CHAPTER XXII.

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."