CHAPTER XIII.

TO AND ABOUT HONORA.

"THE LEYS, _Thursday._

"MY OWN DEAR HONOR,—Just a week since I came,—and it seems like three months at least!

"I would not write sooner. It seemed better to wait, and not to give you mere first impressions too hastily. Mother promised to let you hear of my safe arrival. Lady Halcot has given me leave to write home regularly once a week; and I suppose this is as much as I could expect under the circumstances. Nothing has been said yet about correspondence with friends. I do not know whether I am to expect restrictions there.

"My new residence—I cannot quite call it 'home' yet—is very beautiful, Honor. How you would delight in the garden and conservatories! Sometimes the whole seems like a dream to me, and I find myself expecting to wake up in the dear old London house, and I do not quite know how to bear the pain of separation,—and then again it comes over me with a rush of joy that things will be so different there now. I had a letter from my mother this morning, and she says they feel quite rich. Of course my father has his full income until Midsummer; and the first quarter from Lady Halcot's settlement had just come in; and also, dear father had heard of something for himself after Midsummer, which will bring in enough to be a real additional help, though very far from enough for us all if I had stayed at home. I know all this is safe with you.

"So I have a great deal to make me happy and thankful, have I not?

"Lady Halcot is very good and kind. She is not loving in manner, like my own dear mother, and of course I miss that. But she has lavished gifts upon me,—everything that I can possibly want in the way of clothes and knickknacks. It seems quite wrong that so much should be spent on my single self. One of my new hats had a ticket hanging to it, and I saw £3. 10s. marked. I felt positively guilty, remembering all the home needs. Yet I dare not protest.

"Sometimes I think Lady Halcot is already growing fond of me. People show fondness so differently. She never kisses me except once coldly night and morning, and never puts on an affectionate manner; yet she shows constant interest in everything that I do, and overlooks me incessantly. I have to get up exactly at half-past seven, and to be in bed precisely at half-past ten; and I am made to read one hour, to work another hour, to walk a third hour, as she thinks desirable; while, if I am half an hour absent, without being sent away, she always inquires what I have been doing. She even chooses books for me, and prescribes the order in which I am to read them.

"This sort of supervision seems of course a little strange, after my London independence. The eldest of ten naturally learns to stand alone early; and I seem now to have gone suddenly into leading-strings. But I know it is all meant kindly; and I shall grow used to it in time.

"I have not seen much of Riversmouth yet. Lady Halcot sends me into the grounds for an hour every morning; but I do not go beyond them. She does not like me to walk about alone; and I don't think she quite understands my love for the shore, or the delight that a wander there has for a Londoner. In the afternoon we either go out in the pony-carriage, or else we have a state-drive in the large carriage, paying calls, and sometimes seeing very pretty gardens and pleasant people. She introduces me everywhere as 'my young cousin,' occasionally adding, 'and adopted child;' so I am most kindly received.

"I must confess I do sometimes long to jump out of our stately chariot, and to have a good scramble up the banks and over the fields! But I try not to give way to such feelings. Yesterday we passed a lovely bank of wildflowers, and I could not help exclaiming. Lady Halcot asked if I wanted some, and she actually had the carriage stopped, and made the footman gather me a handful. It was nice to have them, only of course not quite like getting them for myself.

"Is it not strange that I should have so often thirsted for a life of more freedom, with plenty of room, and plenty of air, and plenty of money, and absence of noise and crowd, and not to feel always obliged to toil on, whatever my mood might be; and now these have all come to me, and yet they are not freedom! My London life was a life of greater liberty.

"You would not let me say, Honor dear, that God had taken me at my word, and sent me my will in displeasure. But I do think I must be meant to learn a lesson from all this,—a lesson against the sin of murmuring. I have been looking out in my Bible, the last morning or two, all about the different murmurings and complainings of the children of Israel; and it does seem to me as if there was almost no sin of which they were so often guilty, or which had to be more sharply punished. One is apt to think that grumbling at little things in every-day life is a small matter, but I am sure it is not a small sin in God's sight. I am praying hard now for the great gift of a contented spirit, and you must pray for it with me, Honor,—for myself, I mean. I know now that God can see exactly what is best for me, and I do not want to have any longer even a wish to choose for myself. He can tell exactly the discipline that I need; and I would not, if I could, lift a finger to keep it off. I have found out more this week of my own pride and wilfulness than I ever found out before, and yet I have been so happy the last two or three days, in the thought that He is training me, and that He loves me too well to let any foolish shrinking on my part hinder the training. And I want not even to shrink; I want to have those things sent which will draw me nearer and nearer to Christ.

"Forgive all this talk about self. It is only what I would say if we were together. I cannot write so freely to anybody else. Mother would be distressed, fancying me unhappy; but you will understand exactly what I mean.

"I had a real treat this morning. Lady Halcot took me in the pony-carriage to the Phillips' cottage, to see little Arthur. He is looking quite rosy and well, and his sister is such a nice respectable girl, very lame, but a capital needlewoman. Lady Halcot has promised to give her some work, and she has given me leave to pay for little Arthur's schooling. I am to have 'such' an allowance for my clothes,—it quite frightens me.

"I should have liked to kiss the dear little boy as he came creeping up close to me,—his sister saying, 'Artie's always talking about you, miss, and how you saved his life,'—but I did not quite dare, with Lady Halcot sitting there. She is kind to the poor on her estate, but she never unbends in manner.

"I must not forget to tell you that I have received a medal from the Humane Society—partly Mr. Fosbrook's doing, I suspect. He came in yesterday, and was very pleasant; but he said something to Lady Halcot about my not looking strong, and directly he was gone, she desired me to go to my room and lie down for an hour. So you see your Gwen is well taken care of.

"Not a word so far about Miss Withers, the companion. The truth is, I am rather at a loss what to say. She is a sort of neutral-tinted individual, with an air of humble politeness, and an apparent forgetfulness of her own existence, which, if genuine, would be—perhaps I ought to be able to say are—positively beautiful. Yet I do not like her; I cannot tell why. She seems invaluable to Lady Halcot. Sometimes I wish she would not be quite so invaluable. I should so like to be useful to Lady Halcot, but not a loophole is left to me. Watch as may for opportunities, Miss Withers invariably glides in between and does what is needed. I have an instinct—perhaps only a fancy—that she dislikes me, notwithstanding her cordiality. Her nephew is Lady Halcot's secretary—about as fit for the post as our little Bob. I do pity him.

"Only think; I have not touched my painting all this week. The packing-case is not even opened. An odd sort of laziness has taken possession of me, and steady work seems impossible. I must try to get out of this.

"I am writing to you in my own boudoir, a lovely little room, fit for a princess. You would not know your Gwen here! Yet I do not feel that I myself am different. It is only the surroundings that are changed,—the same stone in a fresh setting. Will it be so when we get to heaven, Honor? Our very same selves, actually and consciously, only with all the evil that is in us utterly gone, and with radiant new surroundings! What a beautiful thought, if one follows it out!"

A slight rustle made Gwendoline raise her eyes, and she involuntarily stood up. Lady Halcot had entered the room unperceived.

"You seem very much absorbed," her ladyship said.

"I am only writing to a friend," Gwendoline answered, not without an inward tremor. Would Lady Halcot demand to see the letter? She wished she had not written so freely.

"To what friend?"

"Honora Dewhurst."

Lady Halcot waited for more, her little crooked figure in black velvet standing motionless in the middle of the room, and her black eyes requesting information.

"She was a fellow-student of mine in London,—an artist," said Gwendoline. "We worked side by side very often. I have known her for years, and she is my dearest friend. She is an orphan, and quite alone in the world, and she is—oh, so good! I never knew anybody like Honor!"

The black eyes did not stir from Gwendoline's face. Lady Halcot was never guilty of staring; but her power of gazing steadily, without a blink, was remarkable.

"A young person?" she asked, with a stress on the adjective.

"Honor is four or five years older than I am."

"A lady in mind and manners?"

"Oh, quite—quite!" said Gwendoline.

"And in family?"

"I believe her father was of a very good family. I never asked her much about that. And her mother too—only one of her mother's sisters married a tradesman." Gwendoline hesitated a moment, flushing brightly. "I ought to tell you that the aunt lives in Riversmouth, with her husband. Honor and I came down together to see them."

Lady Halcot's face showed a mixture of gratification and dissatisfaction. "You are thoroughly honest, I see," she said. "Then you are acquainted with these people?"

"With Mr. and Mrs. Widrington,—yes."

"The acquaintance cannot be continued, in your present position."

"Honor told me that it would be so," said Gwendoline, in a low voice. "But may I—please may I write to Honor? She is my oldest and dearest friend."

The moment's pause was terrible to Gwendoline. Then the answer came: "Yes—in moderation; if I find no cause later to rescind this permission."

"Thank you," was all Gwendoline could say. Her limbs shook with agitation.

"Had you acted towards me with less transparent openness, my decision might have been different. As it is, you may write occasionally—once a month or so."

Gwendoline murmured her thanks anew.

"I see you intend to conform to my wishes in these matters," Lady Halcot continued, in her calmly impassive manner. "This is precisely what I have desired, and I am extremely pleased with you, Gwendoline. You are a very pretty girl; your manners are thoroughly ladylike; and you have thus far shown yourself entirely submissive. Continue as you have begun, and I shall have no fault to find with you."

Gwendoline broke out suddenly with unpremeditated words. "I can't thank you for all your kindness, Lady Halcot. I wish I could."

"There is no need. Gratitude is best shown in the conduct."

"If only I could feel that I was of any use!" half-whispered Gwendoline. "If I could be any help or comfort to you! My mother did so wish—"

Lady Halcot's glance was checking. "It is a pleasure to me to have you in the house," she said. "That should be sufficient. I do not forbid you to speak of your mother, Gwendoline, but the less frequently you do so the better."

Gwendoline's cheeks were crimson, and her eyes overflowed. "If you did but know my mother now!" she said almost passionately. "Such a mother she has been to us! Oh, Lady Halcot, if you could but forgive—could but feel as you once did!"

"The two things are not synonymous," said Lady Halcot. "I have long forgiven Eleanor Halcombe; but I certainly do not feel towards her as I once did. That is enough on the subject. I wish you now to show me your paintings. You have brought some specimens, I hope, as I desired you to do."

"The packing-case is down-stairs. It has not been opened yet," Gwendoline said huskily.

"We will send for it. Ring the bell."

Gwendoline obeyed, and before long she was kneeling on the ground, tenderly lifting out one after another of her later studies and sketches. Memories of the life which lay behind thronged upon her as she did so, but she would not be again overcome. Lady Halcot stood near, with an air of keen interest, receiving each in turn from Gwendoline's hands, placing it in a good position, examining, criticising minor points, but as yet giving no general verdict. Gwendoline knew that the verdict would be one of weight when it did come. Lady Halcot was a connoisseur of no common order.

"These are all I have brought," Gwendoline said at length.

Lady Halcot stood gazing still. "That head is very carefully executed," she said. "You are painstaking, I perceive. But there is not a second study of the kind. You seem to have done most in the way of landscapes."

"I never thought I had any gift for heads."

Lady Halcot went over the whole set again, plainly making up her mind as to their merits, with an air of quiet competence.

"Stay,—I see one more in the bottom of the box. You have overlooked it. Yes, that is the best of all,—by far the best. There is a vigour of outline here, and a force of colouring, which I miss in the rest. It will be worth your while to continue painting as something more than a mere pastime. I began to have doubts on that head."

Gwendoline hardly knew whether pleasure or pain weighed heaviest. She said simply, "That is not mine. It is Honora Dewhurst's."

"Indeed. She has unusual artistic power."

"I always knew her pictures to be better than mine," said Gwendoline.

"It is not merely a question of their being 'better.' That, in a sense, one would expect, from her age and her longer practice. This picture bears the stamp of genius—not merely of talent. Your sketches are very pretty, and they do great credit to your perseverance. Painting will be a pleasant occupation and a graceful accomplishment, in your present sphere. But you could never have made your livelihood as an artist."

Possibly Lady Halcot found more satisfaction in this thought than Gwendoline did.

"And you think Honora may?" asked Gwendoline.

"I do not say she will ever find herself in the first rank of living artists; time alone can decide that. But undoubtedly she has a gift worth cultivating to the utmost of her opportunity, a gift by which she may make her way. Are you disappointed, Gwendoline?"

Gwendoline was looking strangely pale, but she tried to smile. "I ought to be thankful it is Honor, and not I—"

"Why?"

"She needs it most—now."

"True. But do not misunderstand me. I have no wish to discourage your efforts. You have a marked talent for painting, and it is a talent which ought not to be neglected. All I say is that I do not find tokens of original genius."

"Not in mine, but in Honor's?"

"Yes, there is that difference," said Lady Halcot, looking rather curiously at Gwendoline. "Would it be a pleasure to you to request Miss Dewhurst to paint me a picture to order? I am willing to give twenty guineas for it."

"Oh, thank you! How kind!"

"You may keep your letter open till to-morrow, and I will consider what subject I should prefer. I think—" Lady Halcot paused, and then asked again, "Are you very much disappointed?"

"I ought not to be."

"Why 'ought not'?"

"It was conceited of me to expect anything else. And nobody ought to wish for genius, where God has not given it."

"I am not so sure about that," Lady Halcot said. "I am sorry for your disappointment, Gwendoline; but you are not one to wish for other than an honest opinion, even if I were capable of giving any other."

"Oh no, indeed!" said Gwendoline. "It is just what I have wished to have, for years past, from someone who could really know."

"Have your paintings never been seen by a competent critic?"

Gwendoline moved her head negatively. "I have had a great many kind things said to me, by fellow-students and others," she said. "I never knew how much it was all worth."

"Miss Dewhurst's estimate ought to be worth something."

"She is my friend," said Gwendoline simply; and Lady Halcot's face relaxed into a smile.

"You show some knowledge of human nature," she said. "But that biassing of one's opinion by one's affection is to me a thing inconceivable—for myself! My judgment would be altogether the same in the case of friend or foe. It is a matter apart from personal feeling."

"With you, but not with most people," Gwendoline said.

"I believe you are right. Nearly half-past four. We will go down and have our tea."

"In a few minutes—if you please—"

"Very well—you will follow me when you are ready."

Lady Halcot disappeared, and Gwendoline went slowly into her bedroom, feeling strangely weary, as if all life and power had died out of her. She rejoiced for Honor, and she did not for a moment question the justness of the sentence passed; but this only made pain the more acute. It was the fading of many bright girlish dreams. Gwendoline knelt beside the bed, and hid her face, a cloud of deep depression weighing her down. She was rather given to such moods, but she had seldom known a darker hour than this.

Everything seemed going from her,—all the dear old life, with its trials and hopes, its toils and aspirations. What had she now to live for? Was it to be with her thenceforward a mere dead level of self-satisfying, a mere easy existence; without work for others; without high hopes for the future; without consolation, except in the knowledge that by her presence at the Leys she was indirectly keeping the home-circle in comfort?

"What had she now to live for?" Simply, as before, to carry out the will of her God in whatever sphere she might be placed.

"Without high hopes for the future!" But what of the glorious future beyond and above the present life, where all her highest hopes were centred? That remained untouched.

These thoughts came first, followed by a recollection of her late struggles for submission. Here was a new test. If this were the will of God, should it not be her will also? Who was Gwendoline Halcombe, to chafe and fret because He had not seen fit to endow her with great gifts? Whatever her gifts might be, she had but to lay them at her Master's feet. Whatever her appointed manner of life, she had still to honour His Name. What need for other and more selfish aims?

How time passed Gwendoline did not know. She forgot all about Lady Halcot and afternoon tea. Victory came to her slowly, and calmness with it; but the battle, following upon sharp disappointment, had been exhausting. A sense of nerveless languor seemed to enchain her faculties, and she knelt on still, from sheer lack of energy to rise. Kneeling thus, she fell heavily asleep.

A hand on her shoulder broke into a dream of old days. Gwendoline sprang up from her crouching posture with a startled exclamation of "Mother!"

"Gwendoline!" said Lady Halcot in astonishment.

Gwendoline was for a moment utterly dazed and colourless. She stood silently, gathering up her scattered recollections.

"What made you go to sleep?" inquired Lady Halcot.

"Was I asleep?" Gwendoline asked in reply.

"Yes. Sit down there," said Lady Halcot, motioning her to the sofa. "Miss Withers knocked at your door and could obtain no answer."

"I am sorry you have had trouble," murmured Gwendoline, not yet quite coherently.

Lady Halcot stood looking, with her manner of unimpassioned interest.

"I'll come down now. Please do not let me keep you," said Gwendoline anxiously.

"No. Stay where you are. Your tea shall be brought to you."

Lady Halcot moved away, and Gwendoline was glad to rest her head among the cushions.

By the time Spurrell and a little tray appeared, she had regained her collectedness; but, to Gwendoline's amazement, Spurrell did not appear alone. Lady Halcot swept in before her.

"Do not talk. Take the tea," said Lady Halcot, when Gwendoline would have protested. "You may leave the tray, Spurrell."

And presently, as Gwendoline set down the emptied cup, she asked, with some abruptness, "Do you say your prayers in the middle of the day?"

Gwendoline blushed vividly. "Sometimes," she said, in a low voice.

"Then that is what you were doing?"

Gwendoline's eyes had their pleading look. "I don't think I was exactly saying any prayers," she answered gently. "I only felt as if I wanted help."

"Help?" repeated Lady Halcot.

"I could not feel rightly. It was not right to be unhappy because of what you said. I wanted to be perfectly willing to have whatever God might will for me."

"I see no particular objection to your manner of expressing yourself," said Lady Halcot, after a pause, as if for consideration. "But I have a very strong dislike to infatuation on religious subjects. I hope you will keep clear of it."

"I hope so," was the best answer Gwendoline could think of.

"Your tea has done you good, but you are pale still. I should like you to rest on your sofa for half an hour. Then you may come down."

Gwendoline submitted unquestioningly, and at the end of the half-hour descended to the drawing-room, white-checked and spiritless still.

She was no better next day. The weariness which had seized upon her that afternoon continued, and Gwendoline fought with it in vain. There were no signs of discontent about her; but the brown eyes had grown languid and the cheeks colourless, and interest in life seemed to have forsaken her. She was submissive and grateful, but her face rarely lighted up with its old flashes of brilliancy. Lady Halcot tried to recall her to painting; and the effort was a failure. If she walked in the garden, she had to lie down afterwards, and if she attempted to read, she dropped asleep.

"This cannot be allowed to go on," Lady Halcot said one day to Miss Withers. "I must consult Mr. Fosbrook, if she does not mend soon."

"I do not imagine there is much amiss," that lady said mildly. "Except—possibly—a little home-sickness,—quite natural—"

"I do not believe Miss Halcombe is home-sick," said Lady Halcot. But she did not like the suggestion, and she did not forget it.