CHAPTER XIX.

THE MISTRESS OF WYNDHAM.

"YOU do not surely mean that nothing is left to Guy?" said Miss Lorraine, in a troubled tone.

Some hours had passed since the squire breathed his last, and she was with Mr. Ralph Greenwood in the old-fashioned library. The blinds were down, and even the outside venetians closed, shutting out the July sunshine and making twilight in the room.

The lawyer, his pince-nez on his nose, sat before the squire's old bureau, turning over some papers in a quick, business-like manner.

"By no means," he said, briskly. "No, no, it is not so bad as that. Guy has five thousand pounds and the farm at Wood Corner. Not a bad provision for a young man, but a poor equivalent for the heirship."

"When was this will made?" asked Miss Lorraine.

"At the beginning of the year. Guy had had a disagreement with his uncle. It was a great mistake, as I told him at the time. I did my best to soften Mr. Lorraine's feelings. I all but refused to make the will; but if I had done so, he would have sent for some one else. What a pity it is young people are so unpractical! Why could not those two have married now, as every one expected of them?"

"But uncle seemed to have got over that annoyance," said Miss Lorraine. "He received Hilda Bland kindly, and gave his consent to the engagement. I thought Guy was quite reinstated in his favour."

"It seemed so," said Mr. Greenwood. "I am sure I quite hoped to have the pleasure of setting this all right some day. I told the squire so when he signed the will; but you know the kind of man he was—a wee bit obstinate, don't you think? Nothing harder for him than to retract. It seems Guy was able to persuade himself, from something his uncle let fall, that the matter had been set right; but I know nothing of it. I suppose he delayed sending for me. There is nothing more common than for men to put off business connected with their wills. We lawyers are constantly meeting with such instances."

"Then you think he intended to make another will?" suggested Miss Lorraine.

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders. "He never confided his intention to me," he said; "but it seems to me that after the brave way in which Guy saved his life—and he was evidently touched by it—he should have cherished some such intention. However, he did not do it; so we must make the best of things as they are. I am afraid it will be a sore disappointment to Guy."

"He will feel it, no doubt," said Miss Lorraine; "and, for one, I am sorry that things were not equally divided. Does all the rest come to Aldyth?"

"Well, not absolutely," said Mr. Greenwood. "Five hundred pounds go to Miss Tabitha Rudkin, and you, Miss Lorraine, receive the same sum. Then there are several small legacies and bequests to local charities. But Miss Aldyth has Wyndham and the bulk of the property. She will be a rich young lady when all is told."

"I never expected he would leave me a halfpenny," said Miss Lorraine, coolly; "and I cannot say I am glad Aldyth should be so rich. It will hardly increase her happiness."

"That's as it may be," said Mr. Greenwood. "I don't myself think it well to make girls too wealthy; there is danger of their fortunes falling into unworthy hands. But Mr. Lorraine was careful to take certain precautions. The man who marries Miss Aldyth will find that he has no control over his wife's fortune, and will touch none of it after her death, supposing he should survive her, unless he consent to take the name of Lorraine."

"Ah!" said Miss Lorraine, expressively. "That was like uncle, to try to order things as he would, even after his death. Well, Aldyth is not likely to be married at present—perhaps she never will be."

"And meanwhile," said the lawyer, "she is the mistress of Wyndham—not an unenviable position."

[Illustration]

"I wonder what she will say when I tell her?" said Miss Lorraine, moving off in search of Aldyth.

"And what will Guy say?" asked the lawyer, looking troubled. "I suppose he had better know without delay. Will you say to him, if you come across him, that I should like to have a few words with him here?"

Aldyth had risen, refreshed by her sleep, and was in the dining room, talking with Guy, who had just returned from Woodham, whither he had ridden on business connected with his uncle's decease. Guy had still a haggard, excited look, but he was talking of Hilda as Miss Lorraine entered.

"Yes," he said, "it was wonderful how uncle came round after that day. Before he used to speak of Hilda in a way that made me wild; but when she came to luncheon, he began paying her compliments, to my great surprise, and he said to me afterwards that she was a perfect little lady, though it was a pity she was so small."

"I do not think so," said Aldyth, heartily. "Hilda is charming. I would not have her an inch taller. I am so glad uncle changed his opinion of her."

"Yes, she is not a bad little party," said Guy, complacently. "She suits me down to the ground."

Aldyth was amused to see that Guy had apparently forgotten his episodical wooing of herself.

"Guy," said Miss Lorraine, "Mr. Greenwood is in the library, and he would like to speak to you."

The colour flew into Guy's face. He rose and went away at once without a word.

"The forewoman from Spencer's will be here directly about our mourning," said Miss Lorraine, glancing at the clock. "You must have handsome mourning, Aldyth; it will be expected of you."

"Of course I will have what is proper," said Aldyth, a little wondering at this remark. "But must I wear heavy black this hot weather?"

"Certainly you must wear black, and I would have crape on my hat, if I were you," said Miss Lorraine, decisively; "but I forget, you do not yet understand your position."

"My position?" said Aldyth.

"Yes, my dear; you will be surprised when you hear. Mr. Greenwood has been telling me about uncle's will. Of course it must be formally read on Thursday; but there was no harm—indeed, it was better he should give me a hint as to its nature."

"Yes," said Aldyth, wondering to what all this might lead. "And it seems that Wyndham and most of the property is left to you."

"To me, auntie?" said Aldyth in amazement.

"Yes, dear, to you; I knew you would be very much surprised."

"But Guy—Guy is uncle's heir."

"He was to have been," said Miss Lorraine; "but uncle took offence with him at the beginning of the year, when he wanted to marry Hilda Bland, you know, and uncle meant him to marry you."

"Oh dear," said Aldyth, flushing hotly. "Do you mean to tell me I have been the cause of Guy losing his inheritance?"

"You are not to blame in the matter," said her aunt. "Hilda Bland might say she was the cause. It was just uncle's wilfulness."

"But it is very hard for Guy," said Aldyth. "It does not seem fair that I should have all and he nothing. Oh, he will be vexed!"

"Guy has five thousand pounds and the farm at Wood Corner," said Miss Lorraine; "but of course that is very different from what he expected."

"Cannot it be altered, aunt?" said Aldyth. "Must I take Wyndham? I am sure if I had had the least idea uncle meant to do such a thing, I would have begged him not to do it."

At that moment there came to her recollection the talk she had had with her uncle as they sat together in Hyde Park. She remembered how he had spoken of Wyndham; how anxious he appeared that the old place should remain as it was, and the promise she had given to do all in her power to keep it unchanged. But he had spoken of another mistress of Wyndham; evidently his thoughts had turned to Hilda Bland.

Doubtless he was then in a state of indecision with respect to the disposition or his property. Had he finally decided to let his last will stand, or had death, coming so unexpectedly, settled the question for him? It was impossible to know.

"You cannot set aside your uncle's will," said Miss Lorraine. "He meant you to be the mistress of Wyndham. He has thought of everything, and made careful provision for your future. If you marry, your husband is to take the name of Lorraine."

Aldyth's colour deepened. "I shall never marry," she said with decision.

"It is a great pity—" said Miss Lorraine, musingly, "it is a great pity you and Guy were not suited to each other."

Aldyth did not reply. Her face looked so full of trouble that her aunt went to her and kissed her.

"Why, Aldyth," she said, playfully, "you look quite overwhelmed. Most girls would be elated by such good fortune. Think how pleased your mother will be."

"Yes, she will be pleased," said Aldyth, as if the idea had not occurred to her before. But her face did not brighten.

"I never wished to be rich," she said, presently; "it will not make me happier. Only," she added, as she thought of her poor, overworked girl friends in London, "it will give me the power to brighten other lives. That is the best thing about wealth, I think."

"Bless you, child," said her aunt, kissing her again, "you always have brightened the lives of others. You have made mine happier ever since you came to me as a tiny child."

Aldyth rose and threw her arms about her aunt, returning her kisses with interest.

"Aunt," she asked the next minute, in a frightened whisper, "shall I have to live here now?"

"I do not know, dear; but I suppose it must be your home," said Miss Lorraine, cheerfully.

"I can never bear to live here alone," said Aldyth, almost in tears. "You must live here with me, auntie."

"Well, well, dear, we will see; it is early yet to make plans," said Miss Lorraine, soothingly. She was not prepared to renounce on the instant her pretty cottage at Woodham.

Aldyth passed through the next few days with a strange sense of unreality. She went about the house and grounds, looked at all the quaint, old-fashioned belongings, so familiar to her, and told herself they were now her own; but it did not seem as if it could be true. She had not much time for solitary musing. There were many things to be arranged, and though nothing was said about the will till after the funeral, every one about the place soon seemed to know that Miss Aldyth's opinion was of the first importance, and everything must be referred to her.

Guy's bearing but too plainly proclaimed the disappointment of his hopes. It made Aldyth miserable to see him; but he would not allow her to express any feeling on the subject. He checked the faltering words she tried to utter with a cold profession that he was glad things had turned out so well for her.

"Women are better diplomatists than men," he said, sneeringly. "They are clever enough to win their ends without losing favour at court."

The words stung Aldyth, who felt that they were unjust. It hurt her, too, that Hilda sent her no word, nor took the slightest notice of her being at Wyndham.

She had an uncomfortable sense that most persons were treating her in a new manner. Mr. Greenwood, the banker, one of the executors of Mr. Lorraine's will, and his brother, Mr. Ralph, became quite ceremonious in their deference to her wishes. The servants, whom she regarded as old friends, showed an unusual assiduity in waiting on her. The rector of Woodham suddenly grew interested in her views on various questions, and the new curate in charge of the old church, actuated possibly by the hope of future subscriptions, called twice ere her uncle had been dead a week. As for her mother, it was with a bitter sense of amusement that Aldyth read her congratulations.

"My DARLING CHILD," Mrs. Stanton wrote—"It makes me so happy to know that your lifelong devotion to your grand-uncle has met with its right reward. You deserve to be rich and prosperous, for you have always been so good and unselfish, so willing to do all in your power to make others happy. I confess I trembled when I heard how you had disappointed his wish that you should marry your cousin; but it is plain now that you acted for the best. Of course he feels it, but he is a man, and can make his way in the world; it is much better you should be provided for.

"We miss you every day. How I wish you were coming to Eastbourne with us! Papa will not accompany us, after all. He has received such accounts of the state of his business that he has resolved to return to Melbourne at once. I am sorry, for he is hardly fit to go alone, and he will not hear of my returning so soon. But I must hope for the best. It is such a comfort to know of your good fortune. Do write again soon, and let me know when I shall see you.

"Your loving

"MOTHER."

So nothing now was to be said about her stupidity and folly. Her notions were no longer ridiculous. She was good and unselfish, and all she had done was right.

Gladys had added a few characteristic lines.

"You lucky girl!" she wrote. "So you have money and lands, horses, carriages, an establishment; all without the trouble of a husband! If I were you, I would never marry, but enjoy my liberty, and do as I liked. I, alas! can only get a fortune by selling myself. Fancy mamma's indignation—that tiresome Captain Walker is not going to Eastbourne after all! He feels bound instead to visit an aged relative in Essex. I believe he backed out of it because he found you were not going, but mamma says that is nonsense.

"I hope you will soon invite me to visit you in your new grandeur. You will let me have a gallop on one of your horses, won't you, Aldyth, dear? And I'll vow that you are the dearest sister that ever was."

Aldyth could smile over Gladys' words. She showed them to her aunt, who said at once—

"You see, you need not fear being solitary in this great house; your mother and sister are only waiting for an invitation."

"Oh, to be sure!" cried Aldyth, her face lighting up with unexpected pleasure. "I had not thought of that. Fancy my having mother and Gladys here as my guests! I should like that. And Nelly, too, must come; she is so fond of the country. And Cecil might come for the shooting. Oh, that is grand!"

Miss Lorraine was surprised to see what pleasure Aldyth derived from her suggestion. She wondered if it had ever occurred to old Stephen that Mrs. Stanton might largely benefit by Aldyth's inheritance. In his thoughts of what the future might bring forth, had he ever pictured that fair lady coming as a visitor to Wyndham? Probably not. But Miss Lorraine kept her reflections to herself. She would not cast a shadow on the first gleam of satisfaction Aldyth's fortune had caused her.

After a week full of strange and exciting experiences, the calm repose of Sunday was very welcome to Aldyth. She drove with her aunt to Woodham Church in the morning, and had an uneasy consciousness that she was much observed as she entered the building. Whilst at the close of the service, many of her acquaintances studied her furtively, but seemed shy of speaking to her.

She was glad to regain the shelter of the carriage, and was content to find herself passing once more along the straight, monotonous road between the quiet fields.

Miss Lorraine, fussily conscious of her fresh mourning, and the importance which their bereavement gave them in the eyes of their neighbours, had much to say, and had apparently observed every individual who had attended the service.

But Aldyth did not find it necessary to pay close attention to her aunt's remarks. A word now and then was enough to satisfy Miss Lorraine, and Aldyth's thoughts took their own course in the intervals, revolving chiefly about the query why Mr. Glynne, whom she had seen as she passed out of church, had chosen to stand at a distance, lifting his hat ceremoniously, when he might have come forward with a friend's greeting. He had been so kind and friendly the other day, was he going to be different now?

In the warm afternoon Aldyth wandered from the house, and crossing the garden and a meadow beyond, approached a knoll of trees, which seemed to promise a cool retreat. Seating herself in their shade, she threw down her hat and gave a little sigh of relief at finding herself in this cool, quiet spot. All about her lay the green, still country, breathing a calm which seemed to belong to the day. The fields an which she looked down were her fields, Aldyth told herself with a faint smile; those were her cows she saw going forth into the lane on their way to be milked; the woods to the right, rising against the sky, were her woods; yes, even that tiny rabbit, which whisked away as she raised her hand, belonged to her.

The thought of this great, unexpected inheritance weighed on Aldyth's mind. Her father had grown up with the expectation that at some future time it would be his; Guy, in his turn, had counted himself the heir; but she to whom Wyndham had fallen had never seriously imagined that such a possession would be hers. It brought with it a heavy burden of responsibility. Was it well to have so much, when many lives knew such want and privation?

His possessions had not brought her uncle happiness. He had been kind and generous to her; he had given Guy a liberal allowance; but in other quarters he had earned the reputation of being close-fisted, and it was certain that he had never spent much on his own pleasure. Aldyth had heard it said that he was in the habit of saving a third of his income each year, and it was owing to this fact that her own wealth was now so considerable. And he might have known so much of that best happiness which springs from making others happy! But there had been little love in his life. That was the pity of it. Aldyth could not but be aware that there were few persons in the neighbourhood who really regretted the death of her grand-uncle.

As she thought of it, there came home to her more powerfully than ever before the truth that love is the great secret of life; the vital lesson that the discipline of life is destined to teach us, a lesson written by God Himself in glowing characters for all time to read on the cross of Calvary.

"Life," Aldyth murmured to herself, in the words of her favourite poet—

"'Is energy of love, Divine or human; exercised in pain, In strife and tribulation; and ordained, If so approved and sanctified, to pass, Through shades and silent rest, to endless joy.'"

Then, beneath the rustling trees with the sweet, summer calm about her, Aldyth cast herself anew upon the Eternal Love, praying to be delivered from vulgar lust of acquisition, from worldly desires and aims, and to be made so pure and loving that she might not miss the vision of God here on this beautiful earth, nor fail to hear the voice of God speaking to her inmost soul.