CONTRASTS.
WHEN Nelly had been sent to school, Aldyth found herself more at
leisure.
Gladys was always good-natured and bright; there was something very
charming in her pretty, careless ways. It was impossible to help loving
her, and yet after she had lived with her for weeks, Aldyth felt that
she knew her no better than on the first day of their meeting. It
seemed impossible to have a quiet talk with Gladys; she was always
self-occupied, restless, eager about trifles. Apparently she did not
know what serious thought was. She had inherited her mother's gift of
fascination, and, like her, knew how to use it for the accomplishment
of her own ends.
Aldyth could never have said that her sister treated her unkindly;
yet again and again, she found herself gently pushed on one side that
Gladys might take the lead.
Gladys had been first in the family for too many years to be willing
now to resign her premiership in favour of Aldyth just because she,
too, was her mother's daughter and nearly three years older than
herself. But she did not assert her supremacy in any disagreeable
manner, and Mrs. Stanton endeavoured to veil her preference for Gladys.
"You do not care for dancing, Aldyth, so I must not take you to this
party;" or, "This entertainment is not intellectual enough for you,"
she would say, when invitations came in. And Aldyth, not without
heartache, yet in all sincerity, would reply that she would rather
remain at home.
Aldyth used to look forward to the Saturday of each week, for early on
that day Nelly would come home from school.
She and her young sister had become the best of friends, and found much
enjoyment in each other's company. It was good for Nelly to confide to
so sympathetic a listener the details of her school life. Her mother
had neither time nor inclination to interest herself in them. Her main
anxiety concerning her youngest daughter's education was that she
should learn to speak French and acquire a good deportment.
Nelly had good abilities, but she was naturally indolent. The training
she had received had not taught her to love knowledge; but now, under
Aldyth's influence, she began to take an interest in literature. She
was working well at her drawing, and cherished the hope of being an
artist; and when Aldyth pointed out to her the fact that every kind of
knowledge may be of service to a painter, she bestowed more pains on
her general school work.
Aldyth could not doubt that her stepfather was a man of wealth, for
Mrs. Stanton and Gladys spent money lavishly, and the style of their
home was most luxurious. There were so many servants that Aldyth could
find no domestic duties to perform. She was at no loss how to employ
her leisure.
Mudie's Library supplied her with the books she desired to read, and
all the varied means of culture that London affords were open to her.
But there were times when Aldyth's conscience smote her for leading a
selfish, aimless life, and she longed for her poor people at Woodham,
and the many occupations of her busy life there. However, work for
others always comes to those who are willing to undertake it, and ere
long it came to Aldyth.
One day, Gladys having a pleasanter engagement in prospect, Mrs.
Stanton took Aldyth to visit some friends at Blackheath. There was
a small party invited to meet them, and amongst the number were a
clergyman and his wife, in whom Aldyth soon felt considerable interest.
Mrs. Wheatley was a small, frail-looking woman, but full of life and
energy. Her features were plain, but her countenance had a charm which
beauties might envy, for it betokened rare intellectual power combined
with all that is good and sweet and womanly. Aldyth felt drawn to her
at once, and probably the attraction was mutual, for as soon as an
opportunity occurred, Mrs. Wheatley moved to a chair beside Aldyth and
began to talk with her.
How is it that half an hour's talk with some persons seems equal to
months of intercourse with others? In an incredibly short time Aldyth
felt perfectly at home with Mrs. Wheatley, and could talk to her as
if she were an old friend. To her surprise, Aldyth learned that this
delicate, refined-looking lady lived in one of the least desirable
localities of the East-end of London, having resolutely determined,
contrary to the advice of physicians and friends, that she would make
her home in her husband's parish, and live among the poor people she
desired to help and raise.
"You must not believe all that you hear about Whitechapel," she said
brightly to Aldyth. "People talk of the impossibility of getting fresh
air there; but even in Whitechapel there is a breeze sometimes, and
when it is close and heavy in the streets, there is fresh air at the
tops of the houses. Our rooms are on the fourth story of the house, and
there is the flat roof of a tenement on which I can take a walk when
I choose, and where I am trying to cultivate some plants. Nor is the
moral atmosphere so hopeless as some would make out. I could show you
brave men in Whitechapel, whose patient endurance of a hard and painful
lot is absolutely heroic, and women whose pure, noble lives, under
circumstances the most adverse, would put duchesses to shame. I know
they have often taught me lessons I needed to learn."
Aldyth was much interested. It was vexatious that just then the lady
of the house should come to her with a request that she would play
something; but she could not refuse. She went at once to the piano,
and played a bright little gavotte by Gluck; then, being urged to play
again, she gave one of Schubert's exquisite, entrancing melodies. Mrs.
Stanton was not without satisfaction in her daughter's performance and
the admiration it won. She wished that Gladys could have been persuaded
to give more attention to her practising.
Happily no one had taken Aldyth's place, so she was able to return to
Mrs. Wheatley's side.
"You play very well; it is a pleasure to listen to you," said that
lady, simply. "I wish you would come and play to my working girls some
evening."
"Your working girls?" said Aldyth.
"Yes; we have established a club for girls employed in factories and
workshops. It is open every evening from seven till ten. We have
various amusements for them, and we try to teach them sewing and
cooking. We have a good piano, and I am always glad to get some one to
give us some music. Besides, it is so easy for a girl like you to win
an influence over them."
"Indeed, I will gladly do anything I can," said Aldyth; "I should
really like to help."
"I am sure you would," said Mrs. Wheatley; "it is a work that appeals
to a girl's heart. These girls have to support themselves when quite
young. Many of them have left their parents, and live in poor lodgings,
sharing their room, perhaps, with several others, and when their
work is done, they have no place of recreation save the streets or
the music-halls. A warm, well-lighted room, where they can spend the
evening pleasantly, is a great attraction to them. We have some rough,
intractable girls to deal with; but we hope gradually to soften them by
kindness, and I am sure you would be a great help in doing so."
"I will try what I can do," said Aldyth. "I will come next week, if
mamma will let me."
Aldyth was sure that her mother would not allow her to go unattended
to Whitechapel, so before naming the matter to her, she spoke of it to
one of the servants, explained to her the kind of work in which she
had been invited to join, and asked whether she would be willing to
share it by accompanying her once a week to the East-end. The servant,
an honest good-hearted girl, was proud and pleased that Miss Lorraine
should seek her assistance, and gladly consented.
Mrs. Stanton made no objection to Aldyth's plan, though she thought
it an incomprehensible whim of hers to wish to go to such a horrible
place. It was a happy thing for Aldyth that her mother rarely
interfered with her wishes, except when they were adverse to her own.
So Aldyth went to her work in Whitechapel, and made acquaintance with
the factory girls of the East-end. It was work in which she soon became
deeply interested, and it inspired her with many new solemn thoughts
about life.
As Mrs. Wheatley had foreseen, the girls "took to her" at once, for
women of the lower classes are quick to recognize a "real lady" when
they see one, and to feel the charm of her gentleness and simplicity.
Aldyth's pleasant look, her smile, the sweet tones of her voice, her
fresh, pretty gowns, and the dainty, flower-like neatness of her
person, could not have charmed any male admirer more than they charmed
these girls. They clustered about her, they applauded the bright,
well-chosen music she gave them, and they watched eagerly for the
chance of a talk with her.
Aldyth had no difficulty in gaining their confidence. They could see
that she liked to hear all they could tell her about themselves, and
one by one they told her of the troubles and hardships of their lives,
not complainingly, but in a simple, matter-of-fact manner, that was
touching in its very unconsciousness.
One evening Aldyth, returning tired from Whitechapel, met Gladys
alighting from a carriage at the door of their home. She had been
spending the evening in a very different fashion at the house of some
friends. She followed Aldyth into the dining room, where a light supper
awaited her.
"I will sit with you while you take your chocolate," Gladys said,
throwing off her cloak and sinking gracefully into an easy-chair by the
fire. "The Andersons are so nice, Aldyth; I've had the most delightful
time. You were a silly not to come with me instead of going to those
stupid girls at Whitechapel."
Aldyth looked at her sister for a moment, ere she replied.
Gladys, dressed all in white, with her pretty neck uncovered and her
coronal of golden hair gleaming in the lamplight, never looked more
fair.
But Aldyth had a sudden painful sense of the contrast presented to her
sister by the girls she had left, as young as Gladys, and some of them
as fair, but with weary faces and thin, bent forms, whose clothes were
shabby and tawdry, and whose lives had so little of what was bright and
pleasant in them.
"Oh, Gladys!" she said. "Don't grudge our girls any pleasure I can give
them by going. If you only knew what their lives are! If I were one of
them, I think it would make me feel bad to look on a girl like you."
"And why, pray?" asked Gladys, with an air of surprise.
"Because you have so much to enjoy, and they so little," said Aldyth.
"Most of them are as young, if not younger than you, and a few of
them—forgive me, Gladys—are almost as pretty. I often long to try the
effect of dressing them in fresh, becoming frocks. But their lives are
hard and rough. Most of them toil from eight in the morning till eight
at night, and some of them, who call themselves 'shop girls,' work
till even later. There was a girl to whom I spoke to-night, a bright
young girl of fifteen, and when I offered her a book, she told me she
could not read because her eyes were so bad, owing to her having to do
her work—stitching babies' bibs—under a strong gaslight all day long.
Another girl, who has to go up and down many flights of stairs during
the day, could not join in a game because her ankles were so dreadfully
swollen. Does it not seem hard that some young girls should have to
live so, whilst others have everything that heart can wish, and nothing
to do but enjoy themselves? I am sure when I look on those girls, I am
ashamed to think what an easy, self-indulgent life I have always led."
There was a passionate quiver in Aldyth's voice as she spoke, which
showed that tears were not far from her eyes. Gladys was not unmoved by
her earnest words.
"But they belong to the working class," she said. "They cannot expect
to lead such lives as ours."
"Oh, they know that well enough," said Aldyth. "It is wonderful to me
how patiently they bear their hard lot. 'Ladies have fine times of it;
it is good to be born a lady,' I heard a girl say to-night; but it is
rarely we hear such remarks. And yet, human nature is the same in every
class, and these girls have the same feelings as you and I."
"Aldyth!" said Gladys, in a sceptical tone.
"Indeed they have," said Aldyth. "They yearn for happiness as we do,
they feel the same eagerness for every attainable pleasure; they love
things that are bright and pretty. Ah, you should have seen how eager
they were for a few flowers I took to-day. The bunch was gone in no
time, and the girls who could not get a flower were sadly disappointed.
I had to promise that I would bring some more next week. I shall ask
aunt to send me some from Woodham. The primroses must be coming out
there now."
"It is very good of you to take so much trouble," said Gladys.
"Oh, I think we more fortunate girls are bound to do all we can to help
and gladden our poor sisters," said Aldyth. "Do you know when I was
with them to-night, I kept thinking of those words in the Bible—'Who
maketh thee to differ from another? And what hast thou that thou didst
not receive?' I think we are apt to forget that all the good things we
have received—our education, accomplishments, personal attractions—are
all trusts, given to us to be used for others, and not simply for our
own enjoyment."
"Oh, don't be so dreadfully solemn!" exclaimed Gladys, suddenly
springing up. "Aldyth, you really must marry a parson, for at a pinch,
you could make his sermons for him, and it would be a great pity such a
talent should be wasted."
"Why not say at once that I should mount the pulpit and preach?" asked
Aldyth laughing. "But, Gladys, I do wish you would come to Whitechapel
with me some night. It would give the girls such pleasure to hear you
sing."
But Gladys held up her hands in horror at the idea.
"I could not really, Aldyth. You frighten me by proposing such a thing.
I should be afraid of catching smallpox or something dreadful if I went
there. Oh, surely one martyr is enough in a family! Ah, yes, you may
shake your head. I know I'm a sad girl—I know I care for nothing but
pleasure—but that's my way, and you must take me as I am."
"Oh, Gladys, you do not mean that. It would be a poor thing to live
only for pleasure," Aldyth said.
"I do mean it, you dear old mentor," said Gladys, stopping her mouth
with a kiss; "and I do not find it a poor thing either, so there! But
now it is time we got our beauty sleep, so, if you are ready, we will
go up stairs."
Aldyth found in her room a letter from Hilda, and, tired though she
was, she could not resist reading it ere she went to bed. The envelope
felt thick, so she might expect a good budget of news, and with
pleasurable anticipations, she tore it open and sat down to read the
contents. This was what Hilda had written:—
"MY OWN DARLING ALDYTH,—Am I not very good to reply to your dear
letter so soon? But you will not wonder when you hear the exciting story
I have to tell. You know, I dare say, that since Sultan went lame, and
the veterinary said he would need a long rest, your uncle has bought
a new horse for the gig. He is a splendid animal as far as appearance
goes, but Miss Lorraine said from the first that he had a vicious
look. However, your uncle thought he had got a good bargain, and he
must needs go out with John in the gig to try him. Guy wanted to drive
him for the first time, but your uncle would not hear of it. He was
still very displeased with poor Guy; nothing he did gave satisfaction.
However, Guy occupied the back seat of the gig, and came into Woodham
with them; but seeing that the horse was going all right, he got down
at the post-office, and said he would walk home. To tell you the truth,
Aldyth dear, he meant to linger about the town with the hope of seeing
poor little me.
"Well, Mr. Lorraine called on his dear friend, Miss Rudkin, and John
walked the horse up and down whilst he was there. Whether the delay
irritated him, or whether he took fright at a tramp who was coming
along the road with a sack on his back, it is impossible to say, but
Mr. Lorraine had hardly taken his seat ere the horse began to plunge
wildly, and when John whipped him, he bolted. Old John was powerless
to hold him in, and he went down town like the wind. Kitty was at the
window and saw the horse run away, and she says she shall never forget
it. Fortunately the road was clear.
"The horse tore down the High Street till close upon the corner where
the old church juts out, and what would have happened then no one dare
say, if Guy—dear, brave, noble Guy!—had not come to the rescue. He was
standing talking to some one outside the saddler's, and saw the horse
coming. In a moment he was in the road, gave one bound, and caught the
reins, and, hanging on with desperate strength, forced the animal to
stop. How he did it, I cannot imagine, it makes me tremble even now to
think of it; but you know how strong he is, and now he has proved that
he is as bold as he is strong.
"Oh, Aldyth, you can never laugh at Guy again, or run him down. You
ought to be very proud of your brave cousin. But I forget that you will
be anxious to know how your uncle was after such a fright. He really
bore it wonderfully well. He was a little faint at first, and they took
him into Hall's and gave him some brandy. In half an hour he seemed all
right, and oh, Aldyth! He thanked Guy before everybody, and said he had
saved his life, and called him a brave fellow. And, only think, the
next day he insisted on going for a drive again with the same horse,
only Guy drove, so no harm came of it. But would any one except Mr.
Lorraine have done such a thing?
"I met them as they were driving, and your uncle nodded to me quite
pleasantly, and Guy looked so pleased. Oh, I hope it is not very
foolish of me, but I cannot help thinking that perhaps after all,
things will come right for us. Surely, Mr. Lorraine must be kind to
Guy, now he has saved his life!
"Miss Lorraine has just been in on her way home from Wyndham, and she
says she believes that her uncle is more affected by the shock than he
will own. She thought him looking very shaky.
"Oh, Aldyth, how I wish you were here! There is so much I should like
to tell you, and it is impossible to put everything in a letter. Mr.
Glynne's sister has come to stay with him for a few weeks. She seems a
very nice girl, and we have invited her to spend Tuesday with us. But I
must not write more now. With fondest love, dearest Aldyth,—
"Your devoted friend,
"HILDA."
Here was news indeed! All desire of sleep vanished from Aldyth as she
read it. She was moved both to thankfulness and to self-reproach as she
thought of her uncle's danger and Guy's brave conduct.
"Perhaps I have been too hard on him," she said to herself. "Perhaps
there is more in him than I suppose. Anyhow it was a brave deed, and I
am glad, oh, so glad and thankful, that he had strength and courage to
do it."
One effect of Hilda's letter was to awake in Aldyth a longing to return
to Woodham. She had now been absent from the little town for several
months, and it was with somewhat of home-sickness that she recalled all
the varied interests of her life there. It was spring weather now, and
amid the London streets and squares, she yearned for the country lanes
and the woods and fields bright with primroses and cowslips.
And to think that Mr. Glynne's sister was now at Woodham! Aldyth would
have given much to make her acquaintance, and to join in the long walks
which she would be taking with the Blands. But she sagely reflected
that we cannot have everything at once in this life. She had—what for
years had been her heart's chief desire—the society of her mother and
sisters, and she must be content to resign her old life at Woodham,
which, as she now saw plainly, had been full of quiet happiness.
She was finding a niche in her new home, and learning daily that even
in London there were many who needed her. Her stepfather, who whilst
the days of his wife and Gladys were wholly occupied with gaiety,
seemed to grow more and more weary and depressed, often sought her help
in little matters for which his wife had no leisure and seemed glad of
her company. Cecil came to her with tales of his hospital experiences,
and found to his surprise that Aldyth knew more about surgery than most
girls, and could listen with intelligent interest to the "horrors" at
the very mention of which his mother and Gladys stopped their ears.
And Nelly looked forward with delight to the pleasant "outings" which
Aldyth contrived that they should have together almost every Saturday
afternoon. Even Gladys invariably sought Aldyth whenever she needed
assistance of any kind. But to her mother, despite tender words and
caresses, Aldyth could never feel that she was very near and dear. The
long years of separation seemed to have left between them a void that
could not easily be bridged over.