CHAPTER VII.

A MISCHIEF-MAKER.

ALDYTH was feeling more out of temper than perhaps she had ever felt before. It was Thursday evening, and Miss Lorraine had gone to the lecture, leaving her alone. She had yielded to her uncle's wish from a sense of duty; but it was impossible to feel resigned to the deprivation his absurd crotchet was causing her. The absurdity, the unreasonableness of it struck Aldyth more and more as she sat dismally picturing Kitty and Hilda and her other friends enjoying the lecture from which she was shut out. She could settle to no occupation. It was impossible to feel her former interest in the course of reading prescribed by the lecturer. Needlework was still more distasteful. She began a letter to her sister Gladys, the beautiful daughter of whom her mother wrote with pride that she was creating quite a sensation in Melbourne society; but Aldyth dropped her pen in the middle of a sentence, and, springing up, began to poke the fire with far more vigour than its condition demanded. It was of no use trying to think of anything except the lecture from which she was so provokingly excluded. Would Mr. Glynne observe her absence? she wondered, with a little sigh.

"Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice."

What brought the words to her mind at that moment? Truly she had little of the spirit of self-sacrifice. Perhaps it was well that her will for once should be thwarted, that she might learn to sacrifice her own wishes without murmuring. John Glynne had been wise when he reminded her that Duty would not always wear a smile upon her face. He was one to obey Duty under any circumstances without a murmur. He was a strong man. She knew instinctively that he had already sacrificed his own inclinations many times for the sake of his mother. Would he, with his rare abilities, have taken such a post as that he held in the Woodham Grammar School, had he not been anxious by means of his salary to increase the comfort of his mother's life?

Aldyth felt ashamed of herself as she thought of one so much nobler. She turned to the piano, and began to practise diligently a difficult passage in a sonata, but her thoughts were at the lecture the while. The clock struck nine. Aunt Lucy should return soon, but she was one of those persons on whose punctual return to their homes it is never possible to depend. She would be sure to have much to say to everybody when the lecture was over, and various things might happen to detain her.

The neat little housemaid—Miss Lorraine was famous training young housemaids, whom, when their education was completed, she passed on to her friends—came to lay the supper, full of wonder why Miss Aldyth had remained at home instead of going out with her aunt, as she usually did on Thursday evenings. Just then the door-bell rang. Sarah hastened to open the door, and returning, ushered into the room Mr. Glynne.

Aldyth was so taken by surprise that she coloured deeply as she advanced to welcome the visitor. He was last person she expected to see at that hour. He too seemed surprised to find her there alone, having evidently passed the evening in solitude.

"Good evening, Miss Aldyth," he said, regarding her with grave, searching eyes. "Have I arrived before Miss Lorraine? I thought I should overtake her. She had left the hall when I came away."

"Perhaps she went into Mrs. Bland's," said Aldyth. "It is never certain that aunt will come straight home. But she will be in directly, no doubt, if you wish to see her."

"Oh, I was only going to ask her kindly to give you this," he replied, producing from his coat-pocket a small, rather ancient-looking book; "you said you would like to see it."

It was a copy of the first edition of the Lyrical Ballads, of which he had become possessed. Aldyth was very pleased to see it, but she felt rather shame-faced as she turned over the leaves.

"You were not at the lecture to-night," he said, a minute later. "There is nothing amiss, I trust?"

"I am quite well, if that is what you mean," she replied, with nervous quickness. "I am very sorry, Mr. Glynne; it is a great disappointment to me; I shall not be able to attend any more of the lectures."

"Indeed!" he said, surprised in look and tone.

"Yes," said Aldyth, colouring deeply. "It is not my fault. I cannot help myself in the matter. It is uncle—he thinks it is not good for girls to study poetry. He thinks we should devote ourselves entirely to cooking and housekeeping."

"What a barbarian!" he exclaimed, so seriously that Aldyth burst into a laugh, and all her discontent seemed to melt away.

"Excuse me," he added, the next moment. "I ought not to speak so of your uncle. But are you obliged to renounce the study of poetry because he thinks in that way?"

"Yes," said Aldyth, firmly; "at least, I feel that I must give up the lectures. It will seem strange to you, but there are reasons why I am peculiarly bound to defer to Uncle Stephen's wishes."

"Is it so? Well, I am very sorry," he said, with sincere regret in his tones. "Your papers were so good. Miss Hilda Bland took charge of the one I returned this evening. It is marked 'Excellent,' like the others."

Aldyth's face glowed with pleasure.

"And now, I suppose, I must expect no more papers from you?" he added, in a tone of vexation.

Aldyth hesitated, as she thought of Hilda's suggestion. It would have been so easy to arrange still to write the papers. But after a moment she answered "Yes."

He observed her closely for a few moments, then he said—

"Well, I shall know that you still take an interest in the lectures, and I shall hope to see you sometimes and talk things over. But I wish very much that your uncle were—different."

There was something so droll in the way he uttered the last word that Aldyth laughed. She was feeling very happy just then, despite her uncle's prohibition. Ere her laugh was over, Miss Lorraine came in, and was surprised, and perhaps not altogether pleased, to find the lecturer entertaining her niece. It was not that her liking for John Glynne had diminished, but she had an uneasy consciousness that her uncle would strongly object to Mr. Glynne's being there on such friendly terms. Yet Miss Lorraine's hospitable feelings made it impossible for her to refrain from asking the young man to remain and take supper with them. The invitation was given so cordially that John Glynne accepted it without hesitation, and Aldyth enjoyed a talk with him, which, she told herself afterwards, was as good as hearing the lecture.

How Clara Dawtrey knew that John Glynne supped with the Lorraines that night it would be difficult to say. But by some species of espionage she discovered the fact, and reported it to her Aunt Tabitha. Clara's powers of observation were on the alert where John Glynne was concerned. She had set her heart on fascinating him, and pursued her end with an unmaidenly freedom of action which excited disgust rather than admiration in the mind of that gentleman.

But vanity rendered Clara obtuse in judging the effect of her attractions. Mr. Glynne's grave politeness did not check her hopes; his quiet, reserved manner did not restrain her from asking questions, or making flattering personal remarks, which he found particularly disagreeable. Clara had not a doubt that Mr. Glynne would find her society as attractive, if not more so, as that of Aldyth Lorraine and the Blands, if only she had more opportunities of impressing him with her wit and gaiety and the charms in which she so confidently believed. She certainly lost no chance of bringing these to bear on him.

She always contrived to secure a seat close to the platform and to speak to him after each lecture, compelling him sometimes, when there were students waiting to consult him, to break away from her trivialities with scant courtesy. She managed to meet him almost every day as he passed to and fro between his lodgings and the Grammar School; she questioned his landlady concerning his habits; she frequented every place where there was the least chance of seeing him. In short, she pursued him to such an extent that John Glynne became as anxious to avoid her as she was to meet him.

It was a sore vexation to poor Clara Dawtrey to see how quickly John Glynne formed a friendship with Aldyth Lorraine and the Blands, whilst towards her his manner continued only distantly polite. Her dislike for these girls became more bitter. She had a malicious desire to annoy or injure them in revenge for the indifference with which they regarded her and the way in which, as it seemed to her, they monopolized John Glynne.

One afternoon, Clara Dawtrey was at Cartmell's, the stationer's, one of the most important shops in the High Street, and a grand centre for gossip. There was a circulating library in connection with it. Clara had just obtained a fresh novel, and was leaning on the counter in easy conversation with Mr. Cartmell, when she saw John Glynne go past on his bicycle. It was the Wednesday half-holiday, and he was off for a run in the country. She saw him too late for any chance of a greeting, and she was vexed with herself for lingering to talk with Mr. Cartmell, and thus missing John Glynne, whom she must have met had she quitted the shop a few minutes earlier.

She hurried out in time to see him go rapidly down the hill, almost as far as the old church, and then turn to the right. He was going down "the Hundreds," as the flat, uninteresting district lying to the east of Woodham was termed, through which ran a good, level road. Well, he could not be going far in that direction, and the November afternoon was short. She might yet manage to meet him, and give him an opportunity of admiring her appearance in the smart little crimson hat she had lately received from London.

Clara's father was a solicitor, a man of somewhat ill-repute in his profession, but well-to-do, and Clara, his favourite daughter, and the only one who remained unmarried, had a liberal allowance for her personal expenses. Yet, large as it was, her dressmaker's and milliner's bills often outran it. Clara's mother had died when she was a child, a fact Aldyth always remembered when others were disposed to judge Clara harshly. Her father had not married again, and the girl had grown up with little control save that of sisters as flighty and heedless as herself. If she considered herself to have any duties, they were such as made but the slightest demand upon her time, and she seemed to have no idea of any higher aim in life than that of her own gratification. Aldyth was perhaps right when, in her gentle charity, she spoke of Clara as one to be pitied rather than blamed.

It was a mild November afternoon. Clara sauntered slowly down the hill, and, turning to the left, came on to the bank of the river. It was a tidal river, and when, as now, it was high water, the red roofs of the houses and the barges on the river with their large ochre-coloured sails gave to the little town somewhat of the appearance of a Dutch village. The sky was grey but clear, and the subtle; melancholy charm of autumn pervaded the scene; but Clara was not conscious of its beauty as was Aldyth, who had just come out of one the cottages on the shore, and stood gazing up the river. So true is it that the eye perceives beauty only as the mind inspires its vision. Clara lacked the imagination that can behold—

"A light that never was on sea or land."

[Illustration]

Aldyth heard a step on the shingle, but not till she turned rather suddenly, remembering that she had several cottages to visit that afternoon, did she see Clara. The girls came face to face within a few feet of each other. Aldyth moved by with a bow and the words:

"A lovely afternoon, is it not?"

"Very," responded Clara, coolly.

She was annoyed that Aldyth passed without saying more.

"She need not avoid me as if I had the plague," she said to herself.

She looked after Aldyth with a dislike that was born of envy. Aldyth in her simple serge suit and little felt hat looked such a lady that for a moment Clara hated her new adornments, and felt that they were gaudy and vulgar.

She wandered rather drearily by the river. In summer, when boating was general, its banks presented a lively scene; but now there were few boats out, the sunlight had faded, and a grey mist was beginning to gather over the distant marshes. Clara hardly knew how to fill up the time till she might expect John Glynne to be on his way home. She went back into the High Street and made a large purchase of sweetmeats at the chief confectioner's. Then a thought struck her. A road branched off from the Hundreds into the Longbridge Road. Mr. Glynne would very likely return to his lodgings by that. How annoying if she missed him after all! There was nothing for it but to walk as far as the junction of the two roads, and she started at once, much fearing she might be too late.

She walked briskly, but ere she had reached the turning into the Longbridge Road, she saw the individual she was anxious to meet. Could anything be more provoking? He was not one. He had alighted from his bicycle and was walking by the side of a lady. Could it be—yes—actually it was—Aldyth Lorraine!

There she was walking by Mr. Glynne's side on the quiet country road, and he was talking so earnestly to her that, despite the crimson hat, Clara had almost passed ere he saw her, and then he clutched mechanically at his cap, without seeming to have any clear notion to whom he was bowing.

Aldyth had seen her. Clara felt sure that she coloured as she met her glance, and no wonder.

Clara was scandalized. That Aldyth should be walking with Mr. Glynne in that lonely part of the road was shocking to her, though assuredly had Mr. Glynne overtaken her when she was there alone, she would not have hesitated to walk back to Woodham with him.

Aldyth Lorraine, who was so good and proper! Who would believe it? Of course it was a planned thing. Aldyth had seen him go down the Hundreds, she had waited about and come down that road for the chance of seeing him. Or else they had arranged to meet. Perhaps there was some secret understanding between them. It became increasingly clear to Clara that such must be the case, as, full of jealous rage and mortification, she walked on, it being impossible to turn back and show that she had been pursuing that road without a purpose.

After a few minutes, Clara ventured to look round. The straight, level road was visible for some distance. The two she wished to watch had almost reached the cottages. Ah, yes, they would part now. He was remounting his bicycle; he was off, and Aldyth was left walking alone.

There was a gleam of malicious satisfaction in Clara's eyes as she hastened back to Woodham by the Longbridge Road. It brought her out at the head of the High Street within a stone's throw of the dwelling of her amiable relative, Miss Tabitha Rudkin. Clara remembered that she had not visited her aunt for many days. She would call on her now; she had something to tell the old lady that would be sure to interest her.

Miss Rudkin's reception of her grand-niece was never gracious. Her greeting was generally a string of reproaches for past neglect.

"You don't mean to say it is you, Clara?" she exclaimed, with affected surprise. "I began to think I should never see you again. It would be a poor thing for me if I depended on you to comfort and cheer me. I am sure it is a month since you were here."

"Well, I'm here now, any way," said Clara, in a matter-of-fact tone, debating with herself how quickly she could impart her intelligence and make her escape. "How is your cough, aunt?"

"Much you care about my cough!" retorted her aunt. "What's that thing you have on your head? Another new hat! Dear! Dear! Your father need be rich to support your extravagance."

After a little of this delightful intercourse, Clara came to her point by saying, "By the by, aunt, have you seen your friend Stephen lately?"

"Of whom do you speak in that disrespectful way?" demanded Miss Rudkin.

"Oh, you know," returned Clara, coolly, "Mr. Stephen Lorraine."

"I cannot see that it concerns you whether or not I have seen Mr. Lorraine."

"No?" said Clara, indifferently. "Well, perhaps not. I only wanted to know whether he had told you of Aldyth's engagement."

"Aldyth's engagement! Aldyth Lorraine engaged! Who says so?" asked the old woman eagerly.

"I say so," boldly replied Clara; "I met her just now with Mr. Glynne down in the Hundreds, and if they are not engaged, I do not know what to think. You ask old Stephen, when next you see him, if Aldyth is not engaged to Mr. Glynne."

"I shall ask him no such question. Mr. Glynne, indeed! She is to marry Guy."

"So you've said before; but I do not believe it," returned Clara. "Of course I only know what I saw this afternoon, but that is enough for me."

She laughed gleefully as she spoke. She believed that she was getting Aldyth into a scrape, and the thought revived her spirits. She bade her aunt good-bye, and left her to ponder the matter. She had not a doubt that what she had said about Aldyth would be repeated to Aldyth's grand-uncle.

An hour later, Aldyth, as she sat drinking tea with her aunt, said quietly: "I went down the Hundreds this afternoon to see old Adam Drake. You know he likes me to call once a month for his club money. As I was coming back, Mr. Glynne overtook me on his bicycle. He got off and walked a little way with me. He has had bad news from home. His sister is ill, and they are afraid it is scarlet fever."

"Scarlet fever!" exclaimed Miss Lorraine, in dismay. "What a trouble that will be for poor Mrs. Glynne!"

"Yes; he seems very troubled on her account," said Aldyth; "and he is afraid it may prevent his going home for Christmas."

"I should not wonder," said Miss Lorraine. "He must run no risk of infection. And if he is wise, he will keep the matter to himself. The very mention of scarlet fever by a school master is enough to raise a panic amongst the parents."

"I said something of the kind to him," replied Aldyth with a smile, "and he promised to be prudent. As he was telling me about it, we met Clara Dawtrey, and she stared at me in such an insolent manner, that I felt quite uncomfortable."

"Oh, my dear, you don't mean to say that Clara Dawtrey saw you with Mr. Glynne!" exclaimed Miss Lorraine, in distressed tones. "Then your uncle will hear of it."

"What if he does?" asked Aldyth, drawing herself up, whilst her eyes suddenly flashed with pride. "Do you think I mind that uncle or any one should know that I have been walking with Mr. Glynne?"