SORROW AND JOY.
ON the afternoon of New Year's Day, Aldyth, coming down the London
Road, met Kitty Bland and Gwendolen, then at home for her holidays, on
their way to the river, carrying their skates.
"Oh, Aldyth, we were thinking of calling for you," said Kitty. "Charlie
brings us word that the ice is splendid, so we are going to try it. Do
come with us!"
"Oh, do," implored Gwen. "It will be so jolly to have you with us."
Aldyth hesitated. The sleet had long ceased, and the sun was making
attempts to break forth. The prospect of skimming over the ice was very
tempting.
"I was going to see Hilda," she said. "How is it she is not with you?"
"Oh, Hilda is good for nothing," replied Kitty. "She will not stir out
to-day."
"Do you mean that she is ill?" asked Aldyth.
"Well, no, not exactly—she has a headache," said Kitty.
Gwen moved on a few paces; it was not pleasant to stand in the keen
wind.
"The fact is, Aldyth," said Kitty, hurriedly, in lower tones, "Hilda
has been crying till she is worn out. Your uncle came to see mother
yesterday afternoon, and made a grand commotion. I never saw mother so
upset. You know she does not often get put out, but when she is angry,
she can be very warm, and I can tell you mother was angry with Hilda
last evening."
"With Hilda!" said Aldyth, in surprise. "Why, what has Hilda done?"
"Oh, do not ask me," said Kitty; "you had better hear the story from
her own lips. I must say I am disgusted with Hilda. Do try, Aldyth, to
put a little common sense into her, if you see her. But won't you get
your skates and come with us?"
"I think not, thank you," said Aldyth. "I had better go to Hilda, if
she is in trouble. I suppose she would like to see me?"
"Of course she would," said Kitty; "she will get some sympathy perhaps
from you. I am afraid I have not given her much. She says I cannot
understand her, and really she is right."
In spite of a warm protest from Gwen, Aldyth went on her way, full of
wonder as to what had occurred to disturb Mrs. Bland and make Hilda
unhappy.
Mrs. Bland was engaged with visitors, so Aldyth went at once to her
friend's room.
Hilda had risen by this time, but she wore her dressing-gown, which
was a very becoming one of pale blue, so that she looked charmingly
invalidish as she sat in her easy-chair by the fire. It would not be
correct to say that she looked ill. Her face was not more colourless
than it always was; but she leaned back in her chair with a listless,
languid air, and her expression was melancholy in the extreme, whilst
her reddened eyelids testified to past weeping. She uttered a faint
exclamation of pleasure as her friend entered the room.
"Oh, I am glad to see you," she said; "how good of you to come!"
"Why, Hilda dear, what is the matter?" Aldyth asked. "I met Kitty, and
she gave me a most bewildering account of you. Do tell me what it is
all about."
"Oh, Aldyth, I am the most miserable girl in the world!" Hilda
exclaimed, and again burst into tears.
"But why?" asked Aldyth, surprised and grieved. "Why do you speak so of
yourself?"
"Because it is true," sobbed Hilda. "Oh, Aldyth, you do not know how
unhappy I am. And four days ago I was so happy! I little thought the
New Year was going to bring me such misery."
[Illustration]
"But what is it, Hilda?" asked her friend. "Do tell me!"
Then, as Hilda continued to sob and utter incoherent ejaculations,
Aldyth added, "Has it not something to do with Guy?"
"Yes, Aldyth; I thought you must guess it," replied Hilda, brokenly;
"that you must see how he cared for me; though I did not know myself,
for certain, till last Thursday. He came to call after the party, you
know, and mother and Kitty had gone to Chelmsford, and I was alone,
practising, and he told me that he could never care for any one but me,
and he asked me to promise to marry him. But we were not to tell any
one about it at present."
A startled exclamation broke from Aldyth.
"Ah, you think it was wrong!" said Hilda.
"I think it very wrong of Guy," said Aldyth, warmly; "I call it most
dishonourable conduct—if I understand aright that he asked you to
engage yourself to him without seeking your mother's consent."
"We only meant to keep it to ourselves for a little while," said Hilda.
"Guy knew his uncle would be so angry; but we were most unfortunate.
Guy asked me to meet him at Wood Corner yesterday afternoon, and
unluckily Mr. Lorraine drove to the farm just at that time and saw us
together. Ah, you are shocked at me, Aldyth."
"I really am surprised," Aldyth felt obliged to say; "I wonder you
could do such a thing, Hilda."
"Oh, do not you find fault with me, please!" said Hilda, beseechingly.
"If you only knew what I have gone through! Mr. Lorraine came here
in such a rage, and told mother she did not look after her daughters
properly. You should have seen how angry mother was. She told me I had
no self-respect, that my deceit was detestable, that I had disgraced
her, and, what pains me most, she will not hear of my being engaged to
Guy. Mr. Lorraine told mother he meant to disinherit his nephew if he
did not give me up, and mother declares she will never let me marry him
unless his uncle gives his consent. And I know he never will do that.
Oh, I feel as if my heart would break!"
Aldyth listened to her friend's confidence with mingled feelings. She
was sorry for Hilda, but it was a shock to her friendship to discover
that she could be so easily led into crooked conduct. Aldyth could feel
some sympathy with Mrs. Bland in her indignation at the revelation of
her daughter's duplicity. It was with a curious sensation, too, that
she heard of Guy's profession of attachment to Hilda. What would be the
effect upon her friend, she wondered, if she told her how recently Guy
had asked her, Aldyth, to be his wife? But she had not the heart to
inflict such a blow on Hilda.
After a minute she said, in a rallying tone—
"Nonsense, Hilda; hearts do not break so easily, and I am sure I would
never break my heart for such a one as Guy."
"Aldyth," said Hilda, reproachfully, "why do you always speak so
slightingly of your cousin? You seem unable to appreciate him."
It was impossible for Aldyth to resist laughing.
"Do I?" she said. "Well, truly, at the present moment I am vexed with
Guy. I think he has behaved very badly to you, Hilda. A man has no
right to ask a girl to engage herself to him without the knowledge of
her friends."
"But he loves me," murmured Hilda. "It was because he loved me so. You
do not know what love is, Aldyth."
"I am very glad I do not, if that is the kind of thing it does," said
Aldyth, stoutly. "But I do not believe in the saying that all things
are fair in love. A true and noble love, it seems to me, should make
man or woman act worthily."
"Now, I will not have Guy found fault with," said Hilda. "He is dear to
me, if not to you. Such a strong, brave fellow as he is!"
"Strong?" repeated Aldyth. "Ah, physically you mean; for although he is
my cousin, and I have an affection for him, I cannot say that I think
Guy is at all a strong character."
"Aldyth, it is too bad of you! I will not hear you!" protested Hilda,
showing a disposition to relapse into tears. "You are not fair to your
cousin."
"I hope I am not unfair to him," said Aldyth, thoughtfully. "I do not
deny that he has good qualities. He is very kind-hearted and generous;
and he is good-tempered too. I am often surprised to see how much he
will put up with from uncle. The servants at the Hall are very fond of
him. Hilda, dear, forgive me if I have vexed you; but I do wish you
would try to look at this matter sensibly."
Hilda put up her hand to check Aldyth's words.
"It is of no use speaking so," she said. "You do not understand me;
you do not know how deep my feelings are. Listen to me. I shall never
cease to love Guy: and if my love is disappointed, I shall die. Now
do not smile like that, Aldyth, for I shall. My father's sister died
of consumption, and I shall go into a decline too, if I am made so
unhappy. Indeed, I should not wish to live!"
All this was a great strain upon Aldyth's power of sympathy. She felt
for her friend; but she could not avoid some secret amusement at the
idea that it was Guy who had inspired such desperate feelings.
Hilda sank back into her chair, saying to herself, with a new pang of
disappointment, that Aldyth understood her no better than Kitty.
"Why do you not find something to do, Hilda?" asked Aldyth, as she rose
to take her departure. "It is a pity to sit there brooding over what
has happened. Does your head ache too much for reading?"
"Oh, I cannot read!" said Hilda, wearily. "As soon as I begin, my
thoughts fly off in one direction. Aldyth, mother is very unkind."
"I cannot think so," said Aldyth, loyally; "I cannot imagine Mrs. Bland
unkind. She may seem so to you; but, depend on it, she has your real
good at heart."
"I hate to hear about my 'real good!'" said Hilda, impatiently. "What
good can life have for me if I am separated from Guy?"
It was vain to argue with her. Aldyth kissed her, begged her not to
imagine herself more unhappy than she was, but to hope that the future
might brighten; and then left her, with an uneasy sense that she had
failed fully to meet Hilda's expectations in the matter of sympathy.
"I certainly do not understand what love is," she said to herself; "it
may well be called blind, for Hilda can perceive none of Guy's faults.
It has transformed him into a hero. Oh, dear! I shall never be able to
love in that fashion."
It was too late to join the skaters. Aldyth did a little shopping in
the High Street, and then turned homewards. As she entered the house,
a letter lay on the hall table awaiting her. Aldyth recognized with
delight the thin foreign envelope addressed by her mother's hand. She
went into the dining room, and sat down to read her letter. She had not
read far ere her heart gave a wild bound, and her face grew pale with
sudden vivid emotion. The words which caused it were these:—
"Our long-talked-of visit to England is at last to be realized. We
have arrived at a decision rather rapidly, and sail in a week's time,
so that we shall be actually on our way home when you receive this.
Mr. Stanton's health has of late caused me anxiety, but we hope the
voyage will set him up. It is on his account that we start with so
little preparation. We propose taking a furnished house in London as
soon as we arrive, and shall probably remain at home for two years. I
cannot tell you, my dearest child, how I look forward to our meeting,
so long-deferred. You must come to us as soon as we arrive in London.
We are all coming. Cecil is to study medicine at one of the hospitals.
Your sisters are counting on seeing you at last."
There was much more in the letter, which Aldyth read again and again,
and yet seemed unable fully to grasp. All her being was thrilled with a
shock of joy. Could it be true that her mother—her beautiful mother—the
mother she had missed and yearned for through so many years—was coming
home to her at last? There was awe mingling with her joy. She was glad
beyond measure to think of her mother's return, and yet she was half
afraid of her happiness. The unknown brother, and sisters too—she was
to meet them at last. Was it any wonder that Aldyth's heart throbbed
with a tumultuous emotion that had fully as much pain in it as
pleasure? She was glad, and yet the tears would come. Faster and faster
they came, till they rained down her cheeks.
"Why, Aldyth, my dear child! What is the matter?" cried Miss Lorraine,
coming in briskly from the cold.
"Oh, auntie, such news!" exclaimed Aldyth, holding out the letter.
"Mother is coming; she is on her way now."
"You don't mean it? Really coming at last! Well, it is startling,
certainly; but I would not cry about it," said Miss Lorraine.
She laid her bag and her muff deliberately on the table, and took the
letter from the girl. Any one less excited than Aldyth would have seen
that the news did not give her aunt unmixed satisfaction.
"So," she said presently, "they are coming at last, and you will have
your heart's desire, Aldyth; though no one would think it, to see you
crying like that."
"Oh, aunt, I cried because I was so glad," said Aldyth, hastily drying
her eyes. "You cannot think what it is—after so many years, to know
that my mother is coming to me."
"I suppose not," said Miss Lorraine, drily. "Well, child, I am glad
that you are so pleased."
But as she spoke her face had a wistful, pained expression. Aldyth,
since her babyhood, had been her care, and the feelings of a mother
had grown up in her heart towards the child she had cherished. Could
Eleanor Stanton, simply because she had given her birth, be so much
more to Aldyth than the aunt who had comforted her childish sorrows and
nursed her through all her childish ailments? Would she be as likely to
understand the girl? Miss Lorraine felt aggrieved by the emotion Aldyth
displayed, even whilst she told herself it was wrong and unreasonable
to feel so.
But Aldyth, thrilled and excited, had no thoughts to spare for her
aunt, and failed to see that she was hurt.
And Miss Lorraine was thankful that for once her niece was so
unobservant.