"Uncle did not destroy that will," she exclaimed aloud, in a tone of conviction; "it will be found somewhere in this house, I fully believe. Search for it by all means—search everywhere. How I wish we had known of it before!"
An exclamation from Mr. Greenwood startled her.
She turned to see her mother falling in a fainting fit to the floor.
During the next two hours, Aldyth had no thought of any one save her mother. Mrs. Stanton recovered from one swoon only to sink back into another. Her condition was so alarming that a messenger was despatched with all haste to seek the doctor.
Mr. Greenwood lingered in the drawing room, not knowing whether to go or to stay, and making vain offers of service to every one who came in his way, till Gladys took pity on him, and managed to get from Aldyth the keys of the library, after which he found plenty of occupation.
The medical man appeared to think seriously of Mrs. Stanton's condition. He inquired if she had sustained any shock that could account for it. It could hardly be called shock, Aldyth said; but she had heard what might well cause her anxiety. Perhaps, he suggested, it was the last of a series of mental disturbances—the "last straw" of the proverb. The symptoms indicated a shattered condition of the nerves and a complete prostration of strength. Aldyth could not say that her mother had of late had great worries; but she had certainly for some time seemed restless and unhappy, and doubtless the loss of her husband and the ruin of his firm were sufficient cause.
It was evening ere Aldyth found leisure to go down stairs and see what Mr. Greenwood was doing. She found him in the library. He had thoroughly ransacked the bureau, and in doing so had discovered the secret recess.
"Look!" he said, as he pointed it out to her. "This was what led me to the discovery. The third drawer was unlocked; it would not quite close. I searched for the cause, and saw this bit of white stuff caught at the back. Pulling out the drawer to free it, I saw a little nick in the wood, which let me into the secret of the hollow beyond. Now, that piece of stuff was never worn by Stephen Lorraine. Some one has been prying here. Was it one of the servants, do you think?"
"No," said Aldyth. "Mrs. Rogers kept the keys; she would not let one of the servants have them; and my trust in her is absolute."
"Yes?" said the lawyer, with a rather dubious air.
Aldyth bent to examine the fragment of linen. It was of the finest lawn, apparently torn from a frill, such as her mother had been wont to wear in the sleeves of her crape gown. Aldyth's colour rose with the thought. Various possibilities suggested themselves to her mind. She could not have told why it was, but from that moment, the idea that her mother was concealing some knowledge of the later will took possession of Aldyth's mind, and refused to be dislodged. She turned to Mr. Greenwood, speaking rather tremulously—
"Mrs. Rogers had nothing to do with this, I feel certain; but I will make inquiries, I will try to ascertain if any one has been to the bureau."
"It will be well, to do so," he replied.
"Will you search further to-night?" she asked.
"No, not now. I must be getting home," he said.
"You will have some dinner before you start?"
"No, thank you, I must not stay. Mrs. Greenwood will be expecting me. I shall be out again in a day or two. Mrs. Stanton will be better then, I trust."
"I hope so," Aldyth said. "But I feel uneasy, her pulse is so high."
It was indeed many days ere Mrs. Stanton could be pronounced on the way to recovery. She developed a kind of low fever, and though her life was never in actual danger, her condition was such that Aldyth suffered much anxiety.
Part of the time she was delirious, and the words she uttered in her delirium seemed to confirm the painful impression Aldyth had received. Something evidently weighed on the mind of the patient, something she was anxious to conceal.
Was it a wrong done to Guy, that his name was so often on her lips, uttered in tones of aversion and dread? What was it that she persistently declared to be "no crime under the circumstances?"
Crime! The word thrilled Aldyth with horror. Could it possibly be that her mother had destroyed the will by which Guy should have inherited Wyndham? Aldyth could not seriously entertain the idea, and yet the fear haunted her. Miserable was her anxiety and suspense as she watched beside her mother's bed, performing every duty with the tenderest care. The very thought of her inheritance had become a torture to her. What if she had no right to the home she occupied? What if she were daily spending money that was not hers?
Meanwhile search had been made throughout the house, in every possible and impossible place, for the missing will. Only the sick-room had not been searched. Aldyth longed for the day when she might satisfy herself with regard to that, but it would have been impossible for her to look through drawers and cupboards without her mother's permission.
The fever passed, but left the patient so reduced in strength, that her progress towards convalescence was of the slowest. Mind as well as body was sadly depressed. Aldyth did not need the doctor's hint to convince her that there was a burden on her mother's mind which retarded her recovery.
In vain Aldyth tried to discover its nature. It was impossible to give help whilst confidence was resolutely withheld. Mrs. Stanton never alluded to the lawyer's visit, nor inquired the result of his search. She might have forgotten all about it, yet Aldyth felt sure that she had not. Was not this the cause of her deep-drawn sighs, her weary movements, and the sleeplessness which defied the doctor's drugs?
One warm afternoon, Mrs. Stanton lay on the couch in her bedroom.
"We shall soon have you down stairs now, mamma," Aldyth had said, as she helped her into her dressing-gown.
But her mother only shook her head and sighed. The thought of resuming her old life was distasteful to her. She had taken a dislike to Wyndham, and her strongest desire at the present moment was to escape from the place. Yet her heart clung to the comforts and luxuries which Aldyth's inheritance had secured for her.
"It is very warm," she murmured, presently. "Where is that palm-leaf fan, Aldyth? It is lighter to hold than this one."
"I could not find it yesterday," Aldyth replied; "perhaps it is in the wardrobe."
She opened the doors as she spoke.
The next minute, Mrs. Stanton saw with a thrill of dread that Aldyth had mounted a chair, and was searching on the top shelf of the wardrobe. A hectic colour suddenly glowed in the cheeks of the invalid; her voice was sharp to shrillness, as she exclaimed—
"What are you doing, Aldyth? You will not find it there. Come down at once; you know I cannot bear people to turn over my things."
Startled by her mother's manner, Aldyth sprang down. "Why, mamma, I was doing no harm," she said; "there is hardly anything on that shelf except your travelling desk."
A shudder ran through Mrs. Stanton's weakened frame. She was ashamed to meet her daughter's eyes, full of wonder at her excessive agitation.
Aldyth's glance was penetrating; she half read, half guessed the cause of that agitation. Hence her next remark—"Mamma, I may soon have to ask you to let me look through your wardrobe and drawers."
"What do you mean?"
"I promised Mr. Greenwood I would look everywhere for that will. Do you remember about it?"
For a few moments Mrs. Stanton could not reply. Her face grew ashy white to the very lips. Then she rallied herself to utter the retort, "What right has he or any one to suppose that it can be amongst my things? That wardrobe contains only what is mine."
"He supposes nothing of the kind," said Aldyth; "I only want, for my own satisfaction, to be able to assure him that the will is nowhere in the house."
Mrs. Stanton's lips moved, but no sound passed them. She could not utter the untrue word. Something within her said that it was vain to struggle longer; further concealment was impossible. Yet she shrank from the disclosure that must be made.
"Mother, do you know anything about this will?"
Mrs. Stanton covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.
"Mamma! Then it is so. Tell me—where is it?"
No reply. Mrs. Stanton began to sob.
"Mamma, I must know." There was sternness in Aldyth's voice now. "You have not destroyed the will?"
"No, no; not that!" cried Mrs. Stanton, excitedly. "Nothing so bad as that. You will think it very wrong, I know; but I did it for the best."
"What did you do for the best?" asked Aldyth, trying hard to control herself, but with an inevitable hardness in her manner. "You found the will, I suppose. What have you done with it?"
"Yes, I found it," sobbed Mrs. Stanton, "and I have not had a happy moment since. It is up there, Aldyth. You were near it just now. In the travelling desk."
In another minute, Aldyth had the desk in her hands.
Directed by her mother, she found the key and opened the desk. There was the will, and a glance assured Aldyth it was the one that Mr. Gould had drawn up for her uncle.
"How long is it since you found this?" Aldyth inquired.
"Oh, a long time ago," sobbed Mrs. Stanton. "Aldyth, don't look at me like that. It cannot matter so very much."
"I must know when," said Aldyth, firmly.
"Well, then, it was the day after I came to Wyndham. Mrs. Rogers gave me the keys, and I thought I would amuse myself by looking through the bureau. It was in a secret recess behind some drawers. Oh, I wish I had never found it! It made me miserable."
"Wish rather that you had never concealed it," cried Aldyth, unable to suppress her indignation. "How could you bear to go on living so for nearly a year, living in a home which does not belong to us, on an income to which we have no right, living like common thieves and swindlers?"
"Aldyth, how can you speak so!"
"I cannot gloss it over, mamma," said Aldyth, coldly. "It was an act of dishonesty, look at it how you will. Guy was kept out of his property. But there shall be an end to it."
"What are you going to do?" asked Mrs. Stanton, in a frightened tone, as Aldyth turned to quit the room.
"I shall send for Guy at once that he may hear what you have told me."
"Not from me!" cried Mrs. Stanton, excitedly. "I could not tell him. And there is surely no need to tell him everything. It is enough that the will is found."
"It is not enough," said Aldyth, decidedly. "Guy has a right to know all. Nothing can justify further concealment. If I were you, I would make a full confession to him."
"That I can never do," sobbed her mother. "I could not bear the shame, the exposure."
"Then I will tell him," said Aldyth. "It may not be necessary for others to know, but I must insist upon Guy's being told all."
"You are unkind to me, Aldyth!" cried her mother, passionately. "You do not care how much I suffer."
The words smote Aldyth. Was her proud sense of the wrong done to herself as well as to Guy rendering her pitiless? She remembered her mother's weakness, her recent illness, and the doctor's fear of a relapse, all the suffering which her sin had caused her. She went back and spoke in a softer tone as she bent over her mother.
"Forgive me, mamma, if I seem harsh and cruel. You do not know what this is to me. I would not for the world have had you act so. But it cannot be helped now, and you have suffered greatly. It only remains for us to do all in our power to make amends to Guy. And we must begin by full confession. There is no other way to peace for those who have sinned. It is when we confess and forsake our sin that we find mercy."
"I never meant to do anything so very bad," sobbed Mrs. Stanton; "but I thought it would be so dreadful for us all to be poor. Gladys's prospects would be ruined, and Cecil's education stopped. I am sure I did it for the best."
Aldyth's face grew stern again.
"It can never be well, to do what is wrong," she said, abruptly. Then, feeling that words were of little use, she left the room, carrying the will with her.
Gladys was not to be found, so she sent Mrs. Rogers to take care of her mother, and sat down to write a few lines to Guy. They were quickly written and the note despatched.
Aldyth breathed more freely when this was done. She went to her room, and the first thing which met her eyes was the portrait of her mother, on which her affection had feasted through the long years of absence. Mrs. Stanton's wan, wasted countenance of to-day had little resemblance to the lovely contour of the photograph; and no less a contrast did her mother's character, as Aldyth now knew it, present to that of the ideal mother whom Aldyth had worshipped in her heart through all those years.
Ah, the pity of it! Aldyth's heart throbbed with pain as those fancies of the past came back to her recognized as illusions. It was her mother who had done this wrong, this dishonourable action. With what a burning sense of shame and degradation Aldyth realized the truth! She had not dreamed that she would ever be called to share the burden of her mother's sin. It pressed upon her cruelly. She felt as if she were the guilty one. How could she confess to Guy the wrong that had been done him? It was useless to ask. There was no evading the task, and she summoned all her resolution for performance of the painful duty.
HOW GUY WAS PACIFIED.
GUY LORRAINE was filled with wonder as he read Aldyth's brief note—
"DEAR Guy,—Will you call to see me as early as possible to-morrow? A fact has come to my knowledge which is of importance to you, and you should know it without delay."Your affectionate cousin,"ALDYTH."
His mind being much occupied with the subject of his uncle's will, his first guess touched the truth. Had another will come to light? His face flushed with pleasure at the thought.
He lost no time in obeying the summons. The morning was still fresh as he rode through the country lanes to Wyndham. His mind dwelt pleasantly on the change that the day's news might possibly create in his life. He was in such good humour that he indulged in some prospective pity for Aldyth, and resolved that if the case were as he supposed, he would deal generously with her and her family.
And Gladys—his heart beat faster at the thought—how would such a change affect his position towards her? It might be that the Stanton family need not be entirely losers by this turn of fortune.
Arriving at the Hall, he was ushered into the empty drawing room. The open windows gave a pleasant view of the sunlit lawn. Gladys's music was scattered untidily on the grand piano, her fan lay on a chair, and he spied, too, the quaint little bag in which she kept a pretence of fancy work. His quick eyes had but time to note these ere Aldyth entered.
She was very pale; her eyes had the strained look of sleeplessness, her expression was anxious. It struck Guy that Aldyth was losing her good looks; she looked older; her charms would not bear comparison with those of Gladys. Then he saw what her left hand held, and his heart leaped within him.
"Good morning, Guy," said Aldyth, without giving him her hand; "I am glad you came at once."
"You have news for me."
"Yes," said Aldyth, her lips trembling nervously, "I have a painful confession to make. We have wronged you sadly, Guy. We had no right to live at Wyndham; it was never mine. Here is uncle's latest will."
"You have found it!" he exclaimed with eagerness.
He took it from her and unfolded it with trembling hands. The colour rose in his face as he read. Aldyth, watching him, saw with a sinking heart that he had failed to take in the meaning of her words. All he had grasped was the fact of his heirship. At last he turned to her, his face glowing with a satisfaction he vainly tried to veil.
"This is a strange turning of the tables, Aldyth."
"Yes," she said uneasily.
He could not wonder that she looked ill and troubled. It was hard on her, of course. Yet in truth she had given no thought to the considerations which he imagined must disturb her. "I am sorry for your sake, Aldyth."
"Oh, do not be sorry for me," she said; "at least not till you know all."
"Ah, by the by, how did you find this? Mr. Greenwood assured me he had searched everywhere."
Aldyth was silent. Her face grew colourless. She could not bring herself to say, "It was found in my mother's bedroom, where she had concealed it."
Guy looked at her in amazement. "Where was it, Aldyth? Why do you not speak?"
"Because it hurts me to speak," she said unsteadily. "Yet it is right that you should know all. Guy, I told you I had a confession to make. You have been greatly wronged. The will has been kept back. Do you understand?"
"Kept back," he repeated, his manner changing. "Do you mean to tell me that this will has been deliberately suppressed? Who has dared to do such a thing?"
Aldyth could not answer. Her hands were tightly clasped before her. She looked up at him with eyes that seemed to beg for pity. But her silence only angered him.
"Aldyth, I insist upon knowing all. Who has dared to fool me thus? Do you not know that it is a deed that the law can punish? And whoever has done this thing—Tomlinson, Greenwood, whoever it is—I will have justice."
"Oh, Guy, do not say that!"
"I do say it, and I mean it too. Tell me all, if you please."
"I am trying to tell you. The will was found last September."
"September! And this is August. Who found it? Ah, you do not answer! Aldyth, have you been conspiring to keep me out of my property? I could never have believed it of you, though I know a woman's conscience is elastic."
"Guy! How dare you traduce our sex in that way!" exclaimed Gladys, suddenly entering by the open window, her hands full of flowers.
She knew nothing of the cause of Guy's early visit. Aldyth had shrunk from informing her of their mother's wrong-doing. If she supposed the words she overheard to be playfully spoken, she was undeceived when she saw Guy's angry countenance, and Aldyth, standing before him, pale, trembling, with drooping head.
"What in the world is the matter?" exclaimed the astonished girl. "You two are never quarrelling! Aldyth, my own dear Aldyth, tell me what it is."
At the sound of her voice, Aldyth's composure gave way. She sank on to a couch and began to sob.
Gladys turned haughtily to Guy. "Perhaps you will give me an explanation of this extraordinary scene. I should like to know how you could think of addressing such words to my sister, as those I chanced to overhear."
Guy's colour deepened now from embarrassment. He shrank from Gladys's flashing eyes. It was like a bad dream to find himself in antagonism to her. But something forced him to answer sullenly—
"You are probably unaware of what has just been revealed to me. Here is a will, bearing my uncle's signature, duly attested, by which he left me Wyndham and most of his property. This will some dishonourable person found so long ago as last September, but has judged it her interest to conceal until now, and doubtless would have concealed it longer had not Gould put me on the scent by informing me that uncle had made a later will."
Gradually Gladys took in the meaning of his words. They caused her a shock of surprise, but she recovered herself and said—
"You cannot mean to insinuate that Aldyth is that dishonourable person! I am ashamed of you if you have entertained such a thought for a moment—you who have known Aldyth all your life."
"I do not say it was she," replied Guy awkwardly; "but I should like to know who did it."
Gladys threw herself on the sofa beside her sister.
"Aldyth, dear, tell me," she murmured, her lips close to Aldyth's face, "tell me all about it. Never mind him—he is horrid; whisper it to me."
"Oh, Gladys, can you not guess?"
"Guess what?"
"It was mamma who found the will—and hid it."
A change came over Gladys. Her colour faded; the lines of her face hardened.
"I might have known," she muttered, beneath her breath. Then she rose and stood before Guy. "You may despise me as much as you like," she said, "but not Aldyth. It is our mother who has tried to keep you out of your property—our mother, I say; but she is more mine than Aldyth's. We are of one kind—capable of any meanness. She has robbed you, and doubtless she would say she did it for my sake. Oh, we are a bad lot!"
"Gladys!"
"I mean it. You may heap any disgrace you like on us, only spare Aldyth. It is her misfortune to be connected with us."
Here Gladys's voice faltered. It was rarely she gave way to tears, but now she sank on to a chair, and hot tears of shame and sorrow rained down her checks.
The effect on Guy was electrical. In a moment, he was beside her, uttering passionate words. "Gladys, how can you speak of disgrace! There shall be none; no one shall ever know. Do you think I cannot, for your dear sake, forgive your mother any wrong she has done me? Despise you, indeed, when I love you like my life! Only say that you will share everything with me, and trust to me that all shall be well."
"No, Guy; not now," said Gladys, gently pushing him from her. "Mother would never have let me whilst you had only the farm, and now—now I cannot. I will not have it said that I changed my mind because Wyndham turned out to be yours."
"Would it be a change of mind?" Guy was happily inspired to ask. "Were you quite indifferent to me before? Darling, give me the right to call you my own, and we can keep our own counsel about Wyndham for the present. If you can love me, what does it matter how people talk?"
"You are very good; we do not deserve—" Gladys began.
But her lover would not listen to such words.
Meanwhile Aldyth had vanished, and neither of the two knew at what moment she slipped away.
As soon as she had regained composure, Aldyth went to her mother's room.
Mrs. Stanton's face wore an expression of pain. She looked anxiously at her daughter, saying only—
"Well!"
"I have told him," Aldyth replied. "It was hard, but—I felt—not undeserved. He was, of course, very indignant."
"Ah, what did he say? Will he turn us out at once?"
"I think not; his feelings were softened when I came away. Gladys was with him, and—I think—I suppose, mamma, you would not object to him as a suitor for Gladys now?" Almost involuntarily Aldyth's voice took an inflection of scorn as she asked the question; but Mrs. Stanton did not appear conscious of it, as she replied calmly—
"Certainly not: it would be the best thing possible under the circumstances."
Guy succeeded in overcoming Gladys's scruples, for in a few days the fact of their betrothal was the talk of Woodham. The more momentous news concerning the inheritance of Wyndham was for a time known only to Mr. Ralph Greenwood and his brother, the banker; but the legal processes which had to be taken rendered it impossible to keep the matter a secret long.
Great was the excitement it created amongst Aldyth's friends. The Blands at first refused to believe that it was more than an idle rumour; but they soon heard it confirmed by Aldyth herself.
"Yes, it is true," she said one afternoon, as she joined the group on the lawn in Mrs. Bland's garden, "it is true; I am no longer the mistress of Wyndham."
It was late in September, but the afternoon was warm and bright as that on which our story began. The garden was still gay with flowers; there were even a few late roses to be seen here and there. Kitty's conch had been wheeled on to the lawn, and she lay in the shade of an old apple-tree. Gwendolen, now finally released from her boarding-school, was lounging in the hammock; Hilda sat by Kitty, with a book on her lap, from which she had been reading aloud; Mrs. Bland, knitting in hand, was also seated near.
All faces turned with keen interest to Aldyth as she appeared. Hilda sprang to meet her. No question was asked; Aldyth's words were uttered in response to their eager glances.
"You are our own dear Aldyth, whatever has happened," said Mrs. Bland, as she warmly kissed her.
"But I am very sorry, Aldyth," said Hilda, in a commiserating tone; "I am indeed."
"Don't be sorry for me," said Aldyth, briskly, "I am not altogether sorry myself. If the truth had come to light a few weeks after I entered upon my inheritance, I should have been really glad. But now, of course, there are many things to regret. I wish, oh, I wish very much that I had known earlier!" She ended with a sigh.
"How was the will found, Aldyth?" asked Gwendolen, full of curiosity. "Is it true that it was in a secret drawer of old Mr. Lorraine's desk?"
"It was in a secret compartment of my uncle's bureau," Aldyth said, and moved, as she spoke, to Kitty's side, to ask how she was, and to express pleasure at finding her in the garden.
"Yes, it is good to be here," said Kitty, her face serene and bright; "I never loved our dear old garden as I do now. Sometimes I feel as if I wanted to kiss the flowers, they look so kindly at me—as if they were blooming just for me. Oh, I cannot tell you the good flowers do me; I could almost say they talk to me, Aldyth, for there is a language of flowers. I do not mean the silly meanings sentimental persons attach to certain flowers. What I want to say, if only I knew how to express it, is that flowers have a way of speaking to the heart."
"To me the meanest flower that blows can giveThoughts that do often lie too deep for tears,"
repeated Aldyth.
"Yes, that expresses it. Wordsworth understood the language of flowers. Do you remember his lines to the daisy?—
"'When smitten by the morning rayI see thee rise, alert and gay:Then, cheerful flower, my spirits playWith kindred gladness;And when, at dusk, by dews opprest,Thou sink'st, the image of thy restHath often eased my pensive breastOf careful sadness.'
"Now look at that cluster of Michaelmas daisies: have they not an air of cheerfulness?"
"They have indeed," said Aldyth, smiling; "but, Kitty, it is something new to hear you quoting poetry."
"I dare say it is; but I am learning to appreciate Wordsworth. Hilda and I are studying literature together. I should not wonder if I were to become intellectual after all," said Kitty, with a merry light in her eyes.
"Kitty is finding what precious companions books can be," said Hilda. "There is nothing like them for lifting us out of ourselves, and helping us through weary hours."
"Oh, but they do more than that," said Aldyth. "The best literature helps us in a higher way than by simply making us forget our troubles. It teaches truths that inspire us with strength and courage to endure."
"You are right," said Kitty. "Aldyth, dear, I can see that you have needed that kind of help of late. There is a shadow on your face that tells tales."
"I have had many worries," said Aldyth, colouring.
"You must have had," said Mrs. Bland. "Your mother will feel this change very much."
"She does," said Aldyth, looking grave. "She is still far from strong, and that perhaps makes her more low-spirited than she would otherwise be."
"Have you made any plans yet?"
"Only for the immediate future. We all go to London on Saturday, to stay some weeks. There is Gladys's trousseau to be seen to, you know. Then mamma would like to go to Brighton for a while."
"To Brighton!" said Hilda. "That is where Mr. Greenwood talks of going."
"I know," said Aldyth. "I believe he suggested it to mamma."
Kitty and her mother exchanged quick glances.
"When will the wedding be?" asked Gwen.
"Some time before Christmas," said Aldyth. "We are to return to Wyndham for the wedding, as Guy wishes it to take place there. So you see we shall break off our connection with the Hall by degrees. I must say that Guy has behaved most kindly, most generously, in the whole affair. I have reason to be very grateful to him."
Aldyth spoke with unwonted emphasis. It seemed to her due to Guy, whom she had often disparaged, that she should make this statement which meant so much more to her than it could to those who heard it.
"I should think he ought to behave well to you!" cried Gwen. "He is one of the family now, since he is going to marry your sister."
A quick thought made Aldyth glance at Hilda. Her face showed no sign of disturbance. If the thought of the approaching wedding gave her pain, she was well able to hide the feeling. Presently she rose, and calling Gwen to help her, went into the house to prepare the afternoon tea. Kitty's eyes followed her lovingly, as she said in a low tone to Aldyth—
"Is not Hilda good and brave now? I am sure she must feel Guy's ready transference of his affections, but she will not let it depress her. Oh, she is becoming a grand girl."
"I know a grander," said Aldyth, bending to kiss her friend. "Dear Kitty, you gather so much brightness about your couch that we are apt to forget what it must mean for you."
"It means good," said Kitty, brightly. "Yes, indeed it is not so bad as you think; I will not be persuaded that I am a pitiable object."
Aldyth smiled as she turned away.
A pitiable object indeed! Kitty was rather one to be envied. She had learned the hardest lesson life can teach us—that of resignation, and had won the peace which is the reward of such attainment. Kitty had never been able to talk cleverly about poetry, she had seemed insensible to its beauties, but now she was making of her own life a poem.
THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS.
"ALDYTH, I want to have a talk with you," said Gladys, that night, following Aldyth into her room as they were about to retire to rest; "I hope you are not very sleepy."
"I am not," said Aldyth, who of late had been driven to woo sleep with no happier result than usually attends such wooings; "let us talk by all means."
She drew forward the easiest chair for Gladys, who was never indifferent to her personal comfort, then seated herself by her sister's side, looking down admiringly on the pretty, flossy hair and the flushed cheek that rested against the chintz cushions. Gladys looked so bright and happy. She was well content with the prospect before her.
The girl who had entered with zest into the gaieties of town life, and won admiration in crowded assemblies, had adapted herself with remarkable ease to a country life. She had no illusions concerning the man she had promised to marry; but she had a genuine affection for him, nevertheless. She knew he was not heroic; had he been, he would probably not have suited her so well. They had kindred tastes, and Guy's easy good nature could be trusted to yield to her wishes when they did not exactly coincide with his own. Gladys would in all likelihood get her own way in the future as completely as she had in the past; but Guy would be quite happy in following her lead. Aldyth saw this with satisfaction.
"I have been talking with Guy about your home, Aldyth," Gladys said, "and he agrees with me that it must not be given up. He says that as long as the plan works well, and the girls behave themselves, the Cottage shall be used for no other purpose."
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"That is very good of Guy, and good of you, Gladys," said Aldyth, flushing with pleasure. The thought that she would no longer be able to maintain this country home for her working girls had caused her much regret.
"It is not good at all; I shall never be good like you, Aldyth, though I mean to try," said Gladys, wistfully. "I want you to tell me how you manage, and I will try to do all I can for the girls. And if you will give me the address, I will send some flowers to London, whenever they are sufficiently plentiful."
"Oh, thank you!" said Aldyth, delighted. "That is very kind. You shall come with me to the Cottage to-morrow, if you like; and I will show you the little things I always look after myself. But the chief thing is to speak a kind word to the girls, and make them feel that they have a friend in you. That is not difficult."
"Not to you, perhaps; but I doubt if I can act such a part," said Gladys, shrugging her shoulders.
"Don't act it, be it," said Aldyth. "Begin to serve, and you will soon find it easy to love those you serve."
"Shall I?" said Gladys. "Well, I mean to try. You have often made me feel how selfish and useless a life I led—you and Kitty Bland. I am ashamed of myself when I see Kitty so brave and cheerful, thinking ever of others."
"You are learning to think of others," Aldyth said.
"I hope so," Gladys said; "but perhaps it is only a whim of mine, and I shall fall back into the old ways after a bit."
"You must not let it be a whim, Gladys."
"I'll try my best," said Gladys; "but, Aldyth, I hope you will still be able to do a good deal for the Home yourself. I hope you will not go far off. Have you any idea where you and mamma will live?"
"Not the least," said Aldyth.
She had tried more than once to approach the subject with her mother, but Mrs. Stanton had always evaded it.
"Well, perhaps it is best to leave it for the present," Gladys said. "You must come and see me very often. I shall want your help if I am to become a better woman."
"It is not my help you want, Gladys. The secret of a true life is to be found here, and God will give His help to all who ask it."
As she spoke, Aldyth laid her hand on the small neatly-bound copy of the New Testament that lay on her table. Gladys's face grew strangely grave. There was an earnest look in her blue eyes as she turned them on Aldyth. For a few minutes neither spoke. Then Gladys rose to say good-night. No other word was spoken, but the heart of each was thrilled with a new happiness as they clasped each other warmly ere they parted.
A few days later, Aldyth, her mother, and sister were in London. Visits to shops, dressmakers, and milliners filled up most of their time. Mrs. Stanton had agreed with Aldyth as to the necessity of making the preparations for Gladys's wedding as simple as possible, but it was evident that her idea of simplicity differed widely from that of Aldyth. She was driven to wonder uneasily how the bills were to be met which her mother ran up without the least hesitation. She could not but be aware that it would be a very difficult matter for her mother to keep her expenditure within the limits of the small income that was all Aldyth could now command—the interest of the six thousand pounds her uncle had bequeathed to her in his later will.
Aldyth was met by many practical difficulties as she tried to plan out their future. What was to be done with Nelly? She would leave school at Christmas, but she was too young and in no way suited to take the post of a governess. There seemed no possibility now of her having the art training on which her heart was set. Guy had promised to extend a helping hand to Cecil till he could stand alone, but it was not to be expected that he would do anything for Nelly. The main burden of anxiety seemed to rest on Aldyth. Mrs. Stanton complained and lamented, but never really pondered the problem of the future. And whilst Aldyth worried herself over ways and means, her mother calmly decided that the state of her health rendered it imperative that they should spend a few weeks at Brighton before they returned to Wyndham.
It was whilst at Brighton that Aldyth, taking up the "Times" one morning, saw an announcement which thrilled her heart with sympathetic pain. Mrs. Glynne was dead. Aldyth had not known her, but her aunt's account of her old friend and her simple, happy home at Highgate, as well as John Glynne's words respecting his mother, had conveyed to her mind a very vivid impression. It was almost like losing a personal friend. It grieved her to think of the sorrow of the bereaved. What a blow it would be to John Glynne! Was the mail carrying him the melancholy news, or had he heard of his mother's critical state in time to hasten to her side and receive her last farewell? His quiet, undemonstrative demeanour hid a heart of rare warmth and tenderness. Aldyth knew him well enough to know something of the strength of his love for his mother, and how deeply he would feel parting with her. She longed for fuller information than was afforded by the bare newspaper paragraph, but the longing remained unsatisfied, for, strange to say, Miss Lorraine in her letters made no allusion to her friend's death.
Towards the end of November Aldyth was again at Wyndham, and ere the month was out, Gladys's wedding took place. A simple wedding it was said to be, but it was a simplicity which required the richest white satin and the daintiest etcæteras. Mrs. Stanton could never have forgiven herself if she had allowed Gladys to be married in a common fashion.
The good people at Woodham appreciated the spectacle prepared for their delectation, and many were of opinion that a handsomer bridegroom or a prettier bride had never crossed the threshold of the parish church. Aldyth and Nelly were the bridesmaids, and looked exceedingly well in their cream cashmere and rose colour. But perhaps the most impressive figure in the little group gathered in the chancel was that of Mrs. Stanton. The strong sea air had driven away every trace of her illness; her fine form, her handsome features, her masses of silvery hair had never looked more imposing, and she bore herself with even more them her usual grace and dignity. Robed in silver-grey silk and wearing a bonnet of the same delicate hue, it was remarked that she looked almost like a bride herself. Perhaps it was soon to lay aside her widow's mourning, but a daughter's wedding was an exceptional occurrence.
The church bells clanged joyously throughout the day; but by four o'clock the excitement at Wyndham was over, and the happy pair had driven away to catch the London express. The usual sense of blankness which follows the departure of the bride made itself felt. Aldyth strove with the feeling, but it was inevitable that the parting with her sister and the ending of her brief experience of home life should cause her keen regret. No plan for the future had as yet been determined on. The time had come when her mother could no longer refuse to discuss the matter. Something must be decided.
Not till night came could Aldyth secure a quiet talk with her mother. A few of the guests were persuaded to spend the evening at the Hall. Mr. Greenwood and Miss Lorraine were the last to leave, the banker having offered that lady a seat in his brougham. Miss Lorraine drew her niece aside for a moment in the hall.
"Ah, Aldyth," she said, tenderly, "I can see how you feel losing Gladys and—all these changes. But you will try to make the best of things, and remember there is always a home for you with me whenever you want one."
Aldyth smiled and thanked her; but she wondered at her aunt's words. How could she want a home? Her home must be with her mother, and she hardly supposed that Miss Lorraine would be willing to receive them both for an indefinite period.
But the future was to take a form of which she had never dreamed.
As soon as the guests were gone, Mrs. Stanton dismissed Nelly to bed, then calling Aldyth to her, she said, with rather a nervous smile—
"Let us have a talk, Aldyth. Now the wedding is over, we can think of our own affairs."
"Willingly," said Aldyth, stirring up the fire and preparing for a cosy time. "Have you thought where you would like to live, mamma?"
"Well, hardly," said Mrs. Stanton, fingering nervously the gold bracelet which adorned her arm. "To tell the truth, some one has thought of that for me. You will be surprised when you hear what I have to tell you."
"You are not thinking of going to Melbourne again?" asked Aldyth, the thought suggesting itself that her mother might wish to return to the place where so many years of her life had been passed, and where was her late husband's grave.
"Oh no," said Mrs. Stanton, quickly; "what could make you say that? I suppose it is my fate to live at Woodham, for the fact is, Aldyth, I am going to marry Mr. Greenwood."
"Mamma!"
"Yes, it is true. Of course you are surprised. I felt certain you would be. But I believe I am acting for the best."
Aldyth was more than surprised, she was astounded. She could hardly believe her ears. And yet perhaps she should not have been so much surprised. Mr. Greenwood had been a frequent visitor at Wyndham; they had seen much of him at Brighton; she had often thought with pity of his dreary life in that large empty house. She had heard people say that he would do well to marry again. No, it was not altogether surprising; still, the possibility of her mother's contracting a third marriage had never crossed her mind.
"Have you nothing to say to me, Aldyth?"
"I hardly know what to say, mamma, I am so surprised."
"It is surely not an unheard-of thing," said Mrs. Stanton, in an aggrieved tone. "You might be glad. Mr. Greenwood is so kind, so generous. He is most anxious to receive us all into his home. He is very fond of you. He said especially that he hoped you would live there."
"He is very kind; but I could not do that," said Aldyth, quickly.
The banker was her dear old friend, yet she felt a singular dislike to the idea suggested.
"Why not?" asked her mother, with a frown. "You do not think what you are refusing—such a comfortable home, and he would be ready to indulge you in every way."
"I know he is very kind," said Aldyth; "but, mamma, when you cease to want me, I would rather go back to auntie. There is a home for me with her."
Mrs. Stanton was silent, pondering this proposition. On the whole, it commended itself to her.
"Well, it will be a good home for Nelly," she said, presently. "Mr. Greenwood will give her every advantage. She will be able to paint to her heart's content."
Yes, it might prove a happy thing for Nelly. Aldyth could see that; she could see all the attractions that this new scheme of the future must have for her mother. Perhaps she ought to be glad, but she could not be glad yet; she was half-stunned, and there was a dull pain at her heart.
"Are you vexed about it, Aldyth?"
"No, mamma, not vexed, I think; but I can't get over my surprise all at once."
"You will hardly get over it, I fear, before the prospect is realized," said her mother, with rather a forced laugh; "it would be foolish in our case to make much to do about it. We are to be married in London, in three weeks' time, and shall spend the winter in the south of France. Mr. Greenwood thinks that after my illness, I should not risk the cold of Woodham. I told Gladys of our plans, but I thought you had better not know till her wedding was over."
Mrs. Stanton spoke rapidly, being anxious to get through with all it was necessary to say.
Aldyth heard her with increased astonishment and some bitterness of feeling. Whilst she had been burdened with anxiety for the future, this plan had been her mother's cherished secret. It was a plan in which she had no part. Her mother's marriage, it seemed to her, must exclude her, to a great extent, from her mother's life. She was no longer to be her mother's guardian, she would hardly be needed by her mother now. She felt that she was thrust on one side.
"Will you not kiss me and wish me happiness?" asked Mrs. Stanton, when the silence between them was growing painful.
"Certainly, mamma; I wish you happiness now and always," said Aldyth, kissing her gravely.
Then she went away, and Mrs. Stanton breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that she had got through the disagreeable task of telling Aldyth.
Aldyth profited by her aunt's advice, and tried to make the best of this most unexpected turn of affairs. She hid the pain she felt, being aware that most persons would have judged that she had no cause for pain.
Even Mrs. Bland and Kitty, who could enter into her feelings as no other friends could, were inclined to think the event a fortunate one for Aldyth. As wife of the wealthy banker, her mother would have a position entirely to her mind. Such a home as Aldyth's limited means could provide would never have pleased her. But they breathed no hint of this to Aldyth. They knew too well how her heart clung to her mother with a love which still, in spite of every shock it had met, strove to excuse and, if possible, veil her cold selfishness and sad lack of principle.
Nelly received the news cheerfully. She liked Mr. Greenwood, and could look forward to the new home life. She was charmed to find that her future stepfather shared her enthusiasm for art, and delighted beyond measure when he promised that she should study at South Kensington. It was arranged that she should at once be enrolled as a student in the Art School, and should reside with friends in London till Mr. and Mrs. Greenwood returned from their sojourn abroad. And Miss Lorraine, with no slight satisfaction, looked forward to Aldyth's again making her home with her at Myrtle Cottage.
The New Year was not many days old when Aldyth returned to Woodham. She had seen her mother married at a West-end church, in all the glory of her silver-grey robe, surrounded by a little knot of well-wishing friends. She had bidden her a hurried farewell ere she drove away with her husband to Charing Cross, and then Aldyth and her sister had returned to the home of the friends with whom Nelly was to spend the next few months. Aldyth had yielded to their persuasions, warmly seconded by Nelly, to spend Christmas with them, and the season had not passed unhappily.
Now she came back to take up once more the old dropped threads of her former life at Woodham.
It so happened that Aldyth had been unable to inform her aunt by what train she would travel down, and there was no one at the station to meet her. It was a clear, cold afternoon, and leaving her luggage to be sent on, she walked the short distance to the Cottage. She met no friend on the way. The Blands' windows were deserted, but Miss Tabitha Rudkin, from her post of observation on the other side of the road, saw her pass, and connected her arrival with that of another visitor who had unexpectedly appeared at Miss Lorraine's on the previous day. But Miss Rudkin could not believe in the fortuitous nature of the visit. She was not so easily hoodwinked, she said. Of course it was a planned thing.
Arrived at her aunt's gate, Aldyth paused for a moment to gaze at the wide-stretching prospect she loved. The view was unusually clear. She could see the long arms of a distant windmill rising black against the sky, and the spire of Wickham Church standing forth from a background of pearly grey. Old thoughts, old memories swept back upon her with the sight, and their influence was saddening.
"'Nature never did betrayThe heart that loved her; it is her privilege,Through all the years of this our life, to leadFrom joy to joy,'"
she murmured to herself as she entered the garden; but though she knew this source of joy her own, she was hardly able to rejoice at that moment.
The little maid who opened the door gave a start of surprise at seeing her. Not having been long in Miss Lorraine's service, she hardly knew Aldyth, and was dismayed at her early appearance.
"Miss Lorraine never thought you would be here till the evening," she said; "she will not be back herself till six."
And Aldyth remembered that it was the afternoon on which her aunt held her "mothers' meeting."
To arrive before one is expected is seldom a cheering experience. Although there was no house in which she should feel more at home, a sensation of dreariness and loneliness oppressed Aldyth as she went up stairs to her old room. The little maid followed her, uneasy and apologetic.
"Mistress told me to light the fire," she said; "but I didn't think there was any hurry."
"It does not matter," Aldyth said.
But the maid at once set about the neglected duty, with the result that the room was soon full of smoke.
Aldyth's depression increased. The room had not the old familiar aspect. She missed her books and pictures, which had been removed to Wyndham whilst she dwelt there, and were now lying in a large chest waiting to be unpacked. She was free to devote herself once more to the studies which she loved, but there was little joy in the thought. Hers was a nature which finds its highest freedom in the bonds of duty.
It grieved her that the ties that for a brief period had bound her so closely to her mother and sisters were snapped. The rapid changes of the last two years had left her restless and unsettled. There seemed no purpose in her life now. She hardly knew how she should settle again in her aunt's home.
But it would never do to begin thus. She fought with her despondency; she took herself to task. In a world where so many needed love and sympathy, was there not work for every one? Would not new duties come to her? God had a purpose in her life, a place for her to fill.
"I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our incompleteness,Round our restlessness His rest."
Aldyth smiled, too, as the words came to mind. She shook off her discontent with the dust of travel, and having freshened her appearance, quitted the smoky room and ran down stairs.
There a surprise awaited her. The servant, bewildered by her sudden appearance, had not thought to mention the fact that Miss Lorraine had a guest. As Aldyth entered the drawing room, a gentleman rose quickly from a chair by the fire. Did her eyes deceive her, or was it indeed John Glynne?
"You are come!" he said, by no means surprised to see her. "Miss Lorraine assured me you would not arrive before six o'clock. I was coming to the station to meet you; I am sorry to have missed that pleasure."
And Aldyth had her welcome at last; but it took her some minutes to recover from her astonishment.
"You are the last person I expected to see," she said; "I thought you were a long way off."
"Ah, you did not know I had returned. I resigned my post and came home on account of my mother's illness."
"Then you were with her," Aldyth said, in tones soft with sympathy.
"Yes, I was with her. It is a great comfort to me to remember those last days."
And he told her about them, talking as he could not have talked to Miss Lorraine; indeed, to no other being could he so have opened his heart. Aldyth said little in response, but her sympathy made itself felt without words, and the few she uttered were dear to him.
"Your sister is well, I hope?" she said, after a pause.
"Quite well," he answered; "she is going to be married."
"That will be your loss," said Aldyth.
"It will; but she will be happy."
"Are you going abroad again?"
"No, I have found work in London."
Aldyth made no remark on this. She was silent, thinking of the evening when they had parted at the field gate, and of all that had happened since.
"Aunt has told you all the news, I suppose," she said at last. "You know what has happened to me—that my mother has gone from me—that our home is broken up?"
"I know," he said, looking earnestly at her; "you feel these changes very much?"
"I feel—some things," Aldyth replied, a strange tremor in her voice. "I don't mind losing Wyndham, but I do feel losing my mother. It is hard to think that she no longer wants me—that no one wants me now."
The words had scarcely passed her lips ere she would have recalled them. They sounded so weak, so selfish.
John Glynne did not deem them so. They seemed to make that possible which was his heart's most cherished desire. He rose; he moved to the window and stood there in silence a few moments. Then he came back and stood before Aldyth. She looked up and met his glance, which held hers spellbound.
"Aldyth, I want you," he said.
And she gave herself to him without a fear.
THE END.
RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BUNGAY.