A STRICKEN HEROINE AND A SHAMELESS SUITOR.
"DO leave me to myself, Kitty; it is the only kindness you can do me
now."
Hilda Bland was the speaker, and as she spoke, she turned her head on
the pillow, so that her sister could see no more of her than a mass of
loosened, disordered hair. Kitty stood by the bed holding a tray on
which was set out a meal which might have tempted the most fastidious
appetite. But Hilda would not so much as look at the dainty morsel of
chicken, and Kitty's expression was a curious combination of pity and
impatience.
"Really, Hilda, I cannot see any sense in starving yourself; you will
not improve matters by falling ill."
"If I could only be ill enough," sighed Hilda; "if I could only die!"
"If you absolutely abstain from food, you will die," said Kitty, in
a matter-of-fact tone; "but I should call it cowardly to put the
extinguisher on yourself in that fashion, and it would be cruel to
mother."
"It is easy for you to talk," murmured Hilda; "you have had no trouble;
you do not know what it is to be deceived by one whom you loved and
trusted. I feel that all happiness is over for me, and I can only drag
out a hopeless, miserable existence. Do you wonder that I am sick of
life?"
"Perhaps not, dear," said Kitty, gently. "You have been very badly
treated, no doubt; but Guy has acted so mean a part that if I were you,
I would pluck up heart and show that I did not think him worth caring
about. There are many things in life to live for still."
"I am weary of them all," said Hilda. "'We are weary, my heart and I,'
I keep thinking of those lines. Everything has become hateful to me. I
only want to lie still and be let alone. I can never bear to walk out
in Woodham again."
"You feel so now, but the feeling will pass," said Kitty. "If only you
would rouse yourself and face your trouble bravely, it would be so much
better. I know it is a trouble, but many another girl has had such a
disappointment, and there are worse troubles."
"It is easy to say so," said Hilda, bitterly; "but you know nothing
about it. You have never loved as I have."
"And I devoutly hope I never shall," Kitty could not help saying; "but
if such trouble came to me, I think I should do my best to bear it
bravely. It is God who sends us trouble, and He means it to work our
good."
"I don't see that there can be any good in my trouble," said Hilda,
"and I do not believe God sent it. It is Guy who has deceived me and
made me wretched."
"Nothing can happen to us apart from the will of God," said Kitty, "and
He will help us to bear our sorrows if we put our trust in Him. When
trouble comes to me, as I know it must some day, I hope I may be able
to resign myself to His will, and learn the lesson He means it to teach
me."
It was rarely Kitty spoke thus seriously, and her doing so, showed how
anxious she was to help her sister. No one gave Kitty credit for much
thoughtfulness; but, as is the case with many a lively girl, the hidden
currents of her life were deeper than her friends supposed. It was not
by chance that she was always cheerful, good-tempered, and unselfish.
At the root of her character lay a simple but strong religious faith,
and she had never forgotten the resolve made at the time of her
father's death, that she would be good, and do all in her power to
cheer and help her mother.
But Hilda was not in a mood to profit by her sister's words.
"I dare say you think so," she said, impatiently; "but wait till your
turn comes—though I am sure I hope you may never know such trouble as
mine. Do take that tray away, Kitty; it is impossible for me to eat."
So Kitty went away, feeling that she had wasted words, and that
probably the best thing for Hilda at present was to be left alone.
But, notwithstanding this reflection, scarce half an hour had passed
when she again appeared in her sister's room.
"Aldyth is down stairs," she said. "She is so sorry, Hilda; she feels
as we all do. Would you like to see her?"
"Oh no!" cried Hilda, excitedly. "The last person I should wish to see!
I do not say she is to blame; but it is her having Wyndham which has
caused all my misery."
"Really!" exclaimed Kitty, finding her sister incomprehensible. "I
should rather think it was Guy being what he is. It seems to me well
that you have found out in time, that he is one person in prosperity
and another in adversity."
With that Kitty left her sister and descended to the drawing room,
where Aldyth sat talking with Mrs. Bland. The mother's kindly face wore
a look of care, but she spoke cheerfully.
"Poor child!" she said. "She feels it sorely now, but I thankful it is
no worse. If she had married him under the impression he was a hero,
and then found out, when it was too late, that he was of common clay,
it would have been a far greater misfortune. I fear her love would not
have borne that strain, and it is a terrible thing for a woman to find
herself bound to a man whom she can neither love nor respect.
"I always felt they were not suited to each other. I fancy Guy did not
know his own mind; it was a caprice, which opposition strengthened. I
think few men are capable of making right choice of a wife before they
are twenty-five. But it is hard that poor Hilda should have to suffer
for his lack of discretion."
"She will not see you, Aldyth," Kitty said; "there is no rousing her
anyhow."
"I am afraid she finds a kind of romantic satisfaction in cherishing
and even exaggerating her unhappiness," said Mrs. Bland. "That is
the way with you young things when trouble comes to you; you like to
think that nothing can ever be the same again; you do not want to be
comforted."
"Now, mother, you have never seen me in trouble," said Kitty, lightly;
"you do not know how wise I should be."
"No, indeed, child," replied Mrs. Bland, with a tender glance at her
eldest girl. "God grant I never may!"
"The best thing for Hilda would be a change," she added, turning to
Aldyth. "I had a letter from my cousin, Mrs. Lancaster, a fortnight
ago, asking me to let my girls go with her and her daughter for a tour
in Brittany. Hilda did not care about it, so we refused the invitation;
but I think perhaps she might be persuaded to go now, and as my cousin
does not start till next week, I have written to ask if she is still
willing to take the girls."
"Oh, that would surely be good for Hilda," said Aldyth. "She has never
been abroad. Oh, I hope you will be able to arrange it."
"I should not wonder if Hilda positively refuses to go," said Kitty.
But her sister proved in this instance more tractable than Kitty
expected. Life was strong in her after all; and, since it became every
day more clear that she was not going to die: absence from Woodham
seemed the only condition under which life could be endured. Hilda's
pride was, perhaps, as deeply wounded as her affections. She dreaded
to meet the observant, perhaps pitying, glances of her acquaintances;
she hated the thought of the talk concerning her broken engagement that
must be going on in Woodham.
But each wound was deep, and the disappointment was none the less
keen that she had perhaps been more in love with love than with Guy
Lorraine. She had cherished her love, she had brooded over it, she had
fed it with all food of the imagination which she could draw from poet
or romance writer. And the romantic love thus fostered was not the
strong, clear-sighted love which discerns and comprehends every fact
relating to the one beloved. The true Guy, Hilda had never known. The
greater on this account was the pain she suffered when her lover began
to treat her with carelessness and indifference; the more crushing the
blow dealt by the coolly-written letter in which he informed her that
he had discovered that he had "mistaken his feelings" when he thought
that he loved her, but, was now convinced that they were "not, in the
least suited to each other."
As she had brooded over her love, Hilda now brooded over her sorrow;
nursing it, magnifying it, letting her fancy play over it, and
desiring, not comfort, but due appreciation of the greatness of her
misery.
Aldyth was glad when she knew that Kitty and Hilda had started to join
the Lancasters in London. She believed that the thorough change and
diversion afforded by a foreign tour must help Hilda to recover her
spirits.
Aldyth felt deeply for Hilda, whose state of mind she understood
perhaps better than Kitty did, for she had seen all along how
completely Hilda had deceived herself with regard to the character of
Guy Lorraine. It annoyed Aldyth to see how utterly Guy ignored that
he had anything to be ashamed of in his treatment of Hilda Bland. He
rather seemed to pride himself on the way in which he had acted. It
commended itself to his sense of prudence; and he was not the only
person at Woodham who regarded his action thus favourably, nor was
Clara Dawtrey the only one who derived satisfaction from the thought
of Hilda Bland's mortification. But Aldyth could only explain the
irreproachable air with which Guy bore himself by the assumption that
he was so constituted as to be incapable of certain thoughts and
feelings which to her appeared natural and essential. She was destined
to receive further proof of this theory ere long.
Aldyth comforted herself with the reflection that it was probably
a happy thing for Hilda that the engagement had come to an end.
Her sensitive, emotional nature must have suffered constant pain
in daily association with one whose ideas were so matter-of-fact,
and whose perceptions were obtuse to all that did not immediately
concern himself. Aldyth's own feelings towards her cousin at this
time were strangely mingled. In her disgust at his conduct towards
Hilda, she had shrunk from him, and but for Miss Lorraine's efforts
and Guy's persistence in trying to ingratiate himself with her, the
reconciliation just effected might have been ruptured as soon as made.
But there was a motive which urged Aldyth to avoid another estrangement
from her cousin. Although she was in no way to blame for the fact,
she could never forget that her gain had been Guy's loss. It was not
a gain that had brought her increased satisfaction; but she knew that
his loss had caused Guy much chagrin, and that many persons pitied him
on account of it. She was painfully conscious of this whenever she saw
him, and it made her tolerant of his society and anxious to do all in
her power to make amends to him for his loss.
Guy understood his cousin sufficiently well to divine that this would
be her feeling; but whilst Aldyth was racking her brain to devise
delicate and practicable modes of making up to him in some degree for
what he had lost, he was looking forward to a means of restitution
which never crossed her mind. People, seeing the cousins together again
and apparently on the old terms, were quick to say that it was plain
why Hilda Bland had been jilted. Guy did not trouble himself about what
people might say; but to Aldyth, the idea was so impossible that she
never conceived that others might entertain it.
She persuaded Guy to accept as a gift from her the horse which he
had been wont to ride when he lived at Wyndham, she consulted him on
various matters connected with the estate, and allowed him to help her;
but at the same time, she treated him with the frankness and occasional
severity of an elder sister, though in truth she was his junior. And
there was nothing in her manner that could flatter his vanity or
encourage the hope he was cherishing.
But the self-esteem of some persons requires little support, and the
event which one will regard as impossible will strike another as highly
probable. Guy had no idea that the purpose he had formed involved an
astounding surprise for Aldyth, and perhaps she should have been better
prepared for it than she was.
One warm afternoon Aldyth was in the library at Wyndham, worrying
herself over some business details submitted to her by her bailiff,
which she could not understand. Her head ached, the heat was
stupefying, and her perplexity only increased the longer she studied
the account. It was with a sense of relief that she heard Guy's step in
the hall, and called him to her. There was a welcome in her glance ere
she said brightly—
"Oh, I am glad to see you. Do come and tell me what this man means me
to understand by this complicated document."
"Willingly, if I can," said Guy, as he drew a chair to her side. The
matter was simple enough to him. He had been accustomed to look after
his uncle's business affairs, and in a few minutes he had explained
everything Aldyth found puzzling, and also given her a little advice
with regard to the business under consideration.
"Tomlinson is a good fellow," he said; "but you must not let him have
everything his own way. An agent should not have too much power."
"But how can I help it?" asked Aldyth. "He understands these things,
and I do not."
"That's it," said Guy, seizing his opportunity. "You need some one by
your side who knows how to manage an estate. Dear Aldyth, I wish you
would let me help you."
"You do help me, Guy," she said, puzzled by his manner, but yet far
from seeing his drift; "you are very good to help me as you do."
"Ah, but I could be so much more to you, if you would let me," he said,
and now his voice took a tender tone which roused her to a sense of
danger; "if only you would let share all your burdens and cares; if you
would let things be as uncle always meant them to be."
Considering the circumstances of the case, Guy certainly expressed
himself with much cleverness, and showed what imaginative language even
commonplace minds can command under sufficient stimulus. But the effect
of his words was not such as he desired.
Aldyth started up, a flush of anger on her cheek. "Guy, I cannot think
what you mean by speaking in such a way!"
"Oh yes, you must know," he said. "I told you before that I loved you."
He paused, checked by the scorn he read in her glance.
"I should think that would be a reason for not saying it again,"
she replied in cold, clear tones, which had an edge of contempt.
"If I remember rightly, I made you aware then how I regarded your
professions, and you cannot surely imagine that, after all that has
happened, and Hilda Bland being my friend, I should regard them
otherwise now, especially as—excuse me, Guy, the motive is so evident."
Guy looked down, and his face flushed, but he said doggedly—
"You may say what you like, but I think you owe something to me. You
forget that what has happened makes a great difference to me."
"No, I do not forget it," said Aldyth, warmly; "I cannot forget it; I
am oppressed by the knowledge that it is so. I would set matters right
between us at once, if I knew how."
"There is but one way," he said.
"Then it is a way I shall never take!" she said, her eyes flashing on
him. "I would not set a wrong right by committing a greater wrong. I
would give you Wyndham to-morrow rather than do that."
"But that would be impossible," he said. "I could not in honour accept
such a gift from you."
"I should not have thought considerations of honour would have troubled
you, Guy," said Aldyth, unable to resist the retort.
But she was ashamed of it when it had passed her lips, and feeling
that there was danger in her growing excitement, she turned to quit
the room. Ere she could reach the door, it was opened by a servant,
evidently looking for her. On the salver in his hand lay a telegram.
"For you, Miss Lorraine," he said. "A man has ridden from Woodham with
it."
Aldyth passed into the hall as she tore the envelope open. The telegram
was from Eastbourne, and the sender was Gladys. "We are in dreadful
trouble; come to us," was all it said.