WINDINGS-UP.
"I CANNOT think why Honor does not come in, if only for a minute,"
Gwendoline said more than once, in the course of her first evening.
No one took any particular notice of the remark, and Gwen waited
patiently, stilling herself with the certainty that Honor had some good
reason. Perhaps she would not intrude on the family circle so soon.
"But Honor might have been sure of a welcome," Gwen thought.
Next morning, after breakfast, Mrs. Halcombe said unexpectedly, "Gwen,
are you going to see Honor this morning?"
"I wish I could, mother. No use, I am afraid, for she will be away at
her painting. I quite thought she would have come last night."
"I think you had better call. Honor is not well, and she will be at
home."
"Honor ill!"
"Not ill now. She has been so,—not dangerously, but it was a sharp
attack. She is very much pulled down, and cannot work yet."
"Mother, why did you not tell me before?" Gwen asked, almost
reproachfully.
"Honor would not allow it. She made us promise not to say a word to
you sooner than was necessary. She could not bear you to be troubled.
It was about three weeks ago that the attack began, and, having just
written to you, she knew you would not expect to hear again for a time.
Honor always thinks of everybody except herself. But Ruth and I have
been in and out constantly, and have done our best to brighten her up."
Gwendoline had tears in her eyes. "My poor Honor! Ill, and never to let
me know!"
"It seemed to be Honor's chief comfort that you did not know. How she
does love you, Gwen!" the mother added affectionately. "But, indeed, I
do not wonder."
"What has been the matter?" Gwen asked, answering the last words with a
kiss.
"I hardly know. Too much application at her painting, and not enough
exercise, and a severe chill. She is a generous creature, and gives
away too much, and then has to work doubly hard. I promised that you
should go to her this morning, Gwen. Wait one moment; I want to say
something about our idea of sending Ruth to Riversmouth."
"Ruth seemed to like the idea," Gwendoline said, trying to curb her
impatience.
"Yes, very much, and she really needs a change. Your father thinks the
same. But I cannot be the one to go with her."
"I wish you would," Gwen said affectionately.
"No; I have just been away, and there is so much to arrange. Besides, I
really cannot resolve to part with you quite so soon. But what do you
say to sending Honor as Ruth's companion?"
"Mother! What a perfectly delightful idea!"
"It would do Honor good, and be just the thing for Ruth. Your father
and I both wish it, dear; and you must tell Honor she will be doing us
a real kindness. Ruth has grown so fond of her lately that she is sure
to like the plan."
"Delightful!" repeated Gwendoline. "Mother, how you always think of
exactly the right thing! When do you suppose they can go?"
"Honor ought to have change in a few days, her doctor says. I fancy she
has been in some difficulty how to manage it. Now, darling, I will not
keep you longer. Say whatever you like, only make Honor understand that
the expense will be our affair."
"After to-day I am going to take up housekeeping, and give you a little
rest," Gwendoline said, kissing her mother, and she ran up-stairs with
a light step, singing softly by the way.
"Dear child!" Mrs. Halcombe murmured. "Not in the least spoilt."
Honora Dewhurst had not yet risen. Her bedroom was small, and at the
back of the house, with a window which looked out upon a high wall.
Inside all was daintily nice, however simple. Honor's own plain face
hardly looked handsomer for illness; yet the peace stamped upon it
was such that even a careless looker-on must have been attracted. She
lay quietly, with her hands folded one over the other, and her eyes
fixed upon the tiny scrap of grey sky visible through one window-pane.
Suddenly a voice at the door said,—
"Honor, may I come in?"
"Yes, Gwen."
Gwendoline entered softly, bearing a choice little bunch of hothouse
flowers, gathered out of her big bouquet. Honor had never seen her
look more brilliantly pretty. Mourning was becoming to her clear and
fair complexion, and the bright flush on either cheek, matched by the
sparkling eyes, was tempered by an expression of gentle solicitude. But
Gwen's face changed suddenly at the first glimpse of Honor's smile.
Dropping her flowers on the bed, she clasped her friend's hand, and hid
her face in the pillow.
"Why, Gwennie!—My dear Gwennie!" said Honor.
Gwendoline lifted a pair of wet eyes. "Honor, why didn't you tell me
you were ill?"
"My dear child, what was the use? I am getting on all right now,—able
to sit up half the day at least. I hope to be at my painting again next
week."
"That you certainly will not," said Gwen resolutely. "Honor, what had
you been thinking about just before I came in?"
Honor did not answer the question. She turned Gwen towards the light,
saying, "So,—let me see. Yes; the face is the same,—not changed by
absence, and not spoilt by all the grandeur."
"I used to be very tired of the grandeur sometimes."
"And now you will be sometimes very tired of its absence."
"I hope not. It is very sweet to be at home again,—only just at first
everything seems strange. Honor, everything seems so happy just
now,—almost everything! Only I do wish I could see you well."
"Wait a few days, dear."
"Yes; a few days. Mother and I are going to ask a great favour of you
then."
Honor's look was questioning.
"Ruth wants change. She is rather overdone, and not quite herself. We
think of sending her to Riversmouth for two or three weeks, perhaps
a month. And the difficulty is, whom to send with her. Mother cannot
well get away just now. So we want you to go, and to be there with
Ruth,—just as if you were one of ourselves. You understand, Honor?
Ruth would see after the housekeeping; and of course it would cost you
nothing,—only you would just be Ruth's companion."
"And duenna," suggested Honor.
"Yes; if you like. I am not going to hear one word against the plan.
Mother and I have quite set our hearts upon it. And I shall write to
Mr. Fosbrook, and ask him to consider you his patient. You are 'not' to
say No."
Honor seemed to have no such intention. She only answered quietly, "It
is very good of your mother. Something always comes up when needed."
"And you know this is needed."
"The doctor says I ought to have a change before beginning work. But I
could not quite see my way to it. This illness has been an expense."
"And going to Riversmouth is to be no expense,—you understand, Honor?
Mind,—it must and shall be just as mother and I wish."
"I suppose no answer can be made to 'must' and 'shall,' in such a
determined voice," said Honor, laughing. "Dear Gwen, I shall like it
very much indeed. Tell your mother so, please, with my warm thanks. I
suppose you will not mind Ruth seeing my uncle and aunt while we are
there. That could hardly be avoided."
"No, indeed. How pleased they will be!"
"I did think of proposing to run down to them by and by, for a week;
but I know their spare room is engaged at present."
"And a week would not be long enough," Gwen said. "What were you
thinking about just before I came in, Honor?"
"You, dear."
"Not only that. I saw something else in your face."
"Something else in connection with you. I had been thinking how
wonderfully God shapes life for us,—and how little we know ourselves
which is the best path for us to tread."
"Do you remember, when I was going away to Riversmouth,—when you and I
were on the platform,—how it seemed to me that perhaps I was being sent
there in punishment for murmuring? And you told me I had hard thoughts
of God."
"Many of His children have," said Honor. "Not that He does 'not'
punish. It is necessary at times. But we often misjudge our Father's
loving motives."
"I think I know that better now. I think I have learnt more of His
lovingness while I have been away," said Gwendoline, in a low voice.
"And perhaps you are more willing now, Gwen, than you used to be, to
let Him plan life for you."
"Oh yes; I do hope so. And that was what you had in your mind?" Gwen
asked again, as if hardly satisfied.
"That, partly. I was thinking, too, how wonderful it will all look to
us, by and by, when the whole story of our life lies spread before our
sight. I don't suppose we shall wish 'then' to have had one single
trouble less, or one pain less, or one arrangement different. Except,
of course, such arrangements as we have made wilfully for ourselves.
God's choice is always the very best for us."
"I can believe that now easily enough. When I had to go away to
Riversmouth, it did seem as if there were a great deal of pain in life."
"My dear child, there will be pain still. There must be," Honor said
tenderly. "Don't expect perfect freedom from it. After your quiet
existence at the Leys, you will be tried by the stir and the rubs of
family life. I don't see how it can be otherwise. But you must just
take them as God's will for you."
"I know one thing," Gwen said; "I do thank God for giving me such a
friend as you are, Honor."
The Riversmouth scheme came off as planned by Mrs. Halcombe. Ten days
later—by which time Gwendoline had quite settled down into her old
home-nook—Ruth and Honor departed together for a month at Riversmouth.
Ruth's spirits had gradually risen at the prospect of her holiday, till
the boys declared her to be hardly recognisable.
Gwen saw them off from the station, and at the last moment said softly,
"I have written to Mr. Fosbrook."
"Gwen, there was no need," said Honor. "I only want sea air now."
"Mother and I thought differently. I have asked him to count you his
patient. So you will see him," Gwen answered, smiling, as the train
moved.
Mr. Fosbrook failed not to fulfil his charge. Letters from the
absentees spoke of one call, and then of another.
The doctor's sister next made her appearance, and proved exceedingly
agreeable. Invitations to tea followed, and, for a busy individual, Mr.
Fosbrook seemed to be very often disengaged.
"He is a kind man, and we like him very much," Ruth wrote. "He and
Honor get on capitally, and seem to have any amount of things to talk
about. I like Miss Fosbrook too, happily, for she generally falls to my
share. Honor is enjoying herself immensely, and so am I."
Gwendoline did not read "between the lines," as did her more
experienced mother, and she noticed without understanding Mrs.
Halcombe's curious smile over this letter.
The month was lengthened out to five weeks, and then the two returned,
both looking well, healthy, and sunburnt.
"It has been a delicious time," was the verdict of both.
Honor spent that first evening with her friends, the Halcombes; and
Gwendoline noticed her look of quiet happiness as something beyond
what was usual. Not till the close of the evening, when putting on her
bonnet in Gwendoline's room, did Honor say,—
"Gwen, I have news for you."
"What news?" Gwen asked.
"Guess."
"I can't guess. What about?"
"I am going to live at Riversmouth altogether."
Gwendoline looked hard at Honora. "Going to live at Riversmouth! Not
really? Have the Widringtons offered you a home?"
"No; but somebody else has. You told me I should like Mr. Fosbrook, and
I do. He is a good man, Gwen."
"Honor!" was all Gwendoline could say.
"A startling idea, is it not?" said Honor, blushing. "True, however."
"But you don't mean—'that!' Not really! Oh, I am so glad."
"I am to be Mrs. Fosbrook by and by," said Honor softly. "Nobody knows
it yet,—not even Ruth. I wanted you to be the first to hear."
"Oh, Honor! And you won't have to work for your living any longer."
"Well, no,—not exactly," Honor said, half drily. Then a smile broke
over her face, and she added, "I am very happy, Gwen."
"And I am so glad. So glad for your sake, I mean,—not for mine. And for
Mr. Fosbrook's."
"And for yours too. What makes one of us happy makes the other happy.
My dear child, you will not lose me. We shall often arrange to meet.
Is it not strange?—He says I have never been out of his mind since the
day we met at my uncle's house, when you had saved the little boy from
drowning. And I thought he was fascinated by you."
"By me! No, indeed!" Gwen answered. "I always liked Mr. Fosbrook, but
there never was anything of that sort,—not the least shadow of it."
Something "of that sort" was, however, already looming in the distance,
and Honor knew it.
Mortimer Selwyn had to wait long and patiently for the fulfilment
of his desire. Wisely, he would not precipitate matters, or act
with undue haste. Gwendoline was now more than ever the darling of
her home-circle; also, she was much occupied, and very happy in her
occupations. The change of house from London to country made everybody
busy, and Gwen seemed to be ever the centre of all that went on. A
pretty dwelling in a healthy situation was found after much searching,
and at Michaelmas the move took place. No sooner were the Halcombes
settled in, than Gwendoline entered upon a round of parish work, under
their new and excellent vicar; and her hands were speedily full.
Mortimer found it no easy task to see anything of her.
Then came the great event of Honor's wedding. She was married from the
Halcombes' new house, Mr. Halcombe giving her away, while Gwendoline
and Ruth were her bride's-maids. Mortimer Selwyn was present at the
wedding, and made some use of his opportunity. Gwendoline began to
show a consciousness of his attentions, and she did not display any
aversion; but that was all.
Mortimer waited still, biding his time. He had the comfort of Mr.
and Mrs. Halcombe's full concurrence, and of his own father's hearty
approval. When at length, after many months, he ventured to speak,
Gwendoline had no difficulty in giving him an answer. Dearly as she
loved her own home, she knew then that another home might be still
dearer.
About a year and a half after the death of Lady Halcot, Gwendoline
became Mrs. Mortimer Selwyn. Hers would be still no idle life. Mortimer
was a man of ample means, and of countless benevolent schemes.
Gwendoline delighted thenceforward to work hand in hand with him,
serving the Master whom they loved.
Printed by
MORRISON & GIBB LIMITED
Edinburgh