CHAPTER XXIV.

THE OLD HOME.

TWO days later there was a stir of excitement in the dingy London home from which Gwendoline Halcombe had been so long absent. James, the second lad, opportunely had a half-holiday; and with the two younger boys, Willie and Robert, he was all the afternoon exceedingly busy, putting up an arch of welcome inside the front door. It was not an artistically beautiful erection. Green things are by no means easily obtained in London, and a scanty supply of leaves had to be eked out with much coloured paper. But none the less would the arch speak eloquently to Gwendoline's heart.

The three intermediate boys, Edmund, Frederick, and Arthur, had been for a year past, boarders in a large school, only coming home for the holidays. James' school-days were now drawing to a close, a good opening in a mercantile house having been recently found for him. He was a pleasant sensible lad, plain-featured, but warmhearted.

Ruth, staidly working in the shabby little drawing-room, presently overheard a low-voiced discussion outside her door, between seven-years-old Bob and little fair-haired Nell, the latter being as much as ever the family pet and plaything.

"I think I shall be just a scrap afraid of Gwen," Bob said confidentially. "She is such a grand lady, you know, Nell,—not like mother and Ruth. Willie says there's a drawing-room at the Leys as big as this whole house almost; and he says Gwen will be quite different, and will always wear silk frocks, and won't like us to come too near."

Ruth could picture Nell's troubled eyes, as the little voice said tenderly, "Won't she? I'm sorry, Bob. I thought she'd want me to get up in her lap and kiss her, because she's sorry."

"Well, she won't," said Bob decidedly. "And I don't see what she has got to be sorry for. She is a grand lady now, with lots of things belonging to her; and she won't care, of course, to play with a little wee thing like you."

"Is mother going to be grand too?" asked Nell.

"Oh, mother is different! I don't think anything would make mother grand. But you'll see about Gwen! You'll see!"

Bob and Nell called Ruth suddenly; and they ran in.

"Bob, you are putting very silly ideas into Nell's head,—Very silly indeed," said Ruth, with sharpness. "Gwen is not a grand lady at all. She is our own sister. Living in a large house and having pretty clothes has not made her any less our sister."

"And will Gwen love us, Ruth?" asked little Nell.

"Of course she will," answered Ruth.

"And will she like to have me kiss her?"

"Of course she will. Bob has been talking great nonsense."

"Willie told me," Bob said, prompt to throw off blame.

"Then Willie was very absurd," said Ruth.

Probably her words would have been more convincing had they been less rough. The children exchanged glances, and did not seem greatly reassured.

"Willie was very absurd indeed to say anything of the kind," repeated Ruth more energetically. "And you are silly children to believe him. If you seem frightened of Gwen when she comes in, you will just make her unhappy, that's all!"

The two little listeners took this for a dismissal, and they went back into the hall, looking subdued.

"Nell, you don't remember Gwen?" Bob said softly.

"No," Nell answered, shaking her small head. "Not one bit."

"I don't either,—hardly at all," said Bob. "But Willie does, and he says she is ever so much nicer than Ruth."

"Does he?" asked Nell rather wonderingly, as if she found this report of Willie's opinion at variance with the last.

"Ruth speaks so 'cross,'" said Bob. "Willie says Gwen never used to speak so cross as Ruth does, and he likes her ever so much the best. Only you mustn't tell Ruth, you know, because that would make her crosser."

Ruth heard the words, and, strange to say, she was not angry. With a naturally impatient and angular disposition, she could yet bear to learn her faults. Bob's words caused a thoughtful half-hour following.

Then Mr. Halcombe came home, and Victor a little later, just in time.

Almost immediately the front bell rang sharply, and Gwendoline ran lightly up the steps, to find herself in the midst of welcomes. Not quite such eager and enthusiastic welcomes as everybody had expected, for the boys seemed suddenly seized with shyness. Two years had altered Gwendoline, and they were sensible of the alteration, without knowing wherein it consisted. Gwen had been a pretty girl at nineteen, but at twenty-one the prettiness was matured and developed; her bearing had gained much in ease and grace; and the short hair had grown long enough to be turned up in a coil of plaits. Also, though her new mourning was studiously simple in kind, there was about the make of her dress and about the manner of wearing it a certain style and finish, marking her out as apart from the other members of the family.

The boys fell into silence, and Ruth for once appeared tongue-tied.

Gwendoline was somehow ushered into the drawing-room, and there she stood dreamily, her arm linked in Mr. Halcombe's, as she glanced wistfully from one to another. "Dear old home!" she said at length. "Oh, dear old home!"

"It must look awfully shabby after the Leys," remarked Victor, plucking up courage.

"It looks small," Gwendoline admitted, smiling. "Dear old place! Oh, father!"

She turned and clung to him.

"My own dear child!" he said repeatedly. "My good self-forgetting Gwen!"

"No, no! Not that. But it is all over now. And indeed she was very very good to me, and I 'did' love her very much. But this is home. Father, kiss me again! I can hardly believe I am really here."

"Gwen, did you see our triumphal arch?" asked Jem bashfully.

No; Gwen had seen nothing, on first coming in, beyond the familiar faces. She proposed to inspect it immediately, and her bright frank gratification went far towards reinstating her in her old position with the boys. Coming back into the drawing-room, they clustered round, chattering in eager tones, while Nell clung to her hand confidingly.

"The tea will be ready in ten minutes," said Ruth. "Would you like to take off your bonnet, Gwen? Mother has gone to get ready."

"Yes, if you please. The same room, I suppose?"

"No, not the same. I'll show you," Ruth said, moving towards the staircase. "Mother thought you would like a room to yourself; and we are not quite so crowded now except in the holidays."

Gwendoline followed Ruth to her new domicile, and stood there for a few seconds in silence, looking round.

She was conscious at once of two things,—how eagerly all had done their best to make the little room comfortable, and how very meagre was the result after her late surroundings. But no sign of the latter consciousness showed in her face.

"Ruth, are you sure this can be spared to me?"

"Of course. Quite sure. The only difficulty will be in the holidays, and they are only just over." After a pause, Ruth added bluntly, "Everything must seem wretched to you here at the best."

"Not 'wretched,'" said Gwendoline gently.

"Well, shabby and poor and disagreeable. I should hate it all, in your place."

"Oh no, you would not. It is home; and the other never seemed like home."

"Home isn't always necessarily the very best thing that can be in life," said Ruth rather wearily. "At least, I don't find it so. One may have too much of it."

Gwendoline looked at her sister doubtfully. "Why, Ruth—" she began, and stopped.

"You have been away for two years, so of course you are no judge," said Ruth. "And you used to feel the same."

"But I thought—" Gwen hesitated again, recalling Ruth's sharp lectures to herself, in past days, upon discontent, yet hardly liking to allude to them.

"Never mind me. I am only cross," said Ruth, recurring in mind to Bob's words. "It's of no consequence."

"I would rather know what really is the matter," said Gwendoline.

"Nothing is the matter. I tell you I am only cross. One must grumble sometimes. It is such a tread-mill of a life,—always going on the same,—nothing but doing things for other people, and never having any gratitude in return. Not one of the boys cares for me as they all do for you. And I have not had a night out of this house for four years."

"No. I have thought of that, Ruth dear. Mother and I were talking about it only yesterday. We want to arrange for you to have a holiday."

"There is nowhere to go. Nobody wants me."

"There is Riversmouth," Gwendoline said, with rather a sad smile. "I should like you to see the place where I have been so long. How would you like two or three weeks there?"

Ruth's eyes brightened, but she only said, "I can't go alone. Don't talk nonsense, Gwen. I shall do very well."

"I don't think you will. Mother told me she did not believe you were quite strong, and now I can see it for myself. You want a little change, I am sure."

"Anybody would in this stuffy London atmosphere, after four years," Ruth said rather gruffly. "But it is no matter to anybody except myself."

"Well, we shall all have a change, by and by, if we take another house," said Gwen.

"Do you suppose we really shall?" Ruth looked eager as she put the question. "We seem such fixtures here, like limpets grown to a rock."

"Mother seems to have no doubt about the matter. Of course she cannot speak decidedly till she has talked things over with father, but she knows beforehand what he will say. A nice little house with a garden, in the country, but near enough to London by train for the boys to run in and out. Don't you think that sounds tempting, Ruth?"

Ruth's "Yes" was listless. "If I could really believe it!" she added.

"You will not be so sceptical soon," said Gwendoline brightly. "But of course that cannot take place directly, and mother and I want you to have a change the very first thing. I don't know exactly how it is to be arranged—"

"Ruth! Gwen! Ruth! Tea is getting cold!" shouted Victor, from down-stairs. "And something is waiting for Gwen!"

"Something!" repeated Gwendoline. She opened the door to call, "Yes, we are coming, Victor," and then drew hastily from her bag a tiny cardboard box. "Ruth, I want just to give you this first. I should have liked to bring several things, but mother would not let me do more in a hurry. I hope you will think it pretty."

Ruth opened the box, and flushed with pleasure. A small round brooch lay upon white cotton wool—itself a mass of rubies clustered together, rich, and yet simple. Ruth quite gasped. "Gwen!—This isn't for me."

"Yes. I know your fancy for rubies. Do you care to have it?"

"Oh, Gwen!"

Ruth's one kiss spoke volumes. Then they ran down-stairs together.

"Here, Gwen,—look!" exclaimed a chorus.

The tea-table had been laid as for a festive occasion, bearing Ruth's best efforts in the shape of fancy-bread and cakes. Gwen's seat was by her father, Nell's high chair being on her other side. And beside Gwen's plate lay a magnificent bunch of hothouse flowers, filling the room with fragrance.

"Mother!" Gwendoline exclaimed in astonishment.

"Who do you think it is from?" asked Victor.

Gwen's eyes went to her mother. "Not Honor?" she said.

"Gwen's first idea is always Honor," said Victor, feeling himself once more on easy brotherly terms.

"No, not Honor," said Mrs. Halcombe, smiling.

Gwendoline's look was unmistakably perplexed.

"Have you forgotten your friend, Mr. Selwyn?" asked Victor.

"Is it really from Mr. Selwyn? How good of him!"

"It is 'a' Mr. Selwyn," Victor said softly by her side. "But he isn't a lawyer, and he has a limp."

Gwen's colour rose slightly. "Very kind," she said. "Was there any message from Mr. Selwyn, mother?"

"No, dear. Mr. Mortimer Selwyn simply gave in the bouquet, said it was 'for Miss Halcombe,' and asked if you were well after your journey. Jane begged him to come in, but he declined."

"I suppose they ought to go into water," said Gwendoline quietly. "Ruth, have we a vase large enough?"

A China flower-pot served the required purpose, in default of a sufficiently capacious vase. The boys insisted on its being placed exactly in her front, and Gwen's half-pleased half-perplexed look was a pretty study in her mother's eyes.

Tea went on merrily thereafter,—such a joyous meal as Gwendoline had not known for two years past. She felt strangely dreamy, almost oppressed,—happy in the present, yet bewildered by the unwonted stir, and haunted constantly by vivid recollections of Lady Halcot's face and voice. The strain was becoming too much, and the boys' high spirits were almost more than she could stand. She was positively thankful when tea came to an end, and Mrs. Halcombe said, in a low voice, "You are tired, Gwen. We must give you a quiet evening."

Gwendoline's face quivered irresistibly. "It isn't much, mother," she said. "I am very very glad to be here again—only just now and then everything seems to come back,—and I hear 'her' voice so plainly—"

"Yes, I saw; dear child! But the boys don't understand, of course."

"I can't expect that they should. Mother, I think I will go to my room for just half an hour. I should like to be alone,—but that will be long enough."

"Yes, darling."

The brief response was the best she could have given. Gwendoline vanished, and Mrs. Halcombe quietly exerted herself to keep everybody away from Gwen's door. She could well understand the sharp contrast between life in this house and life at the Leys, and could well believe the mingling of joy and pain which so tried Gwendoline's fortitude.

The half-hour at an end, she went herself to Gwendoline's room, and with a light tap entered. Gwen was seated by her dressing-table, with an open Bible near, though seemingly not reading. The face which greeted Mrs. Halcombe was calm and happy.

"Better, Gwennie?"

"Oh yes, mother. It was stupid to be so easily upset."

Mrs. Halcombe sat down beside her, and said, "You are accustomed to being a good deal alone."

"Yes, too much, I am afraid. It seems quite strange to have so many round me. I hope I have not grown unsociable."

"It is not that to-night, dear. You have had a great deal to try you."

"Yes—perhaps—altogether," Gwendoline admitted. "But thinking about dear Lady Halcot is not 'only' pain, mother. It must be such rest to her."

"I cannot tell you, Gwen, what a pleasure it is to me that you were able to give her real love," Mrs. Halcombe said.