AN UNEXPECTED PROPOSAL.
THREE days passed, and an answer came from Lady Halcot, addressed to
Gwendoline, in her ladyship's bold handwriting. Gwendoline did not
know the writing, but crest and postmark told their tale. Tea and
mutton-chops were in full swing when the letter arrived, and under
cover of the boys' chatter, Gwendoline was able to peruse it almost
unnoticed.
"DEAR GWENDOLINE HALCOMBE,—Your letter has reached me, and I have also
heard in other quarters of your late courageous conduct with respect to
a drowning child. I like bravery in a woman, and I congratulate you.
"Your father's present position is only what was to be expected sooner
or later, under the circumstances.
"I am not unwilling to help, but it must be in my own manner, and on my
own terms.
"These terms are as follows:
"I wish you, Gwendoline Halcombe, to leave your present home, and to
reside entirely with me at the Leys. You will then be under my control,
occupying the position of my adopted child; and, so long as you submit
to my will, I undertake to provide handsomely for your future.
"At the same time, and as a corollary to this state of things, I
consent to settle the sum of £500 per annum upon your father and
mother, for the term of their natural lives, the survivor continuing to
receive the same until his or her death, after which the annuity will
revert to me or my heirs, as I shall appoint.
"I do not wish to cut you off entirely from your family, but you must
understand that I have personally no interest in your relatives. You
may keep up a moderate correspondence with your home-circle, and once
in two years I shall permit you to go home for a month.
"I state the matter thus clearly at the beginning, that there may be no
mistakes. This is a purely business letter. I may add, however, that if
you decide to accept this proposal, my wish will be to make your life a
happy one. I like your face, and I believe you would suit me well.
"You may consider the matter at your leisure, and, if you will, consult
my lawyer, Mr. Selwyn. I am informing him of what I propose to do, and
I believe him to be an acquaintance of yours.
"I do not press for a hasty decision, but I do desire you, Gwendoline
Halcombe, to understand that your decision either way is to be a
permanent decision. You do not come to the Leys on trial for a few
months, to grow tired of the plan and throw it up. If you come, you
remain.
"Also you must please to understand that on these terms only will I
assist your parents. If you decline my offer for yourself, my offer of
aid to them falls to the ground.—I remain, yours truly,—
"H. HALCOT."
"Who is your letter from, Gwen?" asked Victor. "It doesn't look like
the handwriting of a young lady friend."
Gwendoline heard the words, but did not gather their meaning. A
sensation of being suffocated came over her, and voices buzzed loudly
in her ears. She stood up panting.
"Gwen!" said Mrs. Halcombe, while her father watched her anxiously. "My
dear, are you ill?"
"Oh, mother, mother!" cried Gwendoline, in an agony, which yet was not
all pain. Perplexity and bewilderment had a share in her distress.
"Gwen, don't frighten us all," said Ruth roughly. "What is the matter?"
Gwendoline grew suddenly calm, awaking to the fact that she might
not explain hastily before the children. None but Ruth and Victor,
beside herself, knew of the impending trouble. She sat down, and spoke
quietly, "Never mind just now, Ruth. It is only—something that I must
tell mother and father presently."
"Delightfully vague, now you have put us all on the rack of curiosity,"
said Victor.
"Would you rather come and tell me now, Gwen?" asked her father.
Gwendoline saw that waiting was no easy matter to him. She rose and put
the letter into his hands, and, instead of returning to her seat, left
the room.
"Gwen is altogether upset by her Riversmouth trip," said Ruth, in
a tone of some sharpness. "I don't know what has come over her. Is
anything wrong, father?"
Mr. Halcombe made no reply, and Ruth knew better than to ask again. He
perused the letter slowly, and at length looked up to meet his wife's
eyes.
"Nellie, you had better take this, and give it back to Gwen yourself,
after reading it," he said; and he came round the table to her side.
"Tell her there is no need for any haste as to a decision." Mr.
Halcombe spoke low, as if not intending others to hear, and as if
scarcely conscious that the children's voices had dropped into silence.
"Gwen wrote to Lady Halcot, and this is her reply. We thought it best
not to trouble you about the matter sooner."
Ruth's face showed pique at not having been taken into confidence.
Mrs. Halcombe was not given to feeling pique at imaginary slights; but
the sight of the familiar handwriting evidently stirred her keenly.
She began to read, sitting still at the head of the table, which was
not what her husband had intended. He had wished her to leave the room
first.
"Don't you think you had better go to Gwen, dear?" he asked.
She answered dreamily, "Yes, directly," and read on, not slowly, as he
had done, but glancing more and more rapidly from sentence to sentence,
while a look of dismay gathered over her face.
"Oh no, no, no!—Impossible!" she said at the end, standing up, and
fixing a startled gaze on her husband. "Quite impossible! Oh no, we
could never consent to it."
Mr. Halcombe did not enter upon the question there and then. He put a
hand upon her arm, and only said gently, "Go and tell Gwen what you
think about it."
"It could never never be, James. Impossible!"
Mrs. Halcombe went hurriedly away, and Mr. Halcombe returned to his
seat. But the last half of his mutton-chop remained uneaten, and his
cup of tea stood till it was cold.
Ruth asked at length, "Father, has anything fresh happened?"
Mr. Halcombe said gravely, "You will know in good time, Ruth;" and then
his face was hidden in his hands.
Ruth's voice grew somewhat querulous, but a certain awe-struck silence
remained upon all the others till the meal was over.
Mrs. Halcombe did not find her daughter in the drawing-room, so she
went straight up-stairs to the little bedroom overhead occupied by the
three sisters.
"Gwen, may I come in?" she asked; and the door was immediately unlocked.
"Gwennie, it can never never be," said Mrs. Halcombe tremblingly. "It
can never be, my child."
That was all that either of them said at first. Gwendoline shut the
door again, and went back to the window where she had been standing.
Mrs. Halcombe followed her, and for a minute or more they remained
silently side by side, looking out into the quiet dingy street, with
the dull row of houses opposite. Quiet, dingy, dull—the surroundings
were such, undoubtedly. Yet this was Gwendoline's home. It had been
her home from infancy. Never till this hour had she known how much she
loved it.
But presently the two faces turned as if instinctively away from
the street to meet each the other. Mrs. Halcombe was agitated and
tearful still. Gwendoline was very quiet and pale, with a certain
grave resoluteness in her liquid brown eyes. Mrs. Halcombe saw and was
alarmed.
"Gwennie, it can never be," she said again, and she took Gwendoline's
hands between her own. "Never, my darling. How could we give you up? Oh
no, it is quite impossible! Anything rather than to lose our Gwen. It
would break my heart. I could not bear it, darling."
"Anything, mother!"
"I do not say it unsubmissively, Gwen. 'Anything' as a matter of
choice, I mean. If it were God's will to take you from us, I could
submit—I hope—without murmuring. He would give me power. It would
be very terrible, but it would be His will. But to send you away
ourselves—for our own personal gain—oh no, no, no—it is out of the
question!"
Gwendoline's little hands seemed to turn to ice in Mrs. Halcombe's
grasp, yet there was about her no other sign of strong emotion.
"Mother, suppose it is not a question of your doing at all? Suppose it
is God's will for me? Suppose He is taking me from you just as plainly
as if He did it through death? After all, mother dear, this would not
be so bad as that."
"Oh, Gwen—hush!"
"But I don't think I must hush. The matter has to be looked in the
face. I felt all in a whirl at the first moment, but since I came up
here I have been trying to weigh it quietly."
"Your father told me to say that there must be no hasty decision," said
Mrs. Halcombe, in a tone of keen suffering.
"No hasty decision either way. That is what he means. You want to say
at once that it cannot be, but I want you to look at both sides of the
question. Mother, suppose we turn from this—suppose we say 'No' to Lady
Halcot's offer, and refuse her help. What is to become of us all?"
"God will take care of us," faltered Mrs. Halcombe.
"Yes, in His own way. But how if this is His way? If we refuse it,
because it is not exactly according to our mind, have we any right to
expect more—any right to think He will work a miracle to support us?
Think, mother, there will be absolutely almost nothing to live upon.
Suppose father finds a clerkship of one or two hundred a year! It would
hardly put bread into our mouths—yet he is not likely to do better. It
has been hard work enough to drag along upon three hundred and eighty.
But fancy what it would be with less than half that—and we don't even
know that father would have so much as half. If no alternative had
come, I would say with you to the last, that we must trust on, and that
God would help us. I know He would, mother. But if the help comes, and
we fling it away, how can we still look up, and believe that He will
arrange for our needs?"
"It cannot be right to give you up—it cannot be, Gwen!" Mrs. Halcombe
murmured in answer.
"If it were a question of my being married, you would not feel so. You
would give me up quite happily then. This isn't so very different,
after all;" and Gwendoline tried to smile. "You will know that I am
well cared for, and that I have a comfortable home. And I shall have
the great joy of feeling that you are all getting along in comfort,
without the terrible pull that it has been of late. Five hundred a year
isn't wealth for a family of twelve, but it is more than we have ever
had yet; and you will be one less in number; and Victor will soon be
earning more; and father will try to get some work. Only think how well
off you will all be. Why, you will grow positively luxurious!—Only not
so luxurious as I shall be at the Leys. I Wonder if Lady Halcot will
give me a lady's maid all to myself. You see, I am to be her adopted
child, not her lady-companion, mother. I shall not know myself, in such
a grand position."
Gwendoline's bright manner almost deceived her mother, despite her
extreme paleness.
"Gwen, do you really wish to go? I was forgetting that part of the
matter. You would have every comfort and luxury, as you say. It may be
selfishness on my part to wish to keep you from such a life."
Gwendoline made no answer to this, but her mother, watching steadily
the quivering white lips, knew what the silence meant.
"Forgive me, Gwen," she whispered. "I understand now."
"Oh, mother, don't—we must be brave!" half-sobbed Gwendoline. "It has
to be—it must be."
"I do not feel so, Gwennie. If you wished to go, I could not wish to
keep you back. But I know Lady Halcot, and I cannot believe you would
be happy with her; and to send you there merely for our gain is out of
the question. Don't be afraid, my darling. We will live on dry bread,
and work our fingers to the bone, sooner than part with our Gwen."
Gwendoline allowed herself to be kissed and comforted, and did not
attempt immediately to controvert her mother's words. But when her
tears were dried the look of resolution had not passed from her eyes.