CHAPTER XXXII.

THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS.

"ALDYTH, I want to have a talk with you," said Gladys, that night, following Aldyth into her room as they were about to retire to rest; "I hope you are not very sleepy."

"I am not," said Aldyth, who of late had been driven to woo sleep with no happier result than usually attends such wooings; "let us talk by all means."

She drew forward the easiest chair for Gladys, who was never indifferent to her personal comfort, then seated herself by her sister's side, looking down admiringly on the pretty, flossy hair and the flushed cheek that rested against the chintz cushions. Gladys looked so bright and happy. She was well content with the prospect before her.

The girl who had entered with zest into the gaieties of town life, and won admiration in crowded assemblies, had adapted herself with remarkable ease to a country life. She had no illusions concerning the man she had promised to marry; but she had a genuine affection for him, nevertheless. She knew he was not heroic; had he been, he would probably not have suited her so well. They had kindred tastes, and Guy's easy good nature could be trusted to yield to her wishes when they did not exactly coincide with his own. Gladys would in all likelihood get her own way in the future as completely as she had in the past; but Guy would be quite happy in following her lead. Aldyth saw this with satisfaction.

"I have been talking with Guy about your home, Aldyth," Gladys said, "and he agrees with me that it must not be given up. He says that as long as the plan works well, and the girls behave themselves, the Cottage shall be used for no other purpose."

[Illustration]

"That is very good of Guy, and good of you, Gladys," said Aldyth, flushing with pleasure. The thought that she would no longer be able to maintain this country home for her working girls had caused her much regret.

"It is not good at all; I shall never be good like you, Aldyth, though I mean to try," said Gladys, wistfully. "I want you to tell me how you manage, and I will try to do all I can for the girls. And if you will give me the address, I will send some flowers to London, whenever they are sufficiently plentiful."

"Oh, thank you!" said Aldyth, delighted. "That is very kind. You shall come with me to the Cottage to-morrow, if you like; and I will show you the little things I always look after myself. But the chief thing is to speak a kind word to the girls, and make them feel that they have a friend in you. That is not difficult."

"Not to you, perhaps; but I doubt if I can act such a part," said Gladys, shrugging her shoulders.

"Don't act it, be it," said Aldyth. "Begin to serve, and you will soon find it easy to love those you serve."

"Shall I?" said Gladys. "Well, I mean to try. You have often made me feel how selfish and useless a life I led—you and Kitty Bland. I am ashamed of myself when I see Kitty so brave and cheerful, thinking ever of others."

"You are learning to think of others," Aldyth said.

"I hope so," Gladys said; "but perhaps it is only a whim of mine, and I shall fall back into the old ways after a bit."

"You must not let it be a whim, Gladys."

"I'll try my best," said Gladys; "but, Aldyth, I hope you will still be able to do a good deal for the Home yourself. I hope you will not go far off. Have you any idea where you and mamma will live?"

"Not the least," said Aldyth.

She had tried more than once to approach the subject with her mother, but Mrs. Stanton had always evaded it.

"Well, perhaps it is best to leave it for the present," Gladys said. "You must come and see me very often. I shall want your help if I am to become a better woman."

"It is not my help you want, Gladys. The secret of a true life is to be found here, and God will give His help to all who ask it."

As she spoke, Aldyth laid her hand on the small neatly-bound copy of the New Testament that lay on her table. Gladys's face grew strangely grave. There was an earnest look in her blue eyes as she turned them on Aldyth. For a few minutes neither spoke. Then Gladys rose to say good-night. No other word was spoken, but the heart of each was thrilled with a new happiness as they clasped each other warmly ere they parted.

A few days later, Aldyth, her mother, and sister were in London. Visits to shops, dressmakers, and milliners filled up most of their time. Mrs. Stanton had agreed with Aldyth as to the necessity of making the preparations for Gladys's wedding as simple as possible, but it was evident that her idea of simplicity differed widely from that of Aldyth. She was driven to wonder uneasily how the bills were to be met which her mother ran up without the least hesitation. She could not but be aware that it would be a very difficult matter for her mother to keep her expenditure within the limits of the small income that was all Aldyth could now command—the interest of the six thousand pounds her uncle had bequeathed to her in his later will.

Aldyth was met by many practical difficulties as she tried to plan out their future. What was to be done with Nelly? She would leave school at Christmas, but she was too young and in no way suited to take the post of a governess. There seemed no possibility now of her having the art training on which her heart was set. Guy had promised to extend a helping hand to Cecil till he could stand alone, but it was not to be expected that he would do anything for Nelly. The main burden of anxiety seemed to rest on Aldyth. Mrs. Stanton complained and lamented, but never really pondered the problem of the future. And whilst Aldyth worried herself over ways and means, her mother calmly decided that the state of her health rendered it imperative that they should spend a few weeks at Brighton before they returned to Wyndham.

It was whilst at Brighton that Aldyth, taking up the "Times" one morning, saw an announcement which thrilled her heart with sympathetic pain. Mrs. Glynne was dead. Aldyth had not known her, but her aunt's account of her old friend and her simple, happy home at Highgate, as well as John Glynne's words respecting his mother, had conveyed to her mind a very vivid impression. It was almost like losing a personal friend. It grieved her to think of the sorrow of the bereaved. What a blow it would be to John Glynne! Was the mail carrying him the melancholy news, or had he heard of his mother's critical state in time to hasten to her side and receive her last farewell? His quiet, undemonstrative demeanour hid a heart of rare warmth and tenderness. Aldyth knew him well enough to know something of the strength of his love for his mother, and how deeply he would feel parting with her. She longed for fuller information than was afforded by the bare newspaper paragraph, but the longing remained unsatisfied, for, strange to say, Miss Lorraine in her letters made no allusion to her friend's death.

Towards the end of November Aldyth was again at Wyndham, and ere the month was out, Gladys's wedding took place. A simple wedding it was said to be, but it was a simplicity which required the richest white satin and the daintiest etcæteras. Mrs. Stanton could never have forgiven herself if she had allowed Gladys to be married in a common fashion.

The good people at Woodham appreciated the spectacle prepared for their delectation, and many were of opinion that a handsomer bridegroom or a prettier bride had never crossed the threshold of the parish church. Aldyth and Nelly were the bridesmaids, and looked exceedingly well in their cream cashmere and rose colour. But perhaps the most impressive figure in the little group gathered in the chancel was that of Mrs. Stanton. The strong sea air had driven away every trace of her illness; her fine form, her handsome features, her masses of silvery hair had never looked more imposing, and she bore herself with even more them her usual grace and dignity. Robed in silver-grey silk and wearing a bonnet of the same delicate hue, it was remarked that she looked almost like a bride herself. Perhaps it was soon to lay aside her widow's mourning, but a daughter's wedding was an exceptional occurrence.

The church bells clanged joyously throughout the day; but by four o'clock the excitement at Wyndham was over, and the happy pair had driven away to catch the London express. The usual sense of blankness which follows the departure of the bride made itself felt. Aldyth strove with the feeling, but it was inevitable that the parting with her sister and the ending of her brief experience of home life should cause her keen regret. No plan for the future had as yet been determined on. The time had come when her mother could no longer refuse to discuss the matter. Something must be decided.

Not till night came could Aldyth secure a quiet talk with her mother. A few of the guests were persuaded to spend the evening at the Hall. Mr. Greenwood and Miss Lorraine were the last to leave, the banker having offered that lady a seat in his brougham. Miss Lorraine drew her niece aside for a moment in the hall.

"Ah, Aldyth," she said, tenderly, "I can see how you feel losing Gladys and—all these changes. But you will try to make the best of things, and remember there is always a home for you with me whenever you want one."

Aldyth smiled and thanked her; but she wondered at her aunt's words. How could she want a home? Her home must be with her mother, and she hardly supposed that Miss Lorraine would be willing to receive them both for an indefinite period.

But the future was to take a form of which she had never dreamed.

As soon as the guests were gone, Mrs. Stanton dismissed Nelly to bed, then calling Aldyth to her, she said, with rather a nervous smile—

"Let us have a talk, Aldyth. Now the wedding is over, we can think of our own affairs."

"Willingly," said Aldyth, stirring up the fire and preparing for a cosy time. "Have you thought where you would like to live, mamma?"

"Well, hardly," said Mrs. Stanton, fingering nervously the gold bracelet which adorned her arm. "To tell the truth, some one has thought of that for me. You will be surprised when you hear what I have to tell you."

"You are not thinking of going to Melbourne again?" asked Aldyth, the thought suggesting itself that her mother might wish to return to the place where so many years of her life had been passed, and where was her late husband's grave.

"Oh no," said Mrs. Stanton, quickly; "what could make you say that? I suppose it is my fate to live at Woodham, for the fact is, Aldyth, I am going to marry Mr. Greenwood."

"Mamma!"

"Yes, it is true. Of course you are surprised. I felt certain you would be. But I believe I am acting for the best."

Aldyth was more than surprised, she was astounded. She could hardly believe her ears. And yet perhaps she should not have been so much surprised. Mr. Greenwood had been a frequent visitor at Wyndham; they had seen much of him at Brighton; she had often thought with pity of his dreary life in that large empty house. She had heard people say that he would do well to marry again. No, it was not altogether surprising; still, the possibility of her mother's contracting a third marriage had never crossed her mind.

"Have you nothing to say to me, Aldyth?"

"I hardly know what to say, mamma, I am so surprised."

"It is surely not an unheard-of thing," said Mrs. Stanton, in an aggrieved tone. "You might be glad. Mr. Greenwood is so kind, so generous. He is most anxious to receive us all into his home. He is very fond of you. He said especially that he hoped you would live there."

"He is very kind; but I could not do that," said Aldyth, quickly.

The banker was her dear old friend, yet she felt a singular dislike to the idea suggested.

"Why not?" asked her mother, with a frown. "You do not think what you are refusing—such a comfortable home, and he would be ready to indulge you in every way."

"I know he is very kind," said Aldyth; "but, mamma, when you cease to want me, I would rather go back to auntie. There is a home for me with her."

Mrs. Stanton was silent, pondering this proposition. On the whole, it commended itself to her.

"Well, it will be a good home for Nelly," she said, presently. "Mr. Greenwood will give her every advantage. She will be able to paint to her heart's content."

Yes, it might prove a happy thing for Nelly. Aldyth could see that; she could see all the attractions that this new scheme of the future must have for her mother. Perhaps she ought to be glad, but she could not be glad yet; she was half-stunned, and there was a dull pain at her heart.

"Are you vexed about it, Aldyth?"

"No, mamma, not vexed, I think; but I can't get over my surprise all at once."

"You will hardly get over it, I fear, before the prospect is realized," said her mother, with rather a forced laugh; "it would be foolish in our case to make much to do about it. We are to be married in London, in three weeks' time, and shall spend the winter in the south of France. Mr. Greenwood thinks that after my illness, I should not risk the cold of Woodham. I told Gladys of our plans, but I thought you had better not know till her wedding was over."

Mrs. Stanton spoke rapidly, being anxious to get through with all it was necessary to say.

Aldyth heard her with increased astonishment and some bitterness of feeling. Whilst she had been burdened with anxiety for the future, this plan had been her mother's cherished secret. It was a plan in which she had no part. Her mother's marriage, it seemed to her, must exclude her, to a great extent, from her mother's life. She was no longer to be her mother's guardian, she would hardly be needed by her mother now. She felt that she was thrust on one side.

"Will you not kiss me and wish me happiness?" asked Mrs. Stanton, when the silence between them was growing painful.

"Certainly, mamma; I wish you happiness now and always," said Aldyth, kissing her gravely.

Then she went away, and Mrs. Stanton breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that she had got through the disagreeable task of telling Aldyth.

Aldyth profited by her aunt's advice, and tried to make the best of this most unexpected turn of affairs. She hid the pain she felt, being aware that most persons would have judged that she had no cause for pain.

Even Mrs. Bland and Kitty, who could enter into her feelings as no other friends could, were inclined to think the event a fortunate one for Aldyth. As wife of the wealthy banker, her mother would have a position entirely to her mind. Such a home as Aldyth's limited means could provide would never have pleased her. But they breathed no hint of this to Aldyth. They knew too well how her heart clung to her mother with a love which still, in spite of every shock it had met, strove to excuse and, if possible, veil her cold selfishness and sad lack of principle.

Nelly received the news cheerfully. She liked Mr. Greenwood, and could look forward to the new home life. She was charmed to find that her future stepfather shared her enthusiasm for art, and delighted beyond measure when he promised that she should study at South Kensington. It was arranged that she should at once be enrolled as a student in the Art School, and should reside with friends in London till Mr. and Mrs. Greenwood returned from their sojourn abroad. And Miss Lorraine, with no slight satisfaction, looked forward to Aldyth's again making her home with her at Myrtle Cottage.

The New Year was not many days old when Aldyth returned to Woodham. She had seen her mother married at a West-end church, in all the glory of her silver-grey robe, surrounded by a little knot of well-wishing friends. She had bidden her a hurried farewell ere she drove away with her husband to Charing Cross, and then Aldyth and her sister had returned to the home of the friends with whom Nelly was to spend the next few months. Aldyth had yielded to their persuasions, warmly seconded by Nelly, to spend Christmas with them, and the season had not passed unhappily.

Now she came back to take up once more the old dropped threads of her former life at Woodham.

It so happened that Aldyth had been unable to inform her aunt by what train she would travel down, and there was no one at the station to meet her. It was a clear, cold afternoon, and leaving her luggage to be sent on, she walked the short distance to the Cottage. She met no friend on the way. The Blands' windows were deserted, but Miss Tabitha Rudkin, from her post of observation on the other side of the road, saw her pass, and connected her arrival with that of another visitor who had unexpectedly appeared at Miss Lorraine's on the previous day. But Miss Rudkin could not believe in the fortuitous nature of the visit. She was not so easily hoodwinked, she said. Of course it was a planned thing.

Arrived at her aunt's gate, Aldyth paused for a moment to gaze at the wide-stretching prospect she loved. The view was unusually clear. She could see the long arms of a distant windmill rising black against the sky, and the spire of Wickham Church standing forth from a background of pearly grey. Old thoughts, old memories swept back upon her with the sight, and their influence was saddening.

"'Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; it is her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy,'"

she murmured to herself as she entered the garden; but though she knew this source of joy her own, she was hardly able to rejoice at that moment.

The little maid who opened the door gave a start of surprise at seeing her. Not having been long in Miss Lorraine's service, she hardly knew Aldyth, and was dismayed at her early appearance.

"Miss Lorraine never thought you would be here till the evening," she said; "she will not be back herself till six."

And Aldyth remembered that it was the afternoon on which her aunt held her "mothers' meeting."

To arrive before one is expected is seldom a cheering experience. Although there was no house in which she should feel more at home, a sensation of dreariness and loneliness oppressed Aldyth as she went up stairs to her old room. The little maid followed her, uneasy and apologetic.

"Mistress told me to light the fire," she said; "but I didn't think there was any hurry."

"It does not matter," Aldyth said.

But the maid at once set about the neglected duty, with the result that the room was soon full of smoke.

Aldyth's depression increased. The room had not the old familiar aspect. She missed her books and pictures, which had been removed to Wyndham whilst she dwelt there, and were now lying in a large chest waiting to be unpacked. She was free to devote herself once more to the studies which she loved, but there was little joy in the thought. Hers was a nature which finds its highest freedom in the bonds of duty.

It grieved her that the ties that for a brief period had bound her so closely to her mother and sisters were snapped. The rapid changes of the last two years had left her restless and unsettled. There seemed no purpose in her life now. She hardly knew how she should settle again in her aunt's home.

But it would never do to begin thus. She fought with her despondency; she took herself to task. In a world where so many needed love and sympathy, was there not work for every one? Would not new duties come to her? God had a purpose in her life, a place for her to fill.

"I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our incompleteness, Round our restlessness His rest."

Aldyth smiled, too, as the words came to mind. She shook off her discontent with the dust of travel, and having freshened her appearance, quitted the smoky room and ran down stairs.

There a surprise awaited her. The servant, bewildered by her sudden appearance, had not thought to mention the fact that Miss Lorraine had a guest. As Aldyth entered the drawing room, a gentleman rose quickly from a chair by the fire. Did her eyes deceive her, or was it indeed John Glynne?

"You are come!" he said, by no means surprised to see her. "Miss Lorraine assured me you would not arrive before six o'clock. I was coming to the station to meet you; I am sorry to have missed that pleasure."

And Aldyth had her welcome at last; but it took her some minutes to recover from her astonishment.

"You are the last person I expected to see," she said; "I thought you were a long way off."

"Ah, you did not know I had returned. I resigned my post and came home on account of my mother's illness."

"Then you were with her," Aldyth said, in tones soft with sympathy.

"Yes, I was with her. It is a great comfort to me to remember those last days."

And he told her about them, talking as he could not have talked to Miss Lorraine; indeed, to no other being could he so have opened his heart. Aldyth said little in response, but her sympathy made itself felt without words, and the few she uttered were dear to him.

"Your sister is well, I hope?" she said, after a pause.

"Quite well," he answered; "she is going to be married."

"That will be your loss," said Aldyth.

"It will; but she will be happy."

"Are you going abroad again?"

"No, I have found work in London."

Aldyth made no remark on this. She was silent, thinking of the evening when they had parted at the field gate, and of all that had happened since.

"Aunt has told you all the news, I suppose," she said at last. "You know what has happened to me—that my mother has gone from me—that our home is broken up?"

"I know," he said, looking earnestly at her; "you feel these changes very much?"

"I feel—some things," Aldyth replied, a strange tremor in her voice. "I don't mind losing Wyndham, but I do feel losing my mother. It is hard to think that she no longer wants me—that no one wants me now."

The words had scarcely passed her lips ere she would have recalled them. They sounded so weak, so selfish.

John Glynne did not deem them so. They seemed to make that possible which was his heart's most cherished desire. He rose; he moved to the window and stood there in silence a few moments. Then he came back and stood before Aldyth. She looked up and met his glance, which held hers spellbound.

"Aldyth, I want you," he said.

And she gave herself to him without a fear.

THE END.

RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BUNGAY.