A SUMMONS TO WYNDHAM.
CAPTAIN WALKER came to help to entertain the factory girls—not
once only, but several times. He endured with a good grace hearing
himself described as "the man with the fiddle," and played his
best to a clamorous audience, who talked and squabbled through his
finest passages, but showed their appreciation of his performance by
applauding vociferously at the close.
Aldyth reflected that she had never given him credit for so much good
nature as he now manifested. Fond as he was of high-class music, he
could even condescend to play a festive jig for the amusement of the
girls. Aldyth felt much gratitude for his willing assistance, and she
was far from comprehending how sweet to him were her acknowledgments of
the same. It never occurred to her that she was the attraction which
drew him so often to Whitechapel. She gave him credit for feeling a
genuine interest in the work, for she did not suppose that it was for
her sake merely that he took so much trouble.
Yet in truth the motive which actuated Captain Walker was one which has
drawn many another man into a temporary performance of good works. He
had been charmed with Aldyth whenever he met her at Woodham or Wyndham;
but he had shared the common belief that she was destined to marry
her cousin, and had steeled his heart to resist the attraction she
had for him. But now he knew she was free, there was no resisting the
fascination of her society. He could hardly have explained wherein the
strength of that fascination lay.
He had been much in society; he had seen many women who were prettier
than Aldyth. He admired Gladys Stanton; it amused him to talk and
laugh with her; but she never excited within him a painful sense of
his own inferiority, nor caused him to approach her with timid, tender
reverence. But Aldyth was different from any other girl he had ever
known. She had all the freshness and brightness of girlhood, and yet
she was a woman in her exquisite sympathy and kindness, her strong
self-reliance, her unswerving pursuit of all that was good and true.
He had a new revelation of the gentleness and purity and kindness of
her nature when he saw her surrounded by the rough, coarse girls who
gathered about her at Whitechapel. Rough as they were, they grew gentle
in her presence. A word, a glance even, from her was often enough
to check a quarrel. Never had he felt more convinced of the womanly
sweetness of Aldyth's character; yet, at the same time, there swept
over him a feeling that his love was hopeless.
But the feeling did not last—how should it? Captain Walker's past
experience had not prepared him to expect disappointment, so he made
the most of his opportunities seeing Aldyth, and they were many;
for Mrs. Stanton lavished invitations on the distinguished-looking
captain, and seemed to think no party of pleasure complete without
him. But her efforts were not crowned with the success she desired.
As the hot, sultry days of July set in, and every one was planning a
tour or talking of the seaside, Mrs. Stanton began to feel seriously
dissatisfied with the result of her endeavours.
In vain she had thrown Gladys as much as possible into the company of
Captain Walker. Nothing seemed likely to come of it. Mrs. Stanton began
to suspect that it was Aldyth's fault. If only she had not that craze
for factory girls! It was too bad of her to drag the captain to that
horrid Whitechapel once every week.
One night, as Aldyth was brushing her hair preparatory to going to bed,
her mother, who with Gladys had been spending the evening out, came
into her room, looking sadly perturbed.
"Ah, you are not in bed," she said, as, all resplendent in satin and
lace, she sank into a chair. "I want to have a talk with you about our
plans, if you are not too tired."
"I am not very tired," said Aldyth, sitting down and shaking back her
hair.
"Have you been to Whitechapel this evening?" asked Mrs. Stanton,
abruptly.
"Yes, mamma," said Aldyth.
"And Captain Walker with you?"
Something in her mother's tones brought the colour into Aldyth's face.
"He was there," she replied, slowly, "and he kindly saw me home."
"Why did he not come in?" asked Mrs. Stanton.
"Really, I suppose, because I never thought of asking him," said Aldyth.
An expression of impatience escaped her mother's lips.
"I cannot understand you, Aldyth. I should have thought you would have
wished to help and not hinder your sister's happiness. Have you not
noticed how often Captain Walker comes here? And of course it is to see
Gladys. You must have observed it."
"He comes here a great deal, certainly," said Aldyth, with some
embarrassment.
A few days earlier she could have accepted her mother's explanation of
the motive of the captain's frequent visits; but since then one little
thing and another had occurred to put her on her guard, and to-night he
had let fall a word which had forced her to receive a wholly unwelcome
idea.
Mrs. Stanton was quick to see her embarrassment. "Surely you are not
thinking of him for yourself, Aldyth?" she said, in a cold, suspicious
tone.
"Mamma!" said Aldyth, flushing crimson.
"Oh, I suppose you are shocked at my outspokenness; but what is the use
of mincing matters? I should like to know what you do mean, that I may
act accordingly."
"I have no such meaning as you impute to me, mamma," said Aldyth,
proudly.
"Well, then, I will be quite frank with you," said Mrs. Stanton. "I can
see that Captain Walker greatly admires Gladys, and I should fail in my
duty as a mother if I did not do all in my power to secure her a happy
marriage."
"But can you be sure that it would prove a happy marriage?" Aldyth
ventured to ask. "It seems to me that those only are true marriages
which are arranged by Providence. If we girls are to marry, God will
bring it about in His own good way. I do not believe in planning and
scheming."
"Then it is because you are foolish and inexperienced," said Mrs.
Stanton, sharply. "I have no patience with your ridiculous, old-maidish
notions, Aldyth. Few girls would marry well if their mothers did not
take some trouble on their behalf. If you like to throw away your own
chances, you need not interfere with those of Gladys."
"I have no wish to do so," said Aldyth.
"Forgive me if I seem cross," said Mrs. Stanton in a gentler tone. "You
do not know how worried I am. It is of the utmost importance to us that
Gladys should marry well, and, soon too. The fact is, she is a great
expense, and we are not nearly so well off as we appear. Mr. Stanton
has had great losses in his business. Sometimes I fear we shall come
utterly to grief. So, you see, Gladys must make a good marriage."
Aldyth was silent for a few moments. She pitied her mother as she noted
her weary, harassed look. But the plotting and planning, the keeping up
of pretences in which her mother trusted, seemed to her hateful.
"Would it not be better to reduce your expenses at once?" she suggested
presently. "We should do very well in a smaller house and with fewer
servants."
"Such a thing is out of the question," said Mrs. Stanton, hastily. "We
must keep up appearances, at any cost, till Gladys is married. But I
want you to understand how critical the position of things is; I want
you to promise me that you will not stand in your sister's way."
"Mamma! As if I should!" said Aldyth, with some indignation.
"Well, then, I will say what I came to say," continued her mother.
"We are thinking of going to Eastbourne at the end of the month.
Captain Walker talks of going there too; but I thought, perhaps, you
would rather return to Woodham for a few weeks. Your friends would
be delighted to see you, and there is no air like one's native air.
Besides, there it your uncle to be considered."
Aldyth did not at once reply. The idea of going to Woodham was welcome;
but the way in which it was suggested gave her pain. It was too evident
that her mother wished to be rid of her.
"Yes, I should like to go to Woodham, if you would rather not have me
at Eastbourne," she said at last.
"My dear love! Of course we should like to have you with us. I was only
thinking what would be best for you," said Mrs. Stanton, rising, and
coming to kiss Aldyth and stroke her hair.
But Aldyth was beginning to know the value of her mother's graceful
caresses.
"You might join us afterwards at Eastbourne," Mrs. Stanton said, still
playing with Aldyth's hair; "but I think it would be well for you to
go to Woodham first. Why should you not go at once? You look as if you
needed a change. You are not used to London; the hot weather is trying
you. Write to your aunt to-morrow, and say that you will come."
"I can scarcely start at a moment's notice," said Aldyth, in a voice
unusually high and hard. "There are arrangements to be made at
Whitechapel; you must please allow me time to settle things a little."
"Certainly, love, arrange it as you will," said her mother, dropping
a light kiss on her brow. "I am only anxious for your welfare.
Good-night." And she glided away, leaving Aldyth smitten with a tense
of intolerable pain.
But Aldyth was not to have time for the arrangements she desired to
make. Had Mrs. Stanton waited a few hours, she would have seen her end
accomplished without the aid of artifice. Early on the following day a
telegram was brought to Aldyth. The sender was Miss Lorraine, and the
brief message ran thus:
"Your uncle seriously ill. Come at once."
In less than an hour, Aldyth was on her way to Woodham. It was a hot
journey, and the heat of the day was at its height as she came into the
well-known little station. Who was that standing on the platform? Her
heart beat more quickly as she saw John Glynne. He came forward to help
her from the carriage.
"How are you, Miss Lorraine?" he said, and there seemed such kindness
in his warm, firm hand-clasp. "Your aunt has allowed me to have the
pleasure of meeting you, as your cousin could not be spared. The
carriage is waiting to take you to Wyndham. Have you any luggage?"
"Only a small portmanteau," said Aldyth. "How is my uncle? The
telegram, of course, gave no particulars."
"He is very ill, I grieve to tell you," said John Glynne. "He was
seized with apoplexy when he was dressing this morning. Of course at
his age there can, I fear, be little hope for his recovery."
"I suppose not," said Aldyth, tremulously. "I thought him altered the
last time I saw him."
"And when was that?" asked Mr. Glynne.
"Oh, some months back, when he came to London," said Aldyth, off her
guard.
But seeing he looked surprised, she recollected herself, and said,
hastily: "But I should not have mentioned it. I forgot that uncle
begged me to tell no one that he had been to London. It was such an
event in his life to leave home for a day that he seemed ashamed
that any one should know of it. It was only by chance it came to my
knowledge."
"Really!" said John, smiling. "Well, the secret is safe with me."
He secured her portmanteau, accompanied her to the chaise, and saw her
seated beside old John. Then they shook hands once more.
"I shall see you again," he said. "You will stay some little while now
you are here?"
"Oh yes," Aldyth said, smiling brightly on him.
He had said little, but his manner had told her how glad he was to see
her. And despite the sad occasion of her coming, Aldyth was glad to
find herself at Woodham.
After the noise and stir of London, the repose of the country was
delightful. The old High Street had the same familiar aspect. There
was Mrs. Bland in the bow-window, smiling and nodding. Miss Rudkin's
high cap and sausage-like curls appeared above the wire blind on the
opposite side of road.
And now they had turned from the town, and were on the long straight
road to Wyndham. The scent of hay was wafted across the hedges; fields
of mellowing corn, with poppies glowing here and there, bowed before
the breeze; cattle rested beneath the trees, or cooled themselves in
the ponds; all the broad, flat landscape seemed to breathe peace, And
with a keen sense of contrast, Aldyth recalled to mind the dim, close
streets of Whitechapel.
After she had gathered all that old John could tell her of her uncle's
illness, she paid little heed to his garrulous repetition of the facts.
She gazed lovingly on every familiar scene, and let the restful beauty
of the day enter into her heart.
As they drove up to the Hall, Guy appeared on the steps to welcome her.
He looked pale and excited, and he talked rapidly, though in subdued
tones, as he led her into the house.
"He is no better," he said; "unconscious most of the time, though
sometimes he seems to understand what we say. He keeps talking, but so
incoherently it is difficult to understand him. But he has asked for
you several times; he utters your name distinctly. No, you must not go
up stairs till you have taken something. There is luncheon for you in
the dining room. What will you have? Coffee? Wine? You shall have what
you like, but you must take something."
"Poor uncle!" said Aldyth, sitting down and allowing Guy to wait on
her. "Does he suffer much, do you think?"
"The doctor says not," Guy replied. "It is sad to see the poor old
man lie in such a state; but still at his great age, it is not to be
expected that he can recover. Eighty-one! Who would wish to live longer
than that?"
Aldyth did not linger long below. It was with a feeling of awe that
was almost dread she entered the darkened room where the old man lay.
She had never been brought into close contact with death, and she felt
instinctively that this was the chamber of death.
Miss Lorraine, quiet and watchful, sat at one side of the bed, the old
housekeeper at the other. Between them lay the stricken man, his face
strangely altered, the pupils of the eyes contracted, the expression
one of deep distress, whilst he babbled inarticulately, and his hands
restlessly roamed over the coverlid.
"Do not be frightened, dear," said her aunt, coming to meet Aldyth,
and leading her to the bedside. "I am glad you have come, for he has
mentioned you several times. There—'Aldyth,' he said. Did you not hear
it?"
But Aldyth, unaccustomed to illness, could make nothing of his
incoherent utterances.
"Aldyth," he said.
"Bring Aldyth," repeated Miss Lorraine. "Speak to him, dear; let him
know you are here."
"Uncle," said Aldyth, bending down to him and speaking very clearly;
"uncle, I am here. Do you understand? It's Aldyth."
"Ay, Aldyth," he murmured; "Aldyth and Guy. Bring Aldyth; I want her."
"I am here, uncle," Aldyth said again. "Is there anything you wish to
say to me?"
"Ay, I want Aldyth," he murmured. "I want to explain—Aldyth and Guy—Guy
and Aldyth—the two children are always together. Tell her—" Again he
sank into confused babblings. Presently his voice was raised again, and
even Aldyth could distinguish the words, "Bring Aldyth—I want her."
"Dear uncle, I am here," she said, and took hold of his hand. His
fingers closed convulsively over hers.
"Don't leave me," he said, and it seemed that for the moment he
recognized her. He made an eager movement, half raising himself in the
bed, and began to talk rapidly and inarticulately. He appeared trying
to tell her something, but scarce a word could Aldyth understand.
"There's something on his mind, if only he could make you understand,"
the housekeeper said. "There! 'My will,' he said—I heard the words
quite plain."
"I did not hear it," said Guy, who had come into the room, and stood
near Aldyth.
"You may fancy he says anything," observed Miss Lorraine.
"There was no mistake about that," said the housekeeper, with an air of
superior sagacity. "Now he's talking about the farm—don't you hear?"
At that moment, the prolonged howl of a dog rose from beneath the
windows, startling and affrighting the worthy old soul.
"You know what that means?" she whispered. "It's a sure sign. Not but
what I knew before. There was a robin this morning singing close to the
front door, and I knew that boded ill. Ah, me! The poor old master! But
we must all go when our time comes."
Hour after hour passed wearily by, and brought no change but increased
weakness and restlessness and more imperfect articulation. Life was
slowly ebbing. The doctor paid his last visit and went away, with no
expectation of seeing his patient again in life.
All night the laboured breathing, the sad struggle, so pitiful to
witness, went on. Guy, unable to bear the scene, went away ere the end
came; but Aldyth was not to be persuaded to quit her place beside her
uncle. All night she and her aunt watched him, and her hand held the
cold, heavy hand of the dying man till life had fled.
Then at last she broke down and wept from mingled sensations of relief
and pain. Miss Lorraine had stood by too many deathbeds to be thrilled
and unnerved as Aldyth was. She soothed the girl, and put her tenderly
to bed.
Aldyth, oppressed by a sense of the gloom and mystery of death,
presently sobbed herself to sleep, without giving a thought to any
consequences her uncle's death might have for her. The hopes and fears
that were alternating in Guy's mind, and causing him much inward
agitation, lay quite outside her consciousness.