering himself one of the family, came again and again, bent on making himself agreeable, and eager to be of service to the new residents, so that it was not easy for Mrs. Stanton to avoid him. She sat on thorns whilst he was present, and his departure was the signal for an outbreak of bitter comments on his dulness, awkwardness, and general lack of social graces. Yet she always maintained an outward show of cordiality towards him. Indeed, it seemed to Aldyth that her mother was especially careful to fail in no courtesy with regard to Guy, and she interpreted this as a sign that her mother shared her regretful consciousness of the loss her inheritance had involved for Guy.
Gladys was ready enough to raise a laugh at Guy's expense, yet his visits were not disagreeable to her. It pleased her to play off upon him her most fascinating airs, with a result highly gratifying to her vanity. He had been struck with admiration at the first sight of her, and he readily succumbed to her fascinations. Ere Hilda Bland returned to her home, he was utterly, hopelessly enslaved by his new charmer. The fire kindled within him was, as Aldyth was quick to perceive, no spurious flame. He was genuinely in love at last, and Aldyth could almost pity him, little as he deserved pity, for she saw no hope of his wooing successfully. It was not to be supposed that Mrs. Stanton would allow her pretty Gladys to wed a mere farmer.
Yet Mrs. Stanton did not discourage the intimacy to the extent Aldyth expected. She was fretful with her daughter when she showed a preference for Guy's society; but she did not endeavour to prevent their meeting. Gladys would have found her days dull at Wyndham but for his frequent visits.
There were few other visitors during the early days of their bereavement. Mr. Greenwood, and his brother, the solicitor, came pretty frequently, and were welcome guests, although their visits were ostensibly on business. The banker's large house in the High Street seemed grievously large and vacant to him without the wife who had made it so cheerful a home. Aldyth was a great favourite with him, and he was perhaps, glad that his office of executor to Stephen Lorraine's will afforded him many pretexts for visiting her at Wyndham. The evenings spent in her pretty drawing room, with three charming women exerting themselves for his entertainment, were a pleasant contrast to those he passed in dreariness at home.
The rides which Gladys took almost daily were her chief source of pleasure in this quiet season. Dearly as she loved the exercise, Aldyth could seldom accompany her, for her mother, shrinking more and more from being left to her own thoughts, constantly required her companionship. Aldyth was content to forego her own pleasure; it was so sweet to feel that her mother needed her.
Meanwhile the pretty form of Gladys, mounted on Pansy—she nearly always rode Pansy—with a groom following on another horse, became a familiar sight at Woodham; for she loved the slight sensation she created when she rode down the High Street. Not seldom she returned from her ride accompanied by Guy, who was ever on the watch for a chance of meeting her. It vexed Mrs. Stanton to see her return so escorted; but if she gave expression to her annoyance, Gladys only laughed and told her mother not to be afraid, she knew what she was about.
"I do not think I am exactly the one to wed a country bumpkin," she said one day. "It would be different, would it not, mamma, if he had been the heir to Wyndham?"
It was an aimless shaft of satire, but it found a mark of which she little guessed. Her mother's face blanched; a spasm as of positive pain passed over it. Gladys saw and wondered. What had she said? Surely nothing worse than many of her careless speeches?
"It is not fair to call Guy a bumpkin," said Aldyth, who was present.
"Perhaps not," replied Gladys; "but he is a farmer, is he not? Can you fancy me a farmer's wife, with my sleeves turned up, making butter?"
"No, I cannot," said Aldyth, and laughed—it was impossible to take Gladys seriously—"but I do not think Guy will expect his wife to make the butter; there are few farmers wives who do that nowadays."
Mrs. Stanton breathed more freely as she heard their light talk. Had she betrayed herself? No, they could never suspect it; but the terrible pressure of her secret! At times it was insupportable.
Christmas was within hail ere Kitty and Hilda Bland came home. After their return from the Continent, they had made a long stay in London. Hilda's health and spirits had revived somewhat amidst fresh scenes and acquaintances; but the coming back was a trial to her, and she would not nerve herself to bear it bravely. It would be hard to face her little world again, and hers was a nature that seeks to avoid hardship.
"Oh, Aldyth, I cannot live here!" she cried when first they met. "Woodham is hateful to me now. Do try if you can persuade mother that I should be better away. If only she would let me be trained as a nurse!"
"Would you really like that?" Aldyth asked.
"As much as I could like anything; it would be something to do."
"You would find it very hard work, I fear. Hilda, I have an idea in my head of some work in which you might help me."
"What is it?" Hilda asked, without much interest.
"There is a cottage half a mile from Wyndham, on the edge of the common. A gamekeeper used to live in it; but it has been empty some time. There are three good rooms below and above. I am thinking of putting it in thorough repair and converting it into a country home for my factory girls. It would do some of those poor overworked girls so much good to spend a few weeks in the country. I can rely on Mrs. Wheatley to find out those who most need it, and send them down to me. Now, do you not think it a good idea?"
"Yes, it is," said Hilda, without, however, manifesting any enthusiasm.
"I shall have to find a good motherly woman to take charge of the home," said Aldyth too full of the matter to be chilled by Hilda's lack of interest. "Of course I cannot open it till the spring, but once started, I see no reason why we should not have guests there nearly all the year round. There is a pretty little garden before the house, and ground enough behind to grow all the vegetables that will be needed."
Aldyth checked herself she became aware that Hilda was paying no heed to what she said. They were seated in the bow-window of Mrs. Bland's drawing room, and Hilda's attention was arrested by two riders who were passing the house. The painful flush which had risen in Hilda's face proclaimed the individuality of the gentleman.
"Who is that with him?" she asked, in a hurried whisper.
"Gladys, my sister," Aldyth said.
"Oh, Aldyth, what does it mean?" poor Hilda asked.
"Don't distress yourself," replied Aldyth. "Their being together has no particular significance, only I will not disguise from you that Gladys's society has a strong attraction for Guy."
Hilda burst into tears.
"Oh, Aldyth, and you would have me stay at Woodham!"
After that, it was not surprising that Hilda abandoned herself afresh to melancholy, sank back into a semi-invalid state, resolutely refused all invitations, and in a variety of ways tried the patience of her mother and Kitty.
It was a pleasure to Aldyth to welcome Nelly, and Cecil also for a few days, to her home at Christmas.
Gwendolen Bland, too, was at home, and despite the distance of Wyndham Hall from Woodham, she and Kitty were often with Aldyth and her sisters. The girls made a lively party together. Gladys and Kitty took to each other and became good friends. They often rode together, dispensing with the attendance of the groom, which Mrs. Stanton insisted upon when Gladys rode alone.
Mrs. Stanton was well pleased that Kitty should be Gladys's companion, for Kitty held herself haughtily aloof from Guy Lorraine, resenting his conduct towards her sister, so that despite his sangfroid, he could hardly thrust his company upon her.
The hunting season brought the girls a new excitement. Gladys was an accomplished and fearless rider, and Kitty not a whit behind her in daring. They set their hearts upon following the hounds.
Mrs. Stanton expressed some disapproval, but did not forbid Gladys to hunt, perhaps being doubtful of her power to restrain her daughter from doing as she wished.
Mrs. Bland's consent was more difficult to win. She had a nervous dread of accident, and at first would not hear of such a thing. But in a weak hour, the combined persuasions of Gladys and Kitty overcame her better judgment. She was induced to consent for "just this once," and after that, Kitty contrived to follow the hounds as often as she desired. The two young ladies, Gladys charmingly equipped and fascinating all the gentlemen with her grace and spirit, were to be seen at most of the meets in the neighbourhood.
Admiring comments on their riding reached the ears of their mothers, and even Mrs. Bland felt some pride, for which she afterwards bitterly reproached herself, in her daughter's bold horsemanship. She ceased to feel much fear, remembering how well the girls rode, and that they had promised to do nothing rash.
"This is the last time, mother; really the last time," cried Kitty Bland, one bright morning in February, as she came down stairs in her riding habit and hat and met her mother's reproving shake of the head. Her words were truer than she knew.
The sun was shining in at the bay window, but the air outside was sharp with frost, and Hilda with a woollen shawl about her shoulders was hanging over the fire. A warm colour glowed in Kitty's face. The cold only exhilarated her. She looked so fresh and strong and glad as she stood at the window, impatiently flourishing her whip, eager to be in the saddle and off.
"I wish you would shut the door," said Hilda, in a pettish tone. "You never think that any one else is in the room."
"All right; here's Gladys. I'm off now," cried Kitty. "Good-bye!"
Hilda hardly took the trouble to respond. She had risen in a miserable humour, but had anything been needed to complete her dissatisfaction, the mention of Gladys would have been enough. It annoyed her to hear the girl's merry tones greeting Mrs. Bland, who stood at the door to watch Kitty mount.
"We shall have a lovely run; the day is perfect," Gladys said.
A burst of merry laughter followed some remark of Mrs. Bland's, and then the girls moved off. Hilda saw them pass the window, for the meet to-day was at an old manor form, "down the Hundreds." A low moan escaped her.
"Some girls have everything that heart can wish," she said to herself. "It is good to be Kitty. She is for ever off to some pleasure or other. She has never known a trouble; if she had, she might understand my feelings."
Ere the day was over Hilda recalled these thoughts with bitter pain. A terrible shock roused her from her self-absorption; for three hours later, Kitty was carried insensible across the threshold of her home. Her horse had fallen with her, and she was seriously injured—how seriously could not yet be ascertained; but her condition was such as gave rise to the worst fears.
Aldyth learned the news an hour later, when Gladys, white and shivering, came home attended by Guy, who had been at hand when the accident happened, and had rendered all the service in his power.
Gladys was too shocked and confused to give a clear account of what had happened. "I only know that the hounds were in full cry, and we were tearing after them. I saw a fence—it was not very high—and I never thought of there being a ditch the other side. 'Come, Kitty,' I cried, 'we can do this,' and went for it. I fancy some one called to me to stop."
"I shouted to you," said Guy. "I thought you must be mad to go at it like that."
He wished he could recall the words when he saw Gladys's face become convulsed with grief. He would not willingly have added to her pain.
"I was mad!" she sobbed, hysterically. "I was wild with excitement; I felt no fear even when I saw what a leap it was Pansy was taking. But the next moment there was a crash, a cry, and I saw that Kitty's horse had fallen in the ditch, and she was beneath him. Oh, the horror of it! I can never forget it. She looked like death when they lifted her."
"Oh, do not say so!" implored Aldyth. She turned to Guy in an agony of fear. "It is not so bad as that? She will recover?"
"God grant she may!" he murmured, more moved than she had ever seen him. "But—it was enough to kill her."
And that was all the comfort Aldyth could gleam from them.
KITTY SHOWS THE STRENGTH OF HER CHARACTER.
THE stroke of calamity which had fallen on her home roused Hilda Bland to an awful sense of the realities of life. She had been living in selfish dreams, nursing a sickly sentimentalism, with the assurance that she was altogether an exceptional being, exceptionally high-strung and sensitive, and wrapped in a misery which no one could understand. Self-pity had combined with self-admiration to blind her to the fact that there were other sorrows in the world besides her own. She had seen herself a patient sufferer, misconceived, slighted, unpitied; one singled out by fate for the endowment of peculiar sorrow.
And all the while she had been as one who dreams of storms in his warmly curtained bed. But now a real blast had awakened her to a sudden, pained perception of what human life is in a world where death and pain and loss are God's ministers to man.
There was nothing romantic in the blow that had shattered their happy home life. Hilda's heart sickened within her at the thought of the terrible injury, of the faint chance that Kitty would survive it, and the almost certain consequence that the life, if preserved, would be a helpless, maimed existence. And to think that on Kitty, of all persons, such a doom should fall—Kitty, always so full of life and energy, who liked to try her strength in every form of exercise, who never seemed to feel fatigue.
It was impossible to associate pain and helplessness with Kitty. Yet Hilda knew that many another bright young life had been blighted by a similar catastrophe. Such trials had been, and would be again. And it was vain to risk the why and wherefore.
"It is God's will," her mother was able to whisper in the midst of her anguish; but to Hilda that thought could yield no support. She had not learned to trust the will that embraces and controls all human life. If it were God's will so to afflict Kitty, then God was regardless of human agony, she said to herself.
Despite her cherished desire to become a nurse, Hilda was at first of little use in the sick-room. She lacked the nerve and self-control demanded of one who would serve there. But she was hardly needed, for nothing would induce Mrs. Bland to quit the bedside. Without flinching outwardly, she stood at her post, helping the surgeons, watching, waiting, praying, until the hour when the experienced surgeon summoned from London for consultation assured her that the patient would live—would live—guarding himself from using any expression that should convey the idea of restoration to health.
But at first it seemed enough to know that Kitty would not die. There was room for hope to flourish if life were granted. With tears in her eyes, Hilda told the good news to Aldyth, who came every day to see her, and was her chief comfort in this season of sorrow. Aldyth made the most of each gleam of hope, though in the background of her mind was the drear probability which the gossips of Woodham, finding something not unpleasantly thrilling in the contemplation of Kitty's crippled life, had decided must be the result of her accident.
"Mr. Russell Smith is coming down again in a few weeks' time," Hilda said. "Meanwhile it is such a comfort to know that the worst danger is over."
"And Kitty is conscious now?" Aldyth said.
"Yes, she knows us. We cannot tell how much she can remember. She gave me such a faint sad little smile this morning—it made me cry—and she said to mother, 'Cheer up, mother; I am not going to die.'"
"Does she suffer pain?"
"Terrible pain. They give her morphia to deaden it; but even so she suffers. I see her clench her hands and bite her lips to keep from crying out. She is so brave, poor Kitty!"
"Yes, she was always brave," said Aldyth.
"Oh, if this had happened to me, I could understand it," exclaimed Hilda, bursting into tears. "I deserve to suffer—I have led such a selfish, idle life. What were my troubles, after all? I was strong and well, and could enjoy everything; but to be stricken down like Kitty—oh, it is terrible!"
"Gladys cannot forgive herself because she led Kitty into danger," said Aldyth. "She feels it very much."
"I dare say; I keep thinking of how easily it all might have been prevented; and I know mother must reproach herself bitterly for yielding her consent to the hunting. But it is of no good to dwell on that now."
"No; it is too late," said Aldyth, sadly, as she rose to take her departure.
"Must you go?" said Hilda, clinging to her. "Well, it is good of you to come. Give my love to Gladys, and tell her she must not be hard on herself."
"Thank you. She and mother are going to London on Thursday to spend a few weeks. I trust the change will do them both good, for mother needs it as much as Gladys. She sleeps so badly, and is losing her appetite. I want her to consult a physician, but she declares that a doctor can do her no good."
"No doubt the change will set her up. So you will be alone; I am selfishly glad, for I hope to see the more of you."
"Auntie will be with me a great deal, but of course I shall often be at Woodham. Indeed, I cannot keep away now; I am always thinking of Kitty."
Miss Lorraine was pleased to stay at Wyndham with Aldyth whilst her mother was away. She was not a frequent visitor there at other times. She could chat more freely with her niece in her own home. She had never felt much affection for Mrs. Stanton, and often found her patience and tolerance severely tried when in her company. It vexed her to see how completely Mrs. Stanton made herself mistress of her daughter's house. Her tastes, her wishes ruled everything. The servants instinctively appealed to her on every matter; Aldyth's reign was merely nominal.
"I would not stand it, if I were Aldyth," Miss Lorraine would say to herself, perfectly aware, however, that this state of things was exactly what Aldyth desired. She never dreamed of maintaining her rights in opposition to her mother; the home was for her mother, and her pleasure, her comfort should be the chief consideration; she was ready to defer to her wishes in every possible way. But if a question of duty were involved, Aldyth could hold her own. When her mother denounced Aldyth's scheme for establishing a country home for factory girls as "Quixotic in the extreme, and an absurd waste of money," her words had surprisingly little effect.
"I am sorry you think it absurd, mamma," Aldyth said, calmly; "but I mean to try how the plan will work. I could not feel at ease in possessing so much if I made no effort to share my good things with some of my less fortunate sisters."
"I think you have managed to share them pretty considerably already," said Gladys, who was present. "I do not believe your old uncle would have left you Wyndham if he could have foreseen that we should all come and live here. Certainly you inherited it by rather a fluke, for Guy says he is sure that Mr. Lorraine meant to make another will."
"It is very bad taste of Guy to name such a thing to you. I wonder you let him!" cried Mrs. Stanton, with sudden passion in her voice.
"Oh, there was no harm in it," said Gladys, carelessly.
Aldyth looked at her mother in surprise.
Her eyes were ablaze, a crimson spot burned in each cheek, the hands which held her work trembled visibly. She met her daughter's wondering glance, and quailed before it. For a moment she could almost imagine that Aldyth read her guilty secret. She shuddered at the very thought of such a thing. It would be dreadful if Aldyth were to discover what she had done. Would it be better to make discovery impossible by destroying the will? From that hour, her mother left Aldyth free to spend her money as she would, carefully refraining from any comment that might provoke discussion of Aldyth's inheritance or her uncle's possible intentions.
By the end of March, the Cottage was in a habitable condition. And whilst her mother was absent, Aldyth busied herself, with her aunt's assistance, in fitting it up for the reception of her guests. It was pleasant work. Aldyth loved to imagine what would be the sensations of certain of those toil-worn working girls from the East-end, when they found themselves amidst the green fields and copses of Wyndham.
But ever her heart was shadowed by the thought of Kitty Bland. Her condition did not greatly improve. Again the eminent London surgeon was summoned to give his opinion. His words fell heavily on the hearts of Kitty's friends; yet he did not withhold all hope. The spine had received serious, perhaps permanent injury; but it was possible that Nature, aided by every means science could suggest, might in time effect a cure. Just possible, that was all; and no one could say how long the cure might be in progress. Only the faintest thread of hope to cling to amidst the present certainty of pain and helplessness.
Aldyth was deeply grieved when Hilda told her the state of the case. How could Kitty bear it?
"Does she know?" asked Aldyth.
"Yes; she insisted on knowing what the surgeon had said. Mother could hardly bear to tell her, but she took it so quietly; she even tried to smile, and said, in somewhat of her old funny way: 'You have me safe now, mother; I can never run away from you again.'"
"What a spirit she has!" said Aldyth.
"Ah, indeed! But you know I almost wish she would give way; it must be a terrible strain to bear up as she does, for I can see that her heart is breaking the while. It is for the sake of mother. Kitty was always so good to mother. She would like to see you, Aldyth; she said so this morning."
"Then I should like to see her," said Aldyth, but not without a sense of inward shrinking.
Hilda went away, but returned almost immediately to say that Kitty wished to see Aldyth at once.
"I am not to come in," Hilda said, as she opened the bedroom door. "Kitty wants to have you to herself."
A folding screen stood near the door. Aldyth had to advance to the other side of it ere she saw Kitty. Then she received a painful thrill. The pale, worn face, with its strained look of suffering, was so unlike the face of her old friend; the eyes, unnaturally large and dark in contrast to the shrunken features, met hers with a pathetic appeal for sympathy.
Kitty's lips moved, but no sound passed them. The sight of Aldyth was too much. Emotion could no longer be suppressed. A sudden rush of tears made speech impossible.
"Kitty!" was all Aldyth could say.
Then she cast herself on her knees beside the bed, clasping Kitty's hand and showering kisses on it.
Mrs. Bland's knitting lay upon a chair. It was well that she had been called away. Kitty's overburdened heart was relieving itself by passionate sobs; the tears rained down her cheeks as fast as Aldyth could wipe them away. Aldyth had no words to give her, only tears and kisses; but these were not without power to soothe. Gradually the storm passed. Kitty made an effort to quiet her sobs.
"Forgive me, Aldyth," she said brokenly. "You cannot know what it is."
"No, I cannot know," Aldyth's words faltered too; "but I feel for you so much."
"I know you do. Every one feels for me; I almost wish they did not. If I could cry out, it would be easier, but I cannot give way for their sake. It is hard enough for mother as it is."
"It is brave of you to bear it so, Kitty."
"Brave! Oh, Aldyth, you do not know; if you could read my heart, you would not call me brave. I have no courage to face the future. Always to be like this!"
"Not always, I trust. Remember, there is hope."
"I dare not cherish that hope," said Kitty, mournfully. "No; it is best to say always. I do not suppose it makes much difference to a prisoner, when the door of his prison closes on him, whether his imprisonment is for life or a long term of years."
"It must be good to hope," said Aldyth; "there will be alleviations."
"Will there? Oh, you mean that I may perhaps be wheeled about on an invalid couch, now to this room, and now to that, and taken into the garden once in a while. I! Who used to go anywhere and do anything. Aldyth, I cannot bear it!"
"Strength will be given you, dear Kitty. And you have always been so brave."
"Ah, but this requires a different sort of courage. Aldyth, did I ever tell you that when we were in Brittany we saw the old castle where the 'Lady of La Garraye' lived? Mrs. Lancaster bought the book, and I read it. The sad story made such an impression on me. I remember thinking on that bright morning, as we rambled about in the neighbourhood of the old castle, what a terrible thing it would be to have all the happiness swept out of one's life in that manner. Health, beauty, strength—all gone in a day! I felt that I could not bear it; and now it has come to me."
"If I remember rightly, the end of the story was not sad, Kitty," Aldyth said.
"No; she became resigned to the will of God; she found peace," Kitty said tremulously. "Oh, Aldyth, it is easy to talk of resignation when one is not tried."
"Yes, indeed; I have no right to speak of it," said Aldyth; "but—"
"Go on," said Kitty, as she hesitated: "say anything you like to me, Aldyth; I know you only want to help me."
"I was thinking that resignation is often the highest courage. To bear pain and weakness and loss of freedom with fortitude is a proof of bravery in no degree inferior to his who wins the Victoria Cross. You have read the 'History of a Short Life,' Kitty?"
"Yes, and I remember. I know what you mean; but I shall hardly win my Victoria Cross."
"You will; not in your own strength. You are not left to yourself. Kitty, I shall pray that you may be able to say: 'I can do or bear all things through Him that strengtheneth me.'"
Kitty gently pressed the hand that still held hers, but did not speak. Tears were gathering afresh in her eyes, but they were no longer bitter, hopeless tears. She lay for some time without speaking, and Aldyth, thinking her exhausted, kept silence also. Their hearts drew very close to each other, and to the Unseen Presence in the stillness.
Then Mrs. Bland entered, bringing some lovely flowers that a friend had sent.
Kitty roused herself to admire them. They must be brought close, that she might enjoy their perfume. She smiled on her mother as she bent over her. She charged Aldyth with a message for Gladys, then she whispered in Aldyth's ear as she kissed her—
"Come again soon—come often; you must help me to win my Victoria Cross."
Aldyth readily promised; she was so thankful to see a gleam of comfort on Kitty's face.
Mrs. Bland crone out of the room with her, and she too begged Aldyth to come often.
"You have done her good," she said; "she has opened her heart to you, and it has relieved her. But it is wonderful how she bears it. Such courage, such fortitude! She makes me ashamed of myself."
And Aldyth turned away with the thought that Kitty was proving herself a true heroine, although she had passed for a commonplace mortal.
A MIND DISEASED.
MRS. STANTON came home looking little better for her month's stay in town. Her face had still a worn and harassed look, and she responded in a fretful tone to Aldyth's loving greeting.
"Yes, I am very tired. The train was late at Wickham; it is so tiresome having to wait there. Oh, what a dead-alive place Woodham looks after London! I really do not know how I can exist here."
Aldyth had brightened her mother's room with fresh draperies and spring flowers, but, pleasant as the room looked, Mrs. Stanton's heart sank within her as she entered it. The place was associated for her with sleepless nights, painfully insistent thoughts, and a heavy weight of dread. She shivered as her glance fell on the wardrobe in which, locked away in her travelling desk, was the will which she dared not destroy, dared not even look upon again, but desired to keep hidden for ever.
"You are cold," said Aldyth, hastening to give the fire a stir. "The wind is very chill, although the sunshine is so brilliant. But spring is advancing; you will be surprised to see how bright the garden looks."
Mrs. Stanton turned to the window, which commanded one side of the garden. On the path below were Gladys and Guy, searching the violet bed for flowers, and laughing and talking merrily the while.
"Here already!" exclaimed Mrs. Stanton, in a tone of annoyance, as she drew back. "Guy might have spared us his company for this one evening. It is silly of Gladys to encourage him as she does."
"Sometimes I wonder if Gladys really cares for him," Aldyth ventured to say.
"Aldyth!" exclaimed her mother, in a tone of reproach. "What do you mean? Pray give your sister credit for some common sense. How is it possible that she could care for Guy?"
Aldyth might have replied that attachments are not invariably founded on common sense principles. Even the most prudent are occasionally betrayed by feeling. But she kept silence whilst her mother continued impatiently, "If your words mean what I suppose, you must know that such a thing is out of the question. I could never give my consent—unless, indeed, Guy's position were materially changed."
Mrs. Stanton's cheeks flushed as she uttered the last words. She might well shrink from seeing Guy Lorraine.
"Go down, Aldyth," she said, presently, "and see if that man is likely to stay long. I shall not come down whilst he is below."
"Very well, mamma," said Aldyth. "I am sorry he has come, since you dislike him so."
"I do dislike him," said Mrs. Stanton. "I dislike him more and more each time I see him."
The next moment the words seemed to her a dangerous admission, and she wished she could recall them.
Aldyth found that Gladys had already dismissed Guy, who had merely looked in on some slight pretext in order to ascertain if she had arrived. His visit had been highly entertaining to Gladys. His appearance, his words, his ways, all moved her to ridicule. She began to give Aldyth instances of his absurdity, laughing at him so heartily that Aldyth felt it was foolish of her to imagine for a moment that Gladys could seriously care for him. She launched her satire at him with such vehemence that Aldyth felt compelled to say a good word on his behalf.
"Come, come, Gladys," she said, "Guy is really not so bad as that. He is not lacking in physical courage. How is it that you and mamma dislike Guy so much?"
"Does mamma dislike him?" asked Gladys, changing colour.
"So she has just declared to me; but I think she is perhaps out of sorts. She does not look well, Gladys. The change has not apparently done her much good."
"She has been out of sorts, not to say cross, all the time," replied Gladys. "I fear I am rather a trial to mamma. The prince who is to make my fortune declines to appear. We met Captain Walker in town, Aldyth, and mamma had all kinds of plans for bringing him here; but, alas, he was about to sail for India with his regiment. That was a disappointment for mamma. He would have made such an aristocratic son-in-law."
"Gladys, it is very naughty of you to talk in that way."
"Now, Aldyth, you know it is true. Well, we have fresh schemes now. My mourning is to be slighted; mamma has bought me some charming grey and white gowns. We spent every penny of your cheque. There are to be dinner parties and tennis-parties and what not this summer. It is to be hoped they will have the desired result, and that I shall soon cease to be a pensioner on your bounty."
"How can you speak so!" said Aldyth, reproachfully. "It is unkind of you. As if I were not your sister! Gladys, promise me you will never allow any feeling of that kind to draw you into a marriage to which your heart does consent."
"You dear, romantic old thing!" cried Gladys, throwing arms about her sister and kissing her warmly. "No, I will promise nothing of the kind; it would not be fair to mamma." Suddenly relaxing her embrace, she ran off laughing.
At night, when Aldyth was helping her mother to undress, Mrs. Stanton said to her, "I wish you would stay with me to-night, Aldyth; I feel so nervous. I shall sleep better if I have a companion."
"Very well, mamma," said Aldyth, "that is easily arranged."
"I should like to have you always with me," said Mrs. Stanton, with more feeling than she often betrayed. "You must never leave me, Aldyth."
"I never will, if I can help it, mother dear."
"But perhaps you will marry, some day," said Mrs. Stanton, looking at her daughter.
"That is not likely, mamma."
"You have never seen any one for whom you could care?"
The colour rose in Aldyth's face, but she answered steadily, "I have not the least idea of marrying any one, mamma. All I want is to stay with you and take care of you."
Mrs. Stanton was content.
Aldyth had spoken in sincerity. Not that she had forgotten John Glynne. She could not wish to forget him. It would always be good to have known such a strong, true man. But she had resolutely striven to put from her any hope inspired by the memory of his parting words. The chance was so slight. He might never return; but if he did return, the circumstances of her life would still separate them. With her mother depending wholly upon her, the path of duty was plain; she could not turn aside from it, nor would she heed any selfish whisper that should suggest to her a happier way.
The springs were always cold at Woodham, but this season had more than its share of east wind. It was June ere the weather set in really warm. Mrs. Stanton grumbled continually at the climate, and really suffered from its severity. She was falling into a debilitated state of health, which rendered her very susceptible to chills. Aldyth did her best to relieve the gloom which weighed on her mother's mind. It seemed but a natural effect of the great change that had occurred in her life. Aldyth would remind herself of this when her mother was more than usually irritable and restless.
Mrs. Stanton could no longer reasonably complain of the dulness of her home. Visitors came frequently to Wyndham as the spring advanced. Mr. Greenwood found business to bring him to the Hall almost every week. It was discovered that the new tennis-ground at Wyndham was one of the best in the neighbourhood. Gladys, so pretty and gay, won admirers of both sexes, and had Aldyth been of a smaller nature she might have felt jealous of the amount of attention bestowed on her sister. Even as the heiress of Wyndham she had often to play a secondary part.
But Aldyth was not ambitious of social distinction, and the tennis-parties were spoiled for her by the thought of Kitty Bland, a champion player, lying helpless on her couch of pain. Aldyth spent many an hour with her friend, and Gladys too went frequently to see her. After that first meeting, Aldyth rarely saw Kitty give way to tears. Her cheerfulness was indeed a continual astonishment to Gladys. Gay, idle, as Gladys often appeared, Aldyth could perceive that she was not quite so thoughtless as she had been before Kitty's accident. The time spent with Kitty moved her to reflection. She gradually gained some insight into the secret of Kitty's brave endurance, with the result that she became dissatisfied with herself, and began to long for a higher life than the mere pursuit of pleasure which had hitherto contented her. Kitty's days of enforced idleness were not so fruitless as she imagined; she was exerting a lasting influence for good on other lives.
Spring gave place to summer, but Mrs. Stanton's spirits did not improve. She would exert herself and appear animated when visitors were present, but on their departure she sank back into a weary state of depression.
One evening Aldyth came back from a visit to Miss Lorraine, and found her mother alone in the drawing room. She had a book in her hand, but she was not reading, when Aldyth's sudden entrance caused her to start nervously. Aldyth sat down and began to draw off her gloves. She would enliven her mother with a piece of news she had learned. Clara Dawtrey was engaged to be married.
Miss Lorraine had told the news in her usual racy style, and Aldyth's eyes sparkled with fun as she recalled her aunt's words. She had not the least idea that Clara's engagement could make any difference to her.
"What is amusing you so, Aldyth?" her mother inquire in rather a fretful tone.
"I have heard some news," said Aldyth, nodding her head. "Who is engaged to be married, do you think?"
"Do not ask me to guess," said Mrs. Stanton, impatiently; "I hate guessing things."
"Well, then, it is Clara Dawtrey. As aunt says, 'her efforts are at last crowned with success.'"
"And who is the gentleman?"
"Oh, no one we know. A Mr. Gould, of London."
"What name did you say?" asked Mrs. Stanton, in such a quick, nervous tone that Aldyth looked at her in surprise.
"Gould is the name. He is a solicitor, and several years older than Clara. He is somehow connected with Essex, aunt says, and Clara Dawtrey told her that he had had some acquaintance with uncle."
"Uncle?" repeated Mrs. Stanton, feebly.
"Yes; Uncle Stephen, I mean. What is the matter, mamma? Do you know anything of this Mr. Gould?"
"Certainly not. How should I?" asked Mrs. Stanton, sharply, vexed with herself for betraying agitation.
"Something is the matter; you are feeling ill?" said Aldyth, rising, and looking anxiously at her mother's pallid, shrinking countenance.
"I am not well," said Mrs. Stanton, and a burst of tears relieved her. "My head aches. It is going to thunder, I believe. Yes, there must be thunder in the air."
"It does not feel to me like thunder-weather," said Aldyth, glancing at the sky.
But the storm Mrs. Stanton dreaded was of another kind. Gould. She could not mistake the name; it was too deeply impressed on her mind. She had read it on the hidden will. James Gould was the signature of one of the witnesses.
THE WRONG DISCLOSED.
"GOOD weather for the corn, Miss Aldyth, but not altogether comfortable for human beings."
The speaker was Mr. Ralph Greenwood, and he was alighting from a chaise at the entrance to Wyndham. Aldyth had just stepped into the road from a field to the left, and he chose to get down and walk with her.
"It is hot," said Aldyth, who, however, in her white and large hat looked by no means oppressed by the heat.
The broad flat fields were one blaze of sunlight, and only the faintest zephyr stirred the leaves. Aldyth smiled to see the little lawyer wiping his brow with an air of resignation. She was alone, save for her usual attendant, a beautiful Scotch collie.
"It was good of you to drive out on such a warm afternoon," she said; "there is no shade whatever along that road. But come this way; it is a nearer and pleasanter path to the house."
She opened a little gate into the grounds, and they followed a narrow, winding path through the shrubbery. The man in charge of the chaise drove slowly on along the carriage drive.
"Ah, this is pleasant," said Mr. Greenwood, recovering his usual brisk manner. "I have come, Miss Aldyth, because there is a little matter I must name to you."
"Oh, if it is business, please do not begin upon it till I have had a cup of tea," said Aldyth, imploringly; "this weather does not stimulate one's brains."
The lawyer laughed.
"Perhaps not," he said, "though your appearance gives a contrary impression. I feared my coming might rouse you from a siesta, but your energy is beyond everything. How many miles have you been walking in this fervent heat?"
"Not one," said Aldyth. "I have only been to the Cottage. A fresh party of girls came from London last evening. It is good to see their delight in the place. Despite the heat, it seems like a Paradise to them."
"They would hardly be conscious of the heat here after East London," he replied. "I shudder to think what those courts and alleys must be like on such a day as this. Then your plan is working well?"
"Yes, fairly well," said Aldyth. "Poor old Mrs. Dibbins was at first rather frightened of the girls, but she is learning how to manage them. They are rough, poor things; they have no idea of enjoying themselves quietly; but we shall tame them by degrees. I go down every day for a little while."
"It is very good of you," said Mr. Greenwood.
"No, it is not good," said Aldyth, shaking her head; "it is just my hobby. I can assure you few things have given me more pleasure than I have found in arranging this home. I am so glad I have the means of doing it."
"Then you have become reconciled to your riches?" he said, with one of his quick, shrewd glances.
"I believe so," said Aldyth, simply. "I value the power that money confers; I am afraid I should not like to lose it now."
"Strange things happen in life," observed the lawyer, thoughtfully stroking his chin.
His words had no particular significance for Aldyth. She supposed them to refer to her unexpected acquisition of the property. They were approaching the house. She led him across the lawn, and they entered by one of the drawing room windows.
Aldyth regretted the unceremonious entrance as she saw her mother rise, pale and dismayed, from the sofa. Yet Mrs. Stanton was not unprepared for visitors. She wore a black gown of some light diaphanous texture, elegantly made, and becoming well her tall, graceful form. She conquered her nervousness by an assumption of the most queenly dignity. Mr. Greenwood thought her demeanour absurdly "high and mighty;" but he was moved to pity by the look of suffering stamped on the pale, handsome features.
"This hot weather is trying you, I fear," he said, kindly. "You do not look strong."
"I am in my usual health, thank you," she replied, so haughtily that his remark seemed an impertinence.
"We must have some tea," said Aldyth, moving towards the bell; "that is what we want—Mr. Greenwood most of all, since he has driven along that hot, dusty road to speak with me on business."
"If it is business, I had better go," said Mrs. Stanton, half rising with a languid movement.
"Mamma!" cried Aldyth, reproachfully. "As if my business were not yours!"
Mrs. Stanton sank back into her place. She was longing yet dreading to hear the lawyer's business.
"It is nothing to make a mystery of," said Mr. Greenwood, in his easy, cheerful manner. "I only want Miss Aldyth to be kind enough to let me look through her uncle's papers once more. A curious fact has come to light."
The blood flew into Mrs. Stanton's face, her heart throbbed wildly, her breath came fast. What was he about to say?
"You have heard of Mr. Gould, Miss Dawtrey's fiancé? He is a solicitor, practising in London; his office is in Chancery Lane. Well, Mr. Guy Lorraine has lately made his acquaintance, and has heard from him a strange story. It seems that Mr. Stephen Lorraine, only a few months before his death—in April, I believe it was—went to London and called on him. He said he wished to make a will, and must have it drawn up at once, that he might sign it without delay. He gave certain clear, concise directions, and waited there in the office for three whole hours till the will was ready for his signature. Gould and his clerk were the witnesses. Mr. Lorraine insisted on carrying the will away with him. There was no time to make a copy."
"Then that was what brought uncle to London!" The words escaped Aldyth almost unawares.
"You knew of his being there?"
"Yes, I met him most unexpectedly in Oxford Street. I remember he had a small packet in his hand. He made me promise to tell no one of my meeting him—he did not want it talked about at Woodham."
"Ah, that was it," said the lawyer quickly; "he wanted to do it on the sly, without my knowing anything about it. He was ashamed to let me know that he had changed his mind. I had put things to him as strongly as I dared. But what a mistake it was! Why could he not have come to me, his own lawyer, and let me draw up another will for him?
"Now who is to say what has become of this last will? Did he change his mind a second time and destroy it, intending the former will to stand? Or have we overlooked this, his last will, and is it yet to be found? This is a vital question for you, Miss Aldyth. You understand, do you not, that the will by which you inherit was made in January of last year, and would be invalid if a later one were found?"
"I understand!" said Aldyth.
She was startled but not confused by the lawyer's words. In a moment her mind had grasped the whole situation. She saw all that it involved for Guy, for herself, for her mother. A few minutes before she had been rejoicing in the power her wealth gave her; now it seemed probable that the wealth had never been hers. Well, she had been happy without riches, and she could be happy without them again. Her mother would feel the change most.
For a few moments Aldyth dared not glance towards her mother; she wondered that no word or sound escaped her. Whilst these thoughts were passing through Aldyth's mind with lightning speed, the lawyer went on talking in courteously regretful tones.
"It is much to be deplored that there should be any question as to the validity of the will. Mr. Lorraine ought to have acquainted use with his intentions. It is a very awkward thing when a later will is discovered, after one has been proved and put into execution. Mr. Gould avers that this later will bequeathed Wyndham and most of the property to Mr. Guy Lorraine; he, naturally, is much excited by the intelligence. I told him I was sure you would have no objection to my instituting a thorough search for the missing document."
Aldyth's mind had taken a new flight during his deliberate utterances. She was recalling the words her uncle had said to her as they sat together in Hyde Park, recalling too the drear hour when she stood by his bedside, and he had vainly striven to say to her something which was believed to have reference to his will.