COMING.
GWENDOLINE, numb and bewildered, could shed no tears. Frith persuaded
her to go to bed, and she lay tossing to and fro, with intervals of
stupefied stillness, sometimes journeying again through the scenes
of the last few days, sometimes recalling the events of the past two
years, sometimes unable to think at all. Sleep proved an impossibility.
Her mind was in a state of restless distraction—oppressed with genuine
grief, yet by no means altogether sorrowful. While distressed for Lady
Halcot's death, and sincerely feeling the loss of a real friend, she
yet turned ever and anon with a sense of positive joy to the thought of
"home." Gwendoline almost hated herself for the joy, but she could not
do away with it. Life at the Leys had been at its best much shadowed.
The commingling of sorrow and of pleasurable anticipation amounted to
pain and strain, gradually resolving itself into a definite present
longing for her mother. The aching of heart took refuge here.
By six o'clock she was up and dressed, unable any longer to lie still.
Her first move was to steal softly into the library for a "time-table,"
and to look-out London trains. Mrs. Halcombe might possibly arrive a
little before eight; not sooner. Gwendoline was sure she would come
then, if possible.
Two whole hours, or nearly so, of waiting. Gwendoline did not know
what to do with herself in the interim. She returned to her bedroom,
and endeavoured there to read her Bible, and to kneel for her usual
morning devotions. The Bible-reading was almost a failure. With the
utmost effort of will, she could not fix attention upon two consecutive
verses. Prayer proved a different matter. A succession of definite
petitions was beyond her power, but she could and did spend a time in
submissive wordless waiting at the Divine footstool, looking for such
help as she needed. Nor did the help fail her. When she rose, much of
the restless heart-pain was stilled.
A thought flashed into her mind, to be acted upon unhesitatingly.
Gwendoline took a hat from the wardrobe, found a light flower-basket,
and went quietly down-stairs into the garden. Servants were not yet
about, and no one saw her. She made her exit through the conservatory,
unlocking the inner and outer doors.
It was an exquisite morning, sunshine flooding the air. Birds sang
exuberantly, and flowers, breaking into bloom, lifted their faces
to the blue sky. The house behind, with its closed shutters, was a
contrast to this abounding life and brightness. Gwendoline looked back
sorrowfully, and thought of the small still form lying within, calmly
at rest, after nearly eighty years of life.
"Yes, real rest," murmured Gwendoline, as she passed among the
rosebushes, gathering here and there a blossom of surpassing beauty.
"How could one wish to keep her? If I were so old and weary, I should
not wish to be kept. Dear Lady Halcot! How good she has been to me!
Oh, I am thankful she was not taken four or five months ago, before we
really knew one another. I must not give way to wrong feelings about
Miss Withers. After all, no lasting harm has been done—thanks to Mr.
Fosbrook; and perhaps she did not deliberately intend mischief. People
sometimes act worse than they really mean. And it is all over now—quite
at an end. I don't want to think of her with any bitterness."
The basket was quickly filled from the profusion of roses around, and
Gwendoline turned homewards, entering again through the conservatory,
and leaving sunshine behind. The darkness of the silent house weighed
upon her heavily. Half-past six sounded from the hall clock, and still
she appeared to be the only person stirring. Gwendoline went slowly up
the broad staircase, and paused at Lady Halcot's door, turning the key
gently.
Nobody within—except the placid figure which "had" been Lady Halcot,
now only a marble and lifeless image. No, not only; for that same form,
though "ashes to ashes, dust to dust," was its present verdict, should
yet be raised again, in new and glorious beauty, "at the Resurrection,
in the Last Day."
A shiver crept over Gwendoline, not so much of fear as of sorrow. She
had been in the presence of death before, and she had no feelings of
terror. Yet, standing face to face with the cold image, she realized
what she had lost—and realized not yet what Lady Halcot had gained.
Gwendoline roused herself with an effort, and began placing her
flowers, laying a crimson rose here, or a creamy bloom there, with
tender and loving fingers. The work was absorbing, and drew her out of
herself. When the basket was empty, she gave one long look, bent to
kiss the chill brow, and went quietly back into her own room.
Nothing now remained but to await patiently her mother's arrival. Once
or twice the thought struck her—what if Mrs. Halcombe did not come
by this particular train? But that conjecture was put aside at once.
Gwendoline did not feel as if she could endure longer delay. After
half-past seven she took her station at the window, watching with
concentrated attention of eye and ear.
Eight o'clock was not far distant, when a sound of wheels became
audible. Gwendoline caught one glimpse, through the trees, of an
approaching fly, and before it could reach the front door she was
standing there on the doorstep, in a suppressed tumult of feeling. A
little worn woman descended, and for three seconds the two held one
another in a voiceless embrace.
"Gwen,—am I in time?"
"No, mother; oh, mother!"
"Hush, my darling, hush!"—For Gwendoline was clinging to her in a
passion of sobs, which were yet by no means all sorrow.
The joy of reunion had at least an equal share in her feelings. She
was, however, overstrained by long watching, and nervous excitement
was not to be at once mastered; while the very relief of finding
herself again a child under a parent's care made self-command the more
difficult.
"Hush, Gwennie," Mrs. Halcombe repeated. "Don't cry so, dear."
"Oh, mother, if you could have been in time. But it was impossible."
Mrs. Halcombe asked, "When?" in a low voice.
"Last night, about half-past twelve."
They went slowly up the broad staircase, Mrs. Halcombe gathering at
every step fresh recollections of her girlish days spent under this
roof. Gwendoline indicated by a gesture the room in which Lady Halcot
lay.
"I will go there by and by," Mrs. Halcombe said in a low voice, which
trembled somewhat.
Then they reached Gwendoline's pretty boudoir. Mrs. Halcombe removed
her cloak and sat down, Gwendoline kneeling at her side, to cling anew
and shed more tears.
"Oh, mother, it has been so long, so sad," she said, with a sigh of
mingled pain and relief. "I hardly know how the last few weeks have
gone. I love Lady Halcot dearly now, and I do miss her; but—oh, mother,
I have not known how to get on without you."
"Yes; it has been very long," Mrs. Halcombe echoed. "Two whole years."
"I have wondered sometimes if they ever would end, mother. It isn't
as if I had been used before to living long away from you. We were so
seldom parted. Still, I could have come back here happily now; it has
been so different of late, since dear Lady Halcot has really understood
me, and has been so gentle and loving."
Mrs. Halcombe repeated the two adjectives, as if surprised, adding,
"She must have been much altered at the last. Then she did not
understand you earlier, my Gwen?"
"Things were different, mother. Not so much at first as later. I could
not tell you all in letters, and it seemed useless to worry you; but
now you must hear everything. The worst was over some time ago. It has
been all right lately."
"Then you really were not quite happy at one time, my dear. I felt sure
of it; yet there was nothing in your letters to take hold of."
"I used to be lonely, with no one to care for me, and Lady Halcot so
changed and cold."
"But, Gwen, what made her cold?"
"Miss Withers came between," said Gwendoline quietly. "I could not
unravel the tangle then, but it is plain enough now. I don't like to
let myself think that she meant it all deliberately,—still—it 'was' her
doing. When Lady Halcot first fell ill, Miss Withers kept me out of the
room for weeks; and Lady Halcot had been so cold before that I did not
dare to act,—I could not tell whether she wished to see me. I did so
long for you then, mother. There was nobody to speak a kind word to me,
unless I happened to meet Mr. Rossiter or Mr. Fosbrook out of doors;
but that only happened once or twice, quite early in the illness."
"If I had known the state of things, Gwen—"
"Ah, but I could not bear to trouble you, mother, when I knew you could
do nothing. Mr. Fosbrook managed at last to see me alone, and to let me
know that he did not think I was shut out of the room by Lady Halcot's
own wish. Things soon came right then. I'll tell you all about it
another time; but I found that Lady Halcot had been under quite a false
impression, supposing me to keep away of my own free will. You cannot
think how happy she was to have me again. From that time she has always
seemed to trust me thoroughly. But she never would quite believe the
worst of Miss Withers; and I am trying not to feel harshly about her. I
suppose it was a great temptation to get everything into her own hands.
But here comes the tea, and you must need it."
Frith herself bore the little tray. Mrs. Halcombe kept her for a few
minutes in conversation.
"Lady Halcot has been a good mistress to me," Frith said, with tears in
her eyes. "I would never ask a better. There are those who counted my
lady stern; but she was always just,—always the same. I don't know what
I shall do now she is gone."
Both mother and daughter felt better for a little refreshment.
When Frith was gone, Mrs. Halcombe could venture at last to put the
question,—"Gwen, was there no message for me at the last?"
Gwendoline told all that had passed, finding comfort in the narration.
She had not known such freedom of speech for a long while as during
this hour. Even at the best there had been always a measure of
constraint between herself and Lady Halcot, owing in part to the
intense constitutional reserve of the latter. Now she could say what
she liked, and could say it as she liked.
"I shall begin to think I am a child again," she said. "It is so
wonderful to be with you, and to feel quite free, with no fear of
blundering and doing the wrong thing. Do tell me now about father and
all of them. I am thirsting for home-news. How is father?"
"Quite well,—much better than he used to be; the pressure has been so
lessened of late. If it had not been for your absence,—but even in
spite of that I have sometimes thought him looking ten years younger."
"If I had not come here when Lady Halcot asked me—" Gwendoline said,
half to herself.
"Ah, our position would be different indeed. I see that now. You and he
were quite right, Gwennie. It would have been a positive sin to throw
aside such an offer; and you are none the worse for it, my darling,
though I am afraid you have had much more to go through than we ever
imagined. But the parting has been hard to bear at times,—the feeling
that we were so completely cut off from you, and might never venture
to come to Riversmouth. I used to lie at night and wonder how it would
be if you were taken ill,—whether Lady Halcot would relent then. Now I
see how faithless I have been. Everything has been arranged for us so
wonderfully,—so lovingly."
"And I thought at one time that the plan was a punishment to me for
discontent," said Gwendoline.
"You don't think so now?"
"Oh no, mother." Then in a half-bewildered voice Gwendoline broke
out—"Home!—Am I really going home,—to live there?"
"Will you be sorry, my dear?"
"Sorry! Mother, how can you ask?"
Mrs. Halcombe glanced round the room. "I am afraid our house will
look very small and shabby to you after this,—not quite so crowded,
certainly, since the three have been at school,—but still—"
"It is home," said Gwendoline simply. "I don't want more than that."
With a sigh she added, "Mother, it is such rest to have you here! But
go on, please,—tell me more about them all."