GWEN'S HOME.
"I DON'T see that your Riversmouth trip has done much for you. If it
was a pleasure, you seem disposed to keep the enjoyment to yourself.
Certainly you are not looking any the better for it."
Ruth Halcombe, the speaker, was a blunt-mannered girl of seventeen,
two years Gwendoline's junior, and in most respects a contrast to her
elder sister. She was the useful and practical member of the household,
and she prided herself on so being. Everybody in the house depended
more or less on Ruth, yet none looked to her for sympathy. The boys
went to Ruth for buttons and strings, but they carried all their little
confidences to Gwendoline. There was a touch of hardness about Ruth
which repelled people. She was affectionate below the surface, but she
had no tenderness of manner; and she had not yet learnt that usefulness
may co-exist with beauty, and practicalness with poetry. Gwendoline's
restless pantings and aspirations were "sentiment," in Ruth's opinion.
Gwendoline had returned two or three hours earlier to find herself
suddenly plunged into the little whirl of home cares and the big swirl
of London life.
The low roar of the latter struck her forcibly, after the quiet of
Riversmouth. Londoner that she was, she never grew reconciled to
perpetual sound, never attained to Ruth's happy condition of not
hearing it, never ceased to feel oppressed by the great city and its
unceasing tumult. She had such a thirst for stillness, and there was no
stillness in her life. Out of doors and indoors, Gwendoline could never
be alone. To her finely-strung nature, solitude at times was more than
a pleasure—it was a positive necessity; yet it was almost unattainable.
For Mr. Halcombe's income was very narrow, and his house was very
small; and he had a wife, three daughters, and seven sons, not to
speak of a little maid-servant. Lady Halcot possessed her abundance of
large rooms absolutely unused; but in this narrow dwelling with its
dingy outside closed in by other houses to right and left and front
and rear, there was not a corner where one might be secure against
interruption. The elder boys were away all day, it is true: Victor in a
counting-house; Jem, Edmund, and Fred at school; but so was Gwendoline
away most days at her painting, and when she came back, they came back
also. And the four youngest children, Artie, Willie, Bob, and Nell,
were always at home, Ruth being their teacher. So Gwendoline spent her
time in a crowd.
The sense of overcrowding, and the pressure of home cares, had come
upon her heavily that afternoon, as she found herself once more within
the hall door.
Gwendoline knew that some fresh trouble was brewing. She knew it before
she had been five minutes at home. Not a word was said which might
suggest the idea, but she read it in her mother's burdened look, and in
the extra sharpness of Ruth's tones. She saw that they wanted to spare
her a little while, and she heard her mother whisper softly, "After
tea, Ruthie." There was no leisure as yet for any quiet conversation,
and Gwendoline wisely asked no questions.
The narrow dining-room, with its worn-out chairs and its carpet of
undistinguishable pattern, had a crowded appearance at meal times. The
boys were healthy and merry enough, and chatter flowed on unceasingly,
but life's cares seemed to have pressed hard upon the father and
mother. Mr. Halcombe was a frail man, thin and stooping, with a shadowy
likeness to Gwendoline, almost lost in the anxious wrinkles which
furrowed his brow and drew down his mouth-corners. Mrs. Halcombe was
a little slight woman, exceedingly worn, yet with a kind of habitual
cheeriness about her; never perhaps pretty even in the past, but always
refined and sweet-mannered.
Mr. Halcombe and Victor had a mutton-chop each, in consideration of
their day's work, and Mr. Halcombe ate his slowly, with an abstracted
and mournful air, while Victor, a tall lad of sixteen, talked and
laughed over his in untiring fashion. Ruth stood at the foot of the
table, dispensing hunches of bread from the huge quartern loaf,
and generally overlooking the other six boys, varying in ages from
thirteen-years-old Jem to six-years-old Bob. The fairy-maiden, Nell,
with her sweet eyes and sunny hair, sat in her three-years-old
queenship close beside the tea-making mother, idolized by all.
"Gwen is tired," Mrs. Halcombe said, in response to Ruth. "It has been
such a bustle ever since she came in. I wish we could have arranged
differently."
"It has been the same as usual, I suppose," said Ruth. "Gwen must take
home as she finds it—like other people."
"Ruth always has an appropriate moral ready for every occasion," said
Victor. "I say, Gwen, did you see anything of the old lady down there?"
Mrs. Halcombe had not asked the question, but Gwendoline saw the quick
quiver of her eyelids. "I saw Lady Halcot pass in her pony-carriage,
Victor."
"Did she speak to you?"
"No,—she looked—"
"And that was all?"
Gwendoline had not meant to give particulars just then, but she could
not answer in the affirmative.
"Lady Halcot saw me standing with Mr. Selwyn," she said. "He was down
for the day, and we had met. She asked him afterwards who I was, and
she sent an invitation through him, asking me to dinner. That was all.
I meant to tell mother presently."
"A weighty 'all,' too, in my opinion," said Victor.
Mrs. Halcombe could not trust her voice.
Mr. Halcombe looked up slowly, and asked, "What did it mean?"
"I am afraid it did not mean much, father. Mr. Selwyn told me not to
count upon it—at least, I think he meant that. Still, it was very
disappointing that I could not go. I sent a note next morning, with an
explanation; but I had no answer."
"You don't mean to say you allowed a paltry wetting in the sea to keep
you away?" exclaimed Ruth, in a tone of strong disapproval.
"I could not help it, Ruth."
"I would have helped it in your place. How you 'could,' Gwen! When you
knew how much might depend on your pleasing her! If your dress was not
fit to go in, surely Miss Dewhurst would have lent you another. Why, it
seems like insanity!—Such a chance thrown away!"
"I was very sorry, but it was impossible," repeated Gwendoline,
flushing. "I was in bed all the evening."
"I would not have been there, I can tell you. And not even an excuse
sent till next morning."
"No, it was forgotten. I didn't think about Lady Halcot when I first
came to myself,—and the rest were all too busy with the child and me—"
Gwendoline's agitation under Ruth's reproaches betrayed her into saying
so much, and then she paused. For a moment nobody seemed quite to take
in the meaning of her words. Mr. Halcombe was the first to speak. He
had been looking at her steadily, and he now put aside the little boy
between him and Gwendoline, and moved to her side.
"Gwen, my child," he said in his depressed manner, "this has been more
of an affair than we know. You are quite unnerved and poorly. What is
it, my dear?"
Gwendoline's face went down on his shoulder, and she clung to him,
trembling.
"I saw that she was not herself, directly I came in," he said. "Ruth,
you must not be so hard upon your sister. She would not have stayed
away without good reason, I am sure. What is this about 'coming to
yourself,' Gwennie? You don't mean that you were long enough in the
water to lose consciousness."
"It couldn't be helped, father," said Gwendoline, lifting her face, and
speaking hurriedly. "I did not want to make a fuss about the thing. It
was only that a little boy fell in, and I had to go after him. There
was nobody else near enough, and he would have been drowned. They got
out a boat as quickly as possible, and came after us, just in time. I'm
not a good enough swimmer for such waves, and I couldn't have held out
any longer. I don't think I was long insensible, and it was more of a
faint than anything else, but the poor little boy was very long coming
round, and somehow nobody remembered Lady Halcot. I never thought about
her at all until eleven o'clock at night. The doctor would not let
me get up next day until the afternoon—not that I was ill, only weak
and shaky. He was very kind, and so was everybody. But I really don't
think I could have gone to see Lady Halcot even yesterday, and I had no
answer at all to my note."
"My own brave girl," said Mr. Halcombe; and he folded her in his arms.
"Thank God for it—and for His bringing you through. Yes, there are
worse troubles than even money troubles,—you spoke truth, Nellie." This
was to his wife. "If our Gwen had been taken from us! Thank God for His
mercy."
"Why, Gwen's a heroine!" Victor exclaimed. "Well done, Gwen! We shall
all be proud of you."
"There's no need. It was just the natural thing to do," Gwendoline said
shamefacedly.
"You never told us you had been in danger, Gwen," her mother said, with
full eyes.
"I didn't see the need to write, mother—more than just a few words.
And the danger was soon over. Honor said she meant to call soon and
tell you everything. But don't feel as if I could bear to talk about it
yet," Gwendoline added, with whitening lips. "The very thought of the
sea brings it all back, and turns me dizzy. Can't we speak of something
else?"
"Gwen had much better go into the next room and be quiet," Ruth
said, with a touch of apology for her own harshness. "Why don't you,
Gwen?—and mother too. You will like a chat, and I'll look after
everything."
Gwendoline did not protest. She gave Ruth a grateful look, and went,
followed by Mrs. Halcombe. It was not the household custom to dispute
Ruth's mandate in lesser matters.
"Mother," Gwendoline said, making early use of her opportunity, "what
has happened since I went away?"
"A good many things have happened, Gwen."
"Yes; but you can't take me in," Gwendoline said, looking stedfastly
into Mrs. Halcombe's faded eyes. "Something particular has
come—something that troubles you and father very much. I see it
plainly. You can't take me in, mother darling. I must know, or I shall
lie awake all night, wondering. It is easier to bear the truth than
one's own fancies."
"Not always, Gwen," her mother said.
"Almost always, I think. Is it a money trouble, mother?"
Mrs. Halcombe tried to answer, and her voice failed. She could only
press Gwendoline's hand.
"It must be something very bad indeed, for you to feel it so much,"
said Gwendoline gravely. "Tell me all, please. It is worse to wait."
"I wish I could make you wait," Mrs. Halcombe said with a sob. "Oh,
Gwen, it is hard to bear up. God will surely provide for us. I have
told myself so again and again, the last day or two, and I have tried
hard to be brave—to trust. But it is a sore trial of faith. I cannot
see what we can do. I cannot see any way out."
"What is it, mother? Don't mind crying, but just tell me."
That Mrs. Halcombe should fail in her cheery self-command, at
least before others, was an event rare indeed, and Gwendoline was
proportionately dismayed, yet proportionately anxious not to be herself
betrayed into tears.
She repeated earnestly, "Don't be afraid, mother. We shall be
helped—surely—somehow. Only please tell me what is wrong."
"It is at the bank. They have told your father that they will not want
him any more—any more—after Midsummer."
"Mother!"
Gwendoline could say no more. She was absolutely paralyzed. Her first
sensation was as if she had been sinking again among ocean waves, as
if literal billows were rising around her and taking away her breath.
But she only uttered the one faint word, and then sat, white and still,
till power of breath and speech came back. Mrs. Halcombe's face was
hidden in her hands.
"Father dismissed! But what for? What has he done?" asked Gwendoline,
in distress.
"Nothing. It is not anything that he has done. They spoke kindly—said
they would give the highest testimonials. But they are making some
changes, and they want a younger man in his place. Your father says
it is natural. He says he has grown old and slow lately, and has been
forgetful and made mistakes. He is wearing out. But oh, Gwen, it is
very very terrible! What shall we do? How shall we live?"
"If I had seen Lady Halcot!" muttered Gwendoline's quivering lips. "If
I had not tried to save the child's life! Mother, it couldn't be wrong
to do that!" she broke out passionately. "It couldn't be wrong! I would
do it again, no matter what might come after. But why didn't I go to
Lady Halcot next day? If only I had not been so shy, so foolish."
"It might have made no difference. I do not suppose she would help us,
Gwen."
"Honor would tell us to look higher—to trust. Mother, God won't forsake
us. He will bring us through somehow. There may be better days ahead.
But it is terrible. Poor poor father!"