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."
[Illustration]
"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 betray
The heart that loved her; it is her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From 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.