CHAPTER XI.

AMID NEW SCENES.

"THE sore part of the matter is that it seems to be sent upon me as a sort of judgment, Honor."

"What can you possibly mean, Gwen?" Honora Dewhurst asked, with an accent of astonishment.

The two stood side by side upon a broad platform, near the train which was soon to bear Gwendoline Halcombe to her new home. They were early, for Mr. Halcombe was a nervous man as to journeys, and he always insisted on a start being made about twenty minutes sooner than was necessary. Neither he nor Victor were free to accompany Gwendoline to the station, and Ruth had a cold, and Gwendoline had implored her mother not to come. She could not bear the thought of "that" parting being in public. So Honora Dewhurst undertook to see her off.

The leave-takings were thus over, and Gwendoline had borne herself bravely through them. Now she only looked white and quiet, with a glitter of unshed tears in her brown eyes, which had a fixed look, as if hardly seeing anything around. She had stood about absently, while Honora saw to her luggage.

"You will not care to take your seat yet," Honora said, when the little business was done. "Shall we go into the waiting-room, or stay here?"

And Gwendoline, instead of answering, broke out with her remark about "the sore part of the matter."

"What can you possibly mean, Gwen?"

"I mean just what I say. It is like a sort of judgment upon me. I don't know whether I have complained in words often,—I think not,—but in my heart I have often wanted to have things different. I have been so tired of the crowd and the noise and the worry, and sometimes I have so longed to be quiet, and to have freedom of leisure and thought for my painting—not to be incessantly driven along to do my utmost, and still to feel that our heads were really never quite above water. Sometimes out of doors I have looked at others driving past, in their comfort and ease, and wondered over the difference between their lives and mine. Not enviously, exactly—for I have never really wished to choose for myself, or to have what was not God's will for me. But it has been cloudiness and murmuring. It hasn't been a spirit of perfect content."

"I wonder how many of us have attained to 'perfect content,' my dear child," Honora said.

"You have, for one. But don't you see what I mean? I 'have' murmured, Honor. It is of no use to deny the fact. I have not loved God's will for me. And now it seems so terribly as if He had taken me at my word, and had given me what I craved—in displeasure. I can't talk about this to anybody except you; but it presses on me constantly."

[Illustration: LADY HALCOT'S KEEN BLACK EYES RAN SWIFTLY OVER GWENDOLINE.]

"A child can't always read his father's motives. Don't be too sure as to the 'displeasure.'"

"But if it were—"

"If it were,—plead at His feet for more grace for the future, and cling the closer to Christ. Don't echo Peter's cry of 'Depart from me.' The more sinful we are, the more we need Him."

"But if He should have sent this in anger, without His blessing!"

Honora slipped an arm through her friend's, and spoke slowly—"Gwen, you are overwrought and upset to-day, and this is temptation to unworthy thoughts of your loving God. Suppose it were sent in displeasure for the past,—what does it mean but that He wills to draw you through chastening nearer to Himself? But I don't feel at all sure that it is so. You have been overworked and tried, and trouble has pressed heavily, and you have all prayed that help might come, and here is the answer. Surely it is not all chastening, Gwen. You are to have a happy home, and the joy of knowing that those dearest to you will be living a life of comparative ease,—through your going away. Some pain comes with the joy, of course, but isn't that what one always has to expect?"

"Yes,—if I have not brought it on myself," murmured Gwendoline.

"Suppose you have,—since you are bent upon that view of the matter,—what then? If you have yielded to temptation, He will forgive you for the past, and will strengthen you for the future. I can't understand that sort of suspicious spirit in one of His children,—always fancying that He is acting in displeasure. Of course there are times when He must do so, and I don't deny it; but I do say we don't know one-hundredth part of His pitying tenderness towards us. David's way of looking at things was very different: 'He will not be always chiding,'—that is the Prayer-Book version, and I love it, Gwen. 'He crowneth thee with lovingkindness and tender mercies.' 'The Lord is gracious and full of compassion; slow to anger, and of great mercy.' Try for more of that trusting spirit."

Gwendoline's face changed, and two large tears fell heavily.

"Yes—now you will feel better. It is of no use trying to persuade yourself that pain is not pain. You cannot but feel the parting."

"It is my mother—chiefly," said Gwendoline sorrowfully. "If Ruth were different! Mother and I have always been one. Ruth is very good, and she will do anything for anybody, but she does not understand. Honor, you will go in sometimes, to cheer my mother."

"By talking about you. Yes, certainly. I must say a word to you now about something else. Our time is nearly up. You know I generally run down to Riversmouth for a night or more, at least once or twice a year."

"Oh, Honor, when you do, be sure to let me know beforehand."

"I'll see. But one word, Gwen. Remember, you will be Lady Halcot's adopted child, a very 'grand young person' indeed, as my good old uncle would say; and I shall only be a poor artist, niece of a retired tradesman."

"Honor! As if that could make any difference in my love for you," cried Gwendoline indignantly.

"My dear child, I quite understand. It will make no difference in your love. But you will not be your own mistress, and it may not be in your power to see anything of me. For it will be your plain duty to obey Lady Halcot in everything—short of what is wrong."

Gwendoline's cheeks were burning. "That would be wrong—to forsake a friend, my best and dearest friend."

"You will not forsake me. You and I are friends for life—for more than merely this lower life, I hope. We will love and trust one another to the last. That is just what I want you to understand. If you never come near me, never write to me, and pass me in the street without a smile or bow, I shall not be pained, for I shall trust you still. I shall know you are not acting by your own choice, but only in obedience to Lady Halcot. Mind, darling, I mean it. Now don't!"

For Gwendoline, brave through all the partings, burst into a passion of tears.

"Gwennie, don't break your heart over so small a matter. I tell you I shall not be even pained. If ever you come and say to me with your own lips that you have changed, and that you love me no longer, then I shall be bitterly grieved. Short of that, I will never fail to trust you. Remember, you owe Lady Halcot a great deal. And, apart from gratitude, you have to keep things smooth for your mother's sake. You may or may not be allowed to keep up a correspondence with me. I am pretty sure you will not be allowed to call upon me at Gladiolus Cottage. But I shall hear all about you from your mother, and that will content me."

"Oh, Honor! Honor!"

"Hush, hush!" Honor said, as to a troubled child. "I am only anticipating what will be perfectly natural on her ladyship's part. Now you have to be good and cheery. Don't let me have to take back a tale of tears at the last, and don't arrive at the Leys with red eyes on any account. Come—there is the bell, and you must get in. First class!—you 'grand young person.' Good-bye, my own Gwen."

Others were pressing into the same compartment, and Honora had to step back. Further conversation was impossible. Gwendoline gazed and kissed her hand to the last, and Honora walked rapidly away, drawing down her veil to conceal something which till that moment she had resolutely restrained. For Honora's was a lonely life. She had no near relatives, and few friends; and Gwendoline had been her one sunbeam of earthly delight.

Gwendoline shed no more tears. It was by no means her usual fashion to yield to strong feeling in public. She sat quietly in her corner, pale and sad, looking out upon the rushing landscape, thinking much upon the faces she had left, and speculating somewhat on the new phase of existence which lay before her.

"I shall need to live very near to God, if I am to keep straight at Riversmouth," was the conclusion to which she came. "I think there must be great danger in ease and wealth—especially for me. I shall want so much 'keeping,' not to grow cold or careless. But mother and father and Honor will pray for me."

With this thought in her mind, she reached the station nearest to Riversmouth. Her first instinctive move, as she descended, was to seek her luggage; but a drab-liveried footman of deferential manners presented himself, in readiness to take all trouble off her hands.

"Miss Halcombe?" he said inquiringly; and then, "Her ladyship is waiting. How many boxes, if you please?"

Gwendoline began to wake up to the change in her manner of life. She was vaguely conscious that her single trunk, even with the addition of a small packing-case containing her paintings, appeared to the tall footman a most moderate amount of luggage; but he was far too well-bred to show his thoughts, and Gwendoline had little of the shallow pride which troubles itself unnecessarily about appearances. She was quite aware also, and equally without distress, that her scanty wardrobe would prove by no means in keeping with her new position. But Lady Halcot, when sending money for her journey, had written,—

"You need not mind about dress. I will see to that. Come just as you are."

And Gwendoline had obeyed this injunction literally. She only had two dresses, and she wore the best of the two, a simple costume of navy-blue serge, together with what was really a very neat and quite attractive hat.

The handsome landau, with two thoroughbred bays, stood outside the station; and Lady Halcot sat alone in it, muffled up in furs still, despite the mild spring weather, and seeming half-buried beneath the piles of the ponderous scarlet-lined rug. She scanned the station-door persistently, till a girlish figure came quietly out and stood beside the carriage, waiting, as if for a welcome. Lady Halcot's keen black eyes ran swiftly over Gwendoline from head to foot, and Gwendoline's pale face flushed brightly, as she lifted her eyes with a look of wistful anxiety.

Those who knew her ladyship's turns of expression would have judged her to be well satisfied with the brief inspection. But it was not Lady Halcot's way to show her feelings. She merely said, "How do you do?" putting out two fingers of a kid-clothed bony hand. "I hope you have had a comfortable journey."

The footman held open the carriage-door, and, in obedience to a slight gesture from Lady Halcot, Gwendoline stepped in.

"You have given orders about Miss Halcombe's luggage?" Lady Halcot said.

"I have, my lady. It will be sent immediately."

"That will do."

And they were off, passing first a few streets of the little country town, then bowling with smooth rapidity through high roads and narrow lanes, between green hedgerows. Gwendoline leant back against the soft cushions—with the heavy rug over her knees, and the upright drab backs of coachman and footman rising, square and motionless, in front, and the little old lady, with Roman nose and severe lips, seated silently by her side.

"What would mother feel to see me now?" she thought. "This is very comfortable. How lazy I shall grow!" And a half-smile broke unconsciously over her face.

"Are you always called Gwendoline at home?" asked Lady Halcot suddenly.

The smile faded. "No,—'Gwen' generally," was the answer.

"You will be Gwendoline in future. I object to abbreviations."

Gwendoline wondered what would come next.

"Whom are you supposed to resemble among your relatives?" Lady Halcot inquired after a pause, in the same abrupt fashion.

"My father," Gwendoline said at once.

"Quite a mistake. You are not in the least like him—like what he was as a young man."

Gwendoline was surprised, for she had never before heard the fact of this resemblance questioned.

"My mother always seems to think so," she said.

"Entirely a mistake," repeated Lady Halcot; and there was another break.

"However, it does not signify. Likeness is very often a matter of expression, sometimes a matter of fancy. You are a very pretty girl, Gwendoline. Of course you know this, so I shall not make you vain by telling you so."

The old lady looked hard at Gwendoline to see the effect of her words. She could not understand the expression that came over those brown eyes, an expression certainly more sorrowful than gratified.

Gwendoline said gently, after a moment's thought, "I suppose I am, Lady Halcot; but sometimes I wish people would not tell me so."

"Why not?"

"It would be better for me. I don't want to be made to think about myself."

For full five minutes Lady Halcot was dumb. Then the silence was broken by the two simultaneously, a remark breaking from each at exactly the same instant. Lady Halcot had been turning over Gwendoline's words in her mind; and Gwendoline's gaze had been roving about the landscape.

"Gwendoline, are you a very religious person?"

"The sea! Oh, Lady Halcot,—the sea!"

Lady Halcot's expression relaxed, and she put aside her own question, following it up by another in a different tone: "You admire the sea?"

"I love it dearly. For years I have had a dream of living near the sea. It always looked like perfect happiness."

Lady Halcot was certainly pleased. She said with positive cordiality, "I hope you will be happy;" and began pointing out whatever was worth noting in the views.

Her question remained unanswered, and at the time Gwendoline scarcely took in the meaning of it; yet the words afterwards haunted her a good deal.