CHAPTER XVIII.

A SUMMONS TO WYNDHAM.

CAPTAIN WALKER came to help to entertain the factory girls—not once only, but several times. He endured with a good grace hearing himself described as "the man with the fiddle," and played his best to a clamorous audience, who talked and squabbled through his finest passages, but showed their appreciation of his performance by applauding vociferously at the close.

Aldyth reflected that she had never given him credit for so much good nature as he now manifested. Fond as he was of high-class music, he could even condescend to play a festive jig for the amusement of the girls. Aldyth felt much gratitude for his willing assistance, and she was far from comprehending how sweet to him were her acknowledgments of the same. It never occurred to her that she was the attraction which drew him so often to Whitechapel. She gave him credit for feeling a genuine interest in the work, for she did not suppose that it was for her sake merely that he took so much trouble.

Yet in truth the motive which actuated Captain Walker was one which has drawn many another man into a temporary performance of good works. He had been charmed with Aldyth whenever he met her at Woodham or Wyndham; but he had shared the common belief that she was destined to marry her cousin, and had steeled his heart to resist the attraction she had for him. But now he knew she was free, there was no resisting the fascination of her society. He could hardly have explained wherein the strength of that fascination lay.

He had been much in society; he had seen many women who were prettier than Aldyth. He admired Gladys Stanton; it amused him to talk and laugh with her; but she never excited within him a painful sense of his own inferiority, nor caused him to approach her with timid, tender reverence. But Aldyth was different from any other girl he had ever known. She had all the freshness and brightness of girlhood, and yet she was a woman in her exquisite sympathy and kindness, her strong self-reliance, her unswerving pursuit of all that was good and true.

He had a new revelation of the gentleness and purity and kindness of her nature when he saw her surrounded by the rough, coarse girls who gathered about her at Whitechapel. Rough as they were, they grew gentle in her presence. A word, a glance even, from her was often enough to check a quarrel. Never had he felt more convinced of the womanly sweetness of Aldyth's character; yet, at the same time, there swept over him a feeling that his love was hopeless.

But the feeling did not last—how should it? Captain Walker's past experience had not prepared him to expect disappointment, so he made the most of his opportunities seeing Aldyth, and they were many; for Mrs. Stanton lavished invitations on the distinguished-looking captain, and seemed to think no party of pleasure complete without him. But her efforts were not crowned with the success she desired. As the hot, sultry days of July set in, and every one was planning a tour or talking of the seaside, Mrs. Stanton began to feel seriously dissatisfied with the result of her endeavours.

In vain she had thrown Gladys as much as possible into the company of Captain Walker. Nothing seemed likely to come of it. Mrs. Stanton began to suspect that it was Aldyth's fault. If only she had not that craze for factory girls! It was too bad of her to drag the captain to that horrid Whitechapel once every week.

One night, as Aldyth was brushing her hair preparatory to going to bed, her mother, who with Gladys had been spending the evening out, came into her room, looking sadly perturbed.

"Ah, you are not in bed," she said, as, all resplendent in satin and lace, she sank into a chair. "I want to have a talk with you about our plans, if you are not too tired."

"I am not very tired," said Aldyth, sitting down and shaking back her hair.

"Have you been to Whitechapel this evening?" asked Mrs. Stanton, abruptly.

"Yes, mamma," said Aldyth.

"And Captain Walker with you?"

Something in her mother's tones brought the colour into Aldyth's face.

"He was there," she replied, slowly, "and he kindly saw me home."

"Why did he not come in?" asked Mrs. Stanton.

"Really, I suppose, because I never thought of asking him," said Aldyth.

An expression of impatience escaped her mother's lips.

"I cannot understand you, Aldyth. I should have thought you would have wished to help and not hinder your sister's happiness. Have you not noticed how often Captain Walker comes here? And of course it is to see Gladys. You must have observed it."

"He comes here a great deal, certainly," said Aldyth, with some embarrassment.

A few days earlier she could have accepted her mother's explanation of the motive of the captain's frequent visits; but since then one little thing and another had occurred to put her on her guard, and to-night he had let fall a word which had forced her to receive a wholly unwelcome idea.

Mrs. Stanton was quick to see her embarrassment. "Surely you are not thinking of him for yourself, Aldyth?" she said, in a cold, suspicious tone.

"Mamma!" said Aldyth, flushing crimson.

"Oh, I suppose you are shocked at my outspokenness; but what is the use of mincing matters? I should like to know what you do mean, that I may act accordingly."

"I have no such meaning as you impute to me, mamma," said Aldyth, proudly.

"Well, then, I will be quite frank with you," said Mrs. Stanton. "I can see that Captain Walker greatly admires Gladys, and I should fail in my duty as a mother if I did not do all in my power to secure her a happy marriage."

"But can you be sure that it would prove a happy marriage?" Aldyth ventured to ask. "It seems to me that those only are true marriages which are arranged by Providence. If we girls are to marry, God will bring it about in His own good way. I do not believe in planning and scheming."

"Then it is because you are foolish and inexperienced," said Mrs. Stanton, sharply. "I have no patience with your ridiculous, old-maidish notions, Aldyth. Few girls would marry well if their mothers did not take some trouble on their behalf. If you like to throw away your own chances, you need not interfere with those of Gladys."

"I have no wish to do so," said Aldyth.

"Forgive me if I seem cross," said Mrs. Stanton in a gentler tone. "You do not know how worried I am. It is of the utmost importance to us that Gladys should marry well, and, soon too. The fact is, she is a great expense, and we are not nearly so well off as we appear. Mr. Stanton has had great losses in his business. Sometimes I fear we shall come utterly to grief. So, you see, Gladys must make a good marriage."

Aldyth was silent for a few moments. She pitied her mother as she noted her weary, harassed look. But the plotting and planning, the keeping up of pretences in which her mother trusted, seemed to her hateful.

"Would it not be better to reduce your expenses at once?" she suggested presently. "We should do very well in a smaller house and with fewer servants."

"Such a thing is out of the question," said Mrs. Stanton, hastily. "We must keep up appearances, at any cost, till Gladys is married. But I want you to understand how critical the position of things is; I want you to promise me that you will not stand in your sister's way."

"Mamma! As if I should!" said Aldyth, with some indignation.

"Well, then, I will say what I came to say," continued her mother. "We are thinking of going to Eastbourne at the end of the month. Captain Walker talks of going there too; but I thought, perhaps, you would rather return to Woodham for a few weeks. Your friends would be delighted to see you, and there is no air like one's native air. Besides, there it your uncle to be considered."

Aldyth did not at once reply. The idea of going to Woodham was welcome; but the way in which it was suggested gave her pain. It was too evident that her mother wished to be rid of her.

"Yes, I should like to go to Woodham, if you would rather not have me at Eastbourne," she said at last.

"My dear love! Of course we should like to have you with us. I was only thinking what would be best for you," said Mrs. Stanton, rising, and coming to kiss Aldyth and stroke her hair.

But Aldyth was beginning to know the value of her mother's graceful caresses.

"You might join us afterwards at Eastbourne," Mrs. Stanton said, still playing with Aldyth's hair; "but I think it would be well for you to go to Woodham first. Why should you not go at once? You look as if you needed a change. You are not used to London; the hot weather is trying you. Write to your aunt to-morrow, and say that you will come."

"I can scarcely start at a moment's notice," said Aldyth, in a voice unusually high and hard. "There are arrangements to be made at Whitechapel; you must please allow me time to settle things a little."

"Certainly, love, arrange it as you will," said her mother, dropping a light kiss on her brow. "I am only anxious for your welfare. Good-night." And she glided away, leaving Aldyth smitten with a tense of intolerable pain.

But Aldyth was not to have time for the arrangements she desired to make. Had Mrs. Stanton waited a few hours, she would have seen her end accomplished without the aid of artifice. Early on the following day a telegram was brought to Aldyth. The sender was Miss Lorraine, and the brief message ran thus:

"Your uncle seriously ill. Come at once."

In less than an hour, Aldyth was on her way to Woodham. It was a hot journey, and the heat of the day was at its height as she came into the well-known little station. Who was that standing on the platform? Her heart beat more quickly as she saw John Glynne. He came forward to help her from the carriage.

"How are you, Miss Lorraine?" he said, and there seemed such kindness in his warm, firm hand-clasp. "Your aunt has allowed me to have the pleasure of meeting you, as your cousin could not be spared. The carriage is waiting to take you to Wyndham. Have you any luggage?"

"Only a small portmanteau," said Aldyth. "How is my uncle? The telegram, of course, gave no particulars."

"He is very ill, I grieve to tell you," said John Glynne. "He was seized with apoplexy when he was dressing this morning. Of course at his age there can, I fear, be little hope for his recovery."

"I suppose not," said Aldyth, tremulously. "I thought him altered the last time I saw him."

"And when was that?" asked Mr. Glynne.

"Oh, some months back, when he came to London," said Aldyth, off her guard.

But seeing he looked surprised, she recollected herself, and said, hastily: "But I should not have mentioned it. I forgot that uncle begged me to tell no one that he had been to London. It was such an event in his life to leave home for a day that he seemed ashamed that any one should know of it. It was only by chance it came to my knowledge."

"Really!" said John, smiling. "Well, the secret is safe with me."

He secured her portmanteau, accompanied her to the chaise, and saw her seated beside old John. Then they shook hands once more.

"I shall see you again," he said. "You will stay some little while now you are here?"

"Oh yes," Aldyth said, smiling brightly on him.

He had said little, but his manner had told her how glad he was to see her. And despite the sad occasion of her coming, Aldyth was glad to find herself at Woodham.

After the noise and stir of London, the repose of the country was delightful. The old High Street had the same familiar aspect. There was Mrs. Bland in the bow-window, smiling and nodding. Miss Rudkin's high cap and sausage-like curls appeared above the wire blind on the opposite side of road.

And now they had turned from the town, and were on the long straight road to Wyndham. The scent of hay was wafted across the hedges; fields of mellowing corn, with poppies glowing here and there, bowed before the breeze; cattle rested beneath the trees, or cooled themselves in the ponds; all the broad, flat landscape seemed to breathe peace, And with a keen sense of contrast, Aldyth recalled to mind the dim, close streets of Whitechapel.

After she had gathered all that old John could tell her of her uncle's illness, she paid little heed to his garrulous repetition of the facts. She gazed lovingly on every familiar scene, and let the restful beauty of the day enter into her heart.

As they drove up to the Hall, Guy appeared on the steps to welcome her. He looked pale and excited, and he talked rapidly, though in subdued tones, as he led her into the house.

"He is no better," he said; "unconscious most of the time, though sometimes he seems to understand what we say. He keeps talking, but so incoherently it is difficult to understand him. But he has asked for you several times; he utters your name distinctly. No, you must not go up stairs till you have taken something. There is luncheon for you in the dining room. What will you have? Coffee? Wine? You shall have what you like, but you must take something."

"Poor uncle!" said Aldyth, sitting down and allowing Guy to wait on her. "Does he suffer much, do you think?"

"The doctor says not," Guy replied. "It is sad to see the poor old man lie in such a state; but still at his great age, it is not to be expected that he can recover. Eighty-one! Who would wish to live longer than that?"

Aldyth did not linger long below. It was with a feeling of awe that was almost dread she entered the darkened room where the old man lay. She had never been brought into close contact with death, and she felt instinctively that this was the chamber of death.

Miss Lorraine, quiet and watchful, sat at one side of the bed, the old housekeeper at the other. Between them lay the stricken man, his face strangely altered, the pupils of the eyes contracted, the expression one of deep distress, whilst he babbled inarticulately, and his hands restlessly roamed over the coverlid.

"Do not be frightened, dear," said her aunt, coming to meet Aldyth, and leading her to the bedside. "I am glad you have come, for he has mentioned you several times. There—'Aldyth,' he said. Did you not hear it?"

But Aldyth, unaccustomed to illness, could make nothing of his incoherent utterances.

"Aldyth," he said.

"Bring Aldyth," repeated Miss Lorraine. "Speak to him, dear; let him know you are here."

"Uncle," said Aldyth, bending down to him and speaking very clearly; "uncle, I am here. Do you understand? It's Aldyth."

"Ay, Aldyth," he murmured; "Aldyth and Guy. Bring Aldyth; I want her."

"I am here, uncle," Aldyth said again. "Is there anything you wish to say to me?"

"Ay, I want Aldyth," he murmured. "I want to explain—Aldyth and Guy—Guy and Aldyth—the two children are always together. Tell her—" Again he sank into confused babblings. Presently his voice was raised again, and even Aldyth could distinguish the words, "Bring Aldyth—I want her."

"Dear uncle, I am here," she said, and took hold of his hand. His fingers closed convulsively over hers.

"Don't leave me," he said, and it seemed that for the moment he recognized her. He made an eager movement, half raising himself in the bed, and began to talk rapidly and inarticulately. He appeared trying to tell her something, but scarce a word could Aldyth understand.

"There's something on his mind, if only he could make you understand," the housekeeper said. "There! 'My will,' he said—I heard the words quite plain."

"I did not hear it," said Guy, who had come into the room, and stood near Aldyth.

"You may fancy he says anything," observed Miss Lorraine.

"There was no mistake about that," said the housekeeper, with an air of superior sagacity. "Now he's talking about the farm—don't you hear?"

At that moment, the prolonged howl of a dog rose from beneath the windows, startling and affrighting the worthy old soul.

"You know what that means?" she whispered. "It's a sure sign. Not but what I knew before. There was a robin this morning singing close to the front door, and I knew that boded ill. Ah, me! The poor old master! But we must all go when our time comes."

Hour after hour passed wearily by, and brought no change but increased weakness and restlessness and more imperfect articulation. Life was slowly ebbing. The doctor paid his last visit and went away, with no expectation of seeing his patient again in life.

All night the laboured breathing, the sad struggle, so pitiful to witness, went on. Guy, unable to bear the scene, went away ere the end came; but Aldyth was not to be persuaded to quit her place beside her uncle. All night she and her aunt watched him, and her hand held the cold, heavy hand of the dying man till life had fled.

Then at last she broke down and wept from mingled sensations of relief and pain. Miss Lorraine had stood by too many deathbeds to be thrilled and unnerved as Aldyth was. She soothed the girl, and put her tenderly to bed.

Aldyth, oppressed by a sense of the gloom and mystery of death, presently sobbed herself to sleep, without giving a thought to any consequences her uncle's death might have for her. The hopes and fears that were alternating in Guy's mind, and causing him much inward agitation, lay quite outside her consciousness.