CHAPTER XXIII.

LOSSES AND GAINS.

IT was shocking and terrible news Mrs. Stanton had received by telegram from Melbourne earlier in that day. The firm of Stanton Bros. had come to utter bankruptcy, such as reduced to poverty every one connected with the firm, and brought unlooked-for destitution upon many an innocent sufferer. But this was not the whole of the calamity.

The health-giving influences of the voyage had not so invigorated Mr. Stanton that he could sustain the shock of misfortune that awaited him on his arrival at Melbourne. He went to his office almost immediately on landing, and there learned from his brother the critical state of affairs. He had listened calmly, had made full inquiries, and satisfied himself that it was impossible to avoid hopeless, irretrievable failure. Then, without showing any marked signs of agitation, he had returned to his hotel; but on the threshold, his step faltered, a strange spasm passed over his face, and he fell heavily to the ground. It was the last fatal stroke of paralysis. Within three hours he was dead.

But as yet his wife and children knew no particulars, only the bare, cruel facts, conveyed with curt emphasis by the telegram. As they began to recover from the first stunning effect of the blow, their one wish was for Aldyth's presence. The trouble would be less bewildering, less overwhelming, if she were there. Comfort of some kind Aldyth would surely bring.

"Send for Aldyth," Mrs. Stanton whispered to Gladys, in one of the intervals between her fits of hysterical weeping; and Gladys lost no time in obeying.

The girls were very anxious for the coming of their sister, mid made many calculations as to how soon she could arrive, without attaining certainty that she could get to Eastbourne that day.

But the last train, just before midnight, brought Aldyth.

Gladys, watching at the window of their sitting room, saw the cab drive up to the door, and hurried down to meet her. Mrs. Stanton had retired to rest, and, worn out with weeping, was already asleep; Nelly was sitting beside her, so Gladys alone welcomed Aldyth. Gladys, with pale face, pink eyelids, and a weary, anxious expression, looked wholly different from the bright, radiant girl from whom Aldyth had parted a few weeks earlier. Sorrow seems the more pathetic when its shadow falls on one so young and gay.

"Oh, Aldyth, I am glad you have come," she said, clasping her sister in her arms. "Things will seem better now. But is it not dreadful?"

"You forget I do not know what the trouble is," said Aldyth, who had been full of wonder concerning it as she journeyed to Eastbourne.

"Poor papa is dead," said Gladys, "and we are beggars." The two facts were apparently of equal importance to Gladys; but Aldyth only heeded the former.

She was painfully startled: She had always been conscious of the failing appearance of the worn, nervous man, but she was not prepared to hear so soon of his decease, and it struck her as very sad that he should die far away from his wife and children.

"Oh, Gladys!" she said. "I am grieved for you. Poor mamma! What will she do? How was it?"

"Paralysis, the telegram says," replied Gladys; "but we know hardly anything. That was what mamma had feared. Here is the telegram."

And she spread it open before Aldyth, who read—

"Stanton Bros., bankrupt. Robert Stanton died yesterday, shock producing paralysis."

"Oh, how terrible!" said Aldyth. "How terrible the news seems, coming in these few cold words! What a shock for mamma! How did she bear it?"

"She almost fainted, and then she went into hysterics," said Gladys, with unconscious dryness; "but she is quieter now. Mamma says that things have been going wrong in the business for some time, and that papa said that if it came to bankruptcy, we must lose everything. She says she believes we have not a penny."

"Do not let that trouble you," said Aldyth, kindly; "your greatest loss can never be made up to you, but as far as the money goes, I have enough for us all. Oh, I am glad now that uncle made me rich."

And at that moment, Aldyth experienced the utmost satisfaction her fortune had brought her.

"I should have thought you would have been glad before this," said Gladys, "and you won't want a lot of poor relatives hanging on you."

"I should be much poorer if I had not the relatives," said Aldyth. "Where is Nelly?"

"She is with mamma; but I will go and relieve her now. You are to share her room. She has been longing for you to come."

Already Gladys's look had brightened, and she walked away with her usual quick, light step. She was not one to droop long under trouble. Like a bent flower, she could lift her head at the first break in the storm.

In a few minutes Nelly was in her sister's arms. The child's face looked worn and aged; the eyes were unnaturally bright, but showed no signs of weeping. At Aldyth's tender greeting, however, her composure gave way. She broke into heavy sobs as she clung to her sister.

"Oh, Aldyth, is it not dreadful? Poor papa!"

"Yes, dear, it is very sad," Aldyth said.

"I never thought—I never expected such a thing," sobbed Nelly. "Of course, I knew he was not well; but he had been out of sorts a long time, and mamma said the voyage would set him up. It is so sad that he should die away from us all. Aldyth, he should not have been allowed to go back alone."

Aldyth did not at once reply.

"Perhaps not," she said, presently; "but, Nelly, it is vain to think of that now."

"That is what makes it so dreadful!" cried Nelly. "Aldyth, I feel now that I never loved papa as I should. He was just papa, who found the money and saw we had everything we wanted. I took it all as a right, and never was a bit grateful. Do you know, one Saturday after you had gone to Woodham, he came in very tired, when mamma and Gladys were out, and I fetched his slippers and got some tea for him, just as you used to do. He seemed so surprised and pleased. He said, 'Why, Nelly, you are getting as thoughtful as Aldyth.' I felt reproached as he said it, though he did not mean it as a reproach."

"But you are thankful now, are you not, dear, that you did him that little service?" Aldyth said.

"Oh, but it was only that once!" replied Nelly, with a fresh burst of weeping. "He went away so soon after that there was not another opportunity. But I might have served him often, and now it is too late. He is gone from me—my father—and I did not love and value him whilst I had him!"

Aldyth did not attempt to check her tears. She felt that words could not soothe such grief as this. The thought that she had failed in her duty towards her father would long sting poor Nelly's heart; but the pain might be salutary; from it might spring the "peaceable fruit" of love and care for others.

After a pause, Aldyth said—

"Nelly, I am reminded of some words I read a while ago. I think they were Richter's, and to this effect, that the most beautiful wreath we can lay on the grave of our dead is woven of good deeds done to others. We should remember that now. We cannot undo the past; we cannot recall the lost opportunity or the careless word; but we can endeavour to show all the love and kindness in our power to those who still remain with us."

"I will try to be good," faltered Nelly; "but I have such a temper, and mamma and Gladys irritate me so."

"It is never easy to conquer oneself," said Aldyth; "but the victory is worth all the pains. And we have not to fight alone. There is One who will help us, if we put our trust in Him."

They went to their room, and Aldyth helped Nelly, who was quite worn out with the excitements of the day, to undress, and saw her into bed, where she fell asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. Aldyth, too, was tired; but after she had extinguished the light she knelt long in the darkness ere she lay down to rest.

When Aldyth woke the next morning, she felt as if Woodham, Wyndham, the events of yesterday, were all removed to a great distance. The things which a few hours before had been of interest to her now seemed of no importance. Her mind was filled with the thought of her mother's great sorrow, and how she might best help and comfort her.

As soon as she knew that her mother was awake, she went to her room, and was received with a demonstrative affection for which she was hardly prepared.

"Thank God you are come, darling!" said Mrs. Stanton, embracing her. "I want you now, my eldest daughter! I have no one to lean on but you. My husband, my home, everything is taken from me."

And she sank back on her pillow sobbing.

"Mother, darling," cried Aldyth, bending over her with a tenderness almost maternal in her manner—it was as if the mother and child had changed places. "Mother, darling, do not cry so; I will take care of you. I have a home, you know; and that and everything I have is yours. Try to bear up for the sake of your children, who love you and will do all in their power to make you happy."

"Thank you, my darling child," murmured Mrs. Stanton, "You are so good." Then, with a fresh flow of tears—"But it is dreadful to lose my husband so—without a word; and I cannot even look upon his lifeless form. It is so hard."

Aldyth could not speak; it was all she could do to keep from weeping herself, but she kissed her mother and laid her cheek against hers, and the mute caresses were more soothing than words.

Later in the day, Cecil arrived from London, prepared to stay over Sunday with his mother and sisters. He appeared shocked by the news, but it was the pecuniary loss that most affected his spirits, as Aldyth could not but perceive. It touched her to think how slight a hold Robert Stanton had had on the hearts of his children. With whom did the fault lie? Had he lived too absorbed in business to find time for the culture of family affections, or did the infirmity of his extreme shyness and reserve raise a barrier even between him and his children? Aldyth was inclined to explain it by the latter supposition, for the little she had seen of her stepfather led her to credit him with a good heart, keenly responsive to kindness, but incapable, from physical hindrances, of giving ready expression to feeling.

Cecil's mind was in a state of indignant resistance to the calamity that had overtaken them. He was glad to express himself freely when he got an opportunity of talking to Aldyth alone.

"It is all my uncle's fault, I know," he said; "now, you see, when we get particulars, if it does not come out that the failure is entirely owing to some rash speculation my uncle has plunged into. My father let him have things too much his own way. It was a great mistake. It is all very well to talk about affliction, but this is my uncle's doing, and I mean to let him know what I think of his conduct."

"Will that be of any good?" asked Aldyth, gently. "I suppose he and his family are also reduced to poverty. He must deplore his action now as much as you do."

"Whether it is of any good or not, I mean to do it for my own satisfaction," replied Cecil. "It is no joke to have the whole of your income swept away. What am I to do? What is to become of mamma and the girls?"

"Oh, do not let that trouble you," said Aldyth. "Mamma and Gladys are coming with me to Wyndham—there is plenty of room for them there; indeed, I was in despair at the thought that I might have to live in that great place alone. Nelly will go back to school for the present; and you, I hope, will remain in your lodgings near the hospital."

"What, at your expense?" asked Cecil, flushing.

"No, at mamma's, if you like that better," said Aldyth, smiling. "I consider that mamma shares all my possessions."

"It is very good of you," said Cecil, looking relieved, and yet a little uneasy. "You are very generous. I don't believe Gladys would be so ready to let others spend her money."

"Don't say that—it is rather mean; for you cannot possibly tell what Gladys would do under the circumstances. And I cannot see that there is any generosity in giving away what you will never miss. I could not possibly spend on myself the income which is now mine. I don't know what I should have done if this had not happened, for I am not a fine lady. I have an inbred horror of extravagance."

Cecil laughed.

"You are not like Gladys, then. She will help you to spend your money fast enough, if you let her. But I think very differently of you, Aldyth, and I hope some day I may be able to repay you for what you do for me."

"Very well, sir," said Aldyth, laughing. "When I get a broken arm or a sprained ankle, I shall be happy for you to exercise your surgical skill upon it."

Aldyth remained with her mother and sisters for a week at Eastbourne, keeping almost in seclusion. Yet for her it was a busy time, for there were many arrangements to be made, letters to be written, friends to be seen, and every task from which her mother and Gladys shrank devolved upon her.

Mrs. Stanton gradually recovered from the shock of ill-tidings, and after a few days began to move less languidly, and to show some faint interest in the future that awaited her.

"To think that I should live at Wyndham after all," she said to Aldyth. "Your father used to talk of it at one time, when he hoped his uncle would forgive us; but that never came to pass. It is strange that I should go there now, after all these years and all that has happened. But it is rather a dreary old place, is it not?"

"I hope you will not find it so," said Aldyth. "I think it is very pretty in the summer."

Aldyth was glad that her preparations for her mother's visit to Wyndham were about finished ere she was summoned away.

She wrote to inform her aunt of the time when they might be expected, and to beg her to be at Wyndham to welcome them.

Unfortunately the September evening on which Aldyth with her mother and Gladys arrived at Woodburn was very wet, and under driving rain and a leaden sky the High Street and the long straight road to Wyndham looked far from interesting. Mrs. Stanton's countenance, its pale, delicate beauty strikingly set off by the folds of crape which framed it, wore a melancholy expression as she glanced from the carriage at the gloomy prospect.

"I always said I could not bear to live at Woodham," she remarked, with a shiver; "but it is my fate. Well, I am old and a widow now; it does not matter where I live."

This was not encouraging; but Aldyth could not wonder at her mother's depression.

"Not old; beautiful and dear," she said, pressing her mother's hand. "And brighter days will come. Woodham does not always look like this."

"I should hope not," said Gladys, throwing herself back with a yawn as they passed the last house belonging to Woodham. "So this is your carriage, Aldyth? It is rather an antiquated affair, and the springs might be easier. Does your coachman always drive so slowly?"

"Yes, old John has an objection to using the whip," said Aldyth. "He always lets the horses drop into this jog-trot. And it is of no use speaking to him; he is too old to alter his ways."

"Then I should look out for another coachman if I were you," said Gladys.

Aldyth shook her head.

"That would never do," she said. "It would break John's heart to be superseded."

Dripping trees, dripping eaves, a pool under the front windows, and a cloud of vapour rising from the pond, made Wyndham Hall appear anything but a desirable residence as the carriage drove up to the door. Aldyth was grieved that her mother should first see her future home in such an unfavourable aspect.

Mrs. Stanton, in her sable attire, had the air of a queen in exile as she mounted the steps, whilst a servant held an umbrella over her. But Miss Lorraine's cheery face, as she came forward to welcome them, seemed to defy the weather.

"What an evening!" she said. "You will think we have altogether too much water here. It is unfortunate. But we must make the best of it."

"The house is surely damp," said Mrs. Stanton, with a dreary anticipation of rheumatism.

"Not in the least," said Miss Lorraine, briskly; "the walls are too thick for that. There never was a warmer, drier house. They do not build such houses nowadays."

Certainly the dining room, where a bright fire was burning and a meal daintily set out, looked more cheerful.

But Mrs. Stanton's spirits did not begin to revive till Aldyth conducted her to her own room. This was a pleasant apartment with windows looking southwards and commanding a pretty view of the surrounding country. A new carpet had been put down; light fresh chintz draped windows and bed; there were flowers on the dressing-table, and glancing round, Mrs. Stanton could see that her tastes and comforts had been carefully studied. She appreciated comforts, and she gave a sigh of relief, not of despair, as she sank into an easy-chair by the wood fire.

"This is cosy," she said. "Yes, dear Aldyth, I cannot but be comfortable here, and if you will excuse me, I will not go down again to-night. Miss Lorraine is very kind, but I do not feel equal to her talk just now."

"You shall do as you like, mamma," said Aldyth, deftly removing her mother's bonnet and mantle. "I will bring you something to eat here, if you would rather."

"Yes, dear, much rather," Mrs. Stanton said.

And hastily removing her own things, Aldyth went down stairs to arrange a tray for her mother with the food most likely to tempt her appetite.

Miss Lorraine watched her as she set about the task, and was struck with the bright, happy look the girl's face wore.

"You look very happy, Aldyth," she said. "You are very glad to have your mother in your home."

"I am happy," replied Aldyth, with a sweet, glad smile, "and it is home now."

Miss Lorraine had a fleeting sense of discontent. She wondered what her uncle Stephen would have felt if he could have foreseen this result of Aldyth's inheritance, and smiled to think that, had such an idea occurred to him, he would assuredly have left Wyndham to Guy. She could imagine her uncle passing at midnight as a restless ghost through the old hall and groaning at the sight of the huge trunks, belonging to Mrs. Stanton and Gladys, which had just arrived in a cart from the station, and were piled up in the hall, till they could be emptied of their contents and consigned to the lumber room.

"Ah, me!" she reflected, sagely. "It is well we cannot know what is to come after us, and really it is time there was some fresh life about the old place."