CHAPTER XVIII.
I VISIT THE OLD HOUSE AT WEYLEA,
BUT MISS THE WONTED WELCOME.
IS there a sadder sight in this world of mingling light and shadow than to see a young life, full of splendid promise, cut off in its unfolding by the stroke of death?
What a fruitless end it seems to make to the toils and triumphs of that brief life, to all the hopes that shone about it.
I felt this keenly in the first dark hours of my bereavement, as I dwelt on the memories of my brother's life, the rare abilities he had early displayed, my father's pride and pleasure in his clever son, the hopes that had been built upon his future, a future he was never to know. My heart was wrung with pain to think that the hope and love and pride were thus frustrated.
I know not what I should have done in those dark, sad days but for Grace's supporting presence. She helped me more by her loving sympathy, so unobtrusive, yet so true, than by the few consolations she whispered. I could not yet rejoice in my brother's great, eternal gain. The selfish element in my love asserted itself powerfully. My heart cried out for my brother. I could not bear to think that he had vanished from me utterly, that I must travel the rest of my life's journey without him, never more hearing the sound of the voice I loved, or clasping the hand which had been ever ready to help me since the days when my first tottering steps were made with its aid. And all this Grace understood perfectly.
We quitted Grindelwald, Grace, Ralph, and I, as soon as we had seen the mortal remains of my brother laid in the little churchyard. A fair, peaceful "God's Acre" it is, lying above the village in the midst of the green valley, and close beneath some the grandest of mountains.
I have visited it more than once since that time of sorrow, but, thank God, I have never really associated the thought of Edmund with that grave at Grindelwald. He was so bright and glad of spirit, such fulness of life and hope was his, that I could not connect him with the gloom of the grave. Even in my bitterest grief, I felt that death was for Edmund a new birth into a higher life, and that the form we laid in the earth was but the mere shell or husk which had enshrined the spirit I loved. There came a time, though not till after years had passed, when I could rejoice to believe that my brother was living a life rich in strength, in intelligence, in unutterable joy, a life infinitely grander, yet not so far removed from my own, since to each Christ was near.
But for a while, no light penetrated my gloom. A season of dark depression fell on me, in part the effect of physical causes, but wholly miserable and benumbing. For a few days, I was really ill at Interlaken, and I hoped that death would take me too, but Grace's skilful nursing soon brought me back to a measure of health, though I continued weak and nervous. How good and kind Grace and Ralph were to me in those days! He was especially thoughtful for my comfort, guiding and counselling me with a sort of tender authoritativeness, which I was too weak and stupid to resist, though it hurt me. The fancy crossed my mind that already he regarded me as belonging to him, and was only waiting till my bereavement was less recent to assert his claim.
It was Ralph who proposed that I should go to the South of France with Mrs. Dugdale, who suffered from asthma, and had been ordered to winter abroad. The idea was rather agreeable to me, and I consented willingly when I saw that by so doing I should liberate Grace, who would otherwise have felt obliged to accompany her mother, though she longed to return to Beechwood, where she felt that her presence was necessary to the right working during the winter of the various clubs, mothers' meetings, and other organisations that she had started in the village.
Grace thanked me for taking her place as gratefully as if the arrangement involved a sacrifice on my part. But in truth it was with somewhat of relief that I bade good-bye to her and Ralph in Paris, and started with Mrs. Dugdale on our journey south. The quiet time, the pause for reflection ere taking up again the active duties of life, seemed just what I needed.
Mrs. Dugdale was very kind to me, and the peaceful days we spent together beside the blue waters of the Mediterranean were soothing to my weary, sorrowing heart. It was from their mother that Grace and Ralph had inherited their temperamental cheerfulness. She appeared almost invariably bright and hopeful of spirit. She was a good talker, and I loved to listen to her reminiscences of bygone days, and the people she had known. Nor less did I love to hear her talk about her children, and tell stories of their early days.
Cheerful as she was, I knew that it was a trial to her to remain away so long from her home and her dear ones. She counted me as another daughter, she used to say, and if she had not had me with her, she could not have borne her exile.
Mrs. Dugdale had letters from home almost every day, and she imparted to me the news they brought. I used to listen rather eagerly as I grew stronger, and time softened the first poignancy of my grief, for by degrees old interests awakened, old cravings renewed themselves in my heart. But there was never any reference to persons whom I knew and cared about, and as Mrs. Lyell did not write to me for several weeks, I knew nothing of what affected her.
At last, one day in February, Mrs. Dugdale received a letter that pleased her very much. She clapped her hands with as real delight as if she had been a school-girl going home for the holidays as she said, "Joy! Joy! Dorothy. They all agree that I may go home. The worst part of the winter, the fogs and damps which are so bad for me, are past, and even the doctor thinks that I may venture with impunity. Now how soon can we start for home?"
I hastened to consult a book of timetables.
"Of course you will come with me to Beechwood?" Mrs. Dugdale added.
She said it with a quiet air of decision, as if no other arrangement were possible. My heart leapt within me at the thought, but I hesitated—I had meant to go to Mabel as soon as I arrived in England. Edmund's words had not been lost upon me. I would try to love Mabel freely and fully, without exacting and weighing the love she gave me in return. I felt that his memory must be a fresh bond to bind me to my sister. And I would no longer refuse to stay at The Towers. I would try to forgive Howard Steinthorpe, as Edmund had urged me.
"I should not have felt so bitterly towards him," my brother had said but a day or two before he had passed away. "If he wronged us, he injured himself more than he injured us. I used to think it well-nigh impossible, Dottie, to love one's enemy, but now I see that, beneath all that is hateful, there is still the brother, who has a right to our love, and only by loving can we conquer the evil. Love will teach us to judge him rightly, and keep us from being misled by mists of doubt and prejudice."
"Yes," he had added, with a serene, bright look I can never forget, "I thank God I can truly say that with all my heart, I forgive Howard Steinthorpe any wrong he has done me, any hardness and selfishness he has shown in his dealings with me."
Ah! How I treasured the memory of all that Edmund had said in those last precious hours! Every word had its weight with me now; every wish I desired to fulfil.
But there seemed no reason why I should not stay at least for a few days at Beechwood ere I went to Burford. Mrs. Dugdale, indeed, would not hear of my doing otherwise. She declared that Grace and Ralph would be grievously disappointed if she returned without me, so I yielded to her wish. I half-longed and half-dreaded to find myself once more in the neighbourhood of Weylea. Of course, I could not be so near without going to see Mrs. Lyell, and perhaps—my heart beat quickly at the thought—I should see Leonard Glynne. Did I wish to see him? I hardly knew.
February was not over when we arrived at Beechwood. We were in time for those few mild, bright days, giving brief foretaste of spring, which are the special endowment of this month.
Very warm was the welcome I received at Beechwood Hall. Ralph's looks and words betrayed a quiet intensity of delight of which I could not be unconscious. If his mother were not jealous of the attentions he bestowed on me, as though I, and not she, had been the loved invalid, compelled to winter abroad, she might well have been.
And was I not glad to see him? Yes, indeed. It was soothing to me in my sadness, for the sight of him brought my loss freshly to mind, to feel that he cared so much for me. He was dear to me because he had been such a true, warm friend to my brother. If only he were content to be my friend!
No later than the following afternoon, I set out to walk to Weylea. I was anxious to get to Mrs. Lyell's, for I had heard from Grace that she had been ill. An engagement in the village prevented Grace from accompanying me. I did not regret her absence, and I was not sorry that Ralph's duties—he was preparing for the Bar—had taken him to London this day, for still less did I desire his company. I was glad to be alone and free to muse as I would.
It was a pleasant day for such a walk. There was the softness of spring in the fresh, sweet air, and as I passed down the avenue I saw snowdrops lifting their delicate white and green blossoms above the brown moss and dank leaves as they grew in fairy circles about the silvery trunks of the beeches. All leafless were the trees which bordered the road, but the grey-green, lichen-covered trunks had a beauty of their own, and it was beautiful to look up and trace the delicate ramifications of the upper branches against a sky of pale blue. Golden crocuses were blooming on some of the graves in the churchyard. On Arthur West's grave lay a wreath wrought with pale primulas and maidenhair fern.
I was half-glad, half-tremulous as I took my way along the familiar road. When I approached Weylea, I was conscious of a nervousness that made my breath come short and fast, and my heart throb painfully. How unchanged everything was in that quiet country place! It was as if life had stood still here whilst so much had been happening with me.
Surely the goods which the little shops displayed were the very same that met my eye when last I looked in the windows. Familiar was the pattern of the print marked "very cheap," and the striped shirting pronounced "a bargain." There was the stout, red-faced proprietor of the Stag's Head lolling as usual at the door of his tavern. Ah! And there was Stubbs, Mrs. Lyell's decrepit old gardener, coming with feeble steps from the bar entrance, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. To the right, not a hundred yards from the road, stood the house in which Leonard Glynne lodged. But I would not glance in that direction. What was it to me whether he was here or there?
I reached the road in which Mrs. Lyell's house stood. As I approached it, I saw that the villa on the other side of the way looked deserted. The blinds were all lowered, the gate securely fastened. The Carsdales doubtless were from home.
I glanced eagerly at Mrs. Lyell's house as I pushed back the heavy iron gate. The place had a dreary, forsaken look. The trees were bare; there were no flowers to be seen, save a few crocuses and snowdrops in the border beside the door; a green, slimy growth covered the surface of the pond, and the house stood apparently lifeless, the shutters of the sitting-room windows closed, the blinds of the casements above closely drawn. My heart sank low within me as I noted these signs, and asked myself what they could betoken. But I saw one thing that somewhat reassured me as I walked along the path to the door, the mark of a horse's hoofs on the soft gravel.
I rang the bell, half-wondering if there were anyone within to obey the summons. The peal seemed to clang drearily through the empty house, but presently I heard the sound of steps, and the door was opened to me by Sarah. She wore her bonnet and cloak. My appearance seemed to cause her great surprise.
"Why, it's never you, Miss Carmichael!" she exclaimed. "Dear me! We thought you were in foreign parts."
"I came back yesterday," I said, hurriedly. "Do tell me how Mrs. Lyell is. It quite frightens me to find the house shut up thus."
"Oh, you need not be alarmed, miss. My mistress is better, though she has been sadly. She has gone this morning to Hastings with Mrs. Carsdale and her daughter. They persuaded her that the change would do her good, and I trust it will. I am going down by an evening train. I stayed for a few hours to help cook, because there were so many things to put away and arrange. Clara has gone for a holiday."
"Dear me," I said, feeling bewildered; "how strange it is to come here and find Mrs. Lyell gone. I can hardly believe it."
"Yes, miss, it does seem strange; Mrs. Lyell so seldom leaves home. It is hard work to persuade her, but Miss Carsdale succeeded. Such a nice young lady, Miss Carsdale is. You did not know her, I think, miss. So kind she has been to my mistress, coming in almost every day to see her; and really, I believe that she would do anything for Mrs. Lyell."
"How long will Mrs. Lyell be at Hastings?" I inquired, rather breathlessly.
"Oh, a month, I believe, miss. Mr. Glynne is going down on Saturday. But pray come in, miss; you look so tired."
In truth, I felt quite faint. The pleasurable excitement with which I had hastened to Weylea had received an unexpected and painful check.
"I am sorry I can't ask you into the parlours, Miss Carmichael," said Sarah, as I stepped into the hall, "but we have done up the windows with brown paper, and locked the doors. If you would not mind coming into our room."
It was all the same to me where I went, so I followed Sarah to the little sitting-room which adjoined the kitchen.
"Cook will be happy to make you a cup of tea, miss, if you would like it," said Sarah in her smooth tones.
But I declined the tea; I had no wish to make my visit any longer than it need be.
"Are you staying in London, miss, if I may make so held as to ask?" Sarah inquired.
"No, I am staying for a few days at Beechwood," I replied.
"Oh, indeed, miss; at Mr. Dugdale's, I suppose? I remember that you went there the summer you were here. Ah, and I remember that Mr. Dugdale came here once or twice. Such a nice-spoken gentleman I thought him, and my mistress liked him very much."
Why should I colour when Sarah said this in her quiet, insinuating manner? There was no reason for it, but colour I did, and I saw that Sarah marked my change of hue. I grew uneasy as I felt her narrow, cunning eyes studying me.
"Ah, a great deal has happened since that summer, miss," she went on. "You've known sad trouble since then, and your looks show it. To think that your poor brother should be taken so quickly! And so bright and merry as he seemed, though there was always a consumptive look, to my eyes. You must take care of yourself, now, miss; you look far from strong."
To have Sarah thus commenting on my trials and my appearance was more than I could bear. I rose hastily, and said that I must be going, as I had a long walk before me.
"Had you not better rest a little longer?" suggested Sarah. "You are not keeping me, you know, miss; there is plenty of time before the train starts. Shall I take any message from you to my mistress? She will be very sorry to have missed you."
"Oh, yes; pray give Mrs. Lyell my best love, and say what a disappointment it was to me not to find her at home. I shall hope to see her when next I come to London, though when that will be I cannot tell. I go to my sister's at Burford early in next week."
"Very well, miss; I will be sure to tell my mistress all that you have said," replied Sarah, demurely. Then she added, looking up in my face with a peculiar smile, "I suppose you have heard of the engagement?"
"No; what—what engagement?" I faltered.
"Miss Carsdale's, miss. She is engaged to be married to Mr. Glynne."
I felt myself turn white as I heard it. I had expected to hear this sooner or later, yet what a painful shock the news gave me. For a few moments I had a stunned, stupefied sensation, then I became aware that Sarah was watching me with a sort of suppressed smile. I divined that she had a malicious satisfaction in detecting my suffering.
That roused me. I pulled myself together, and said with forced gaiety, "Indeed! I am glad to hear it. I hope they will be very happy."
"Mr. Leonard is very pleased, and so is my mistress," said Sarah, with an unpleasant smile. "Well, miss, I suppose we shall hear one of these days that you are thinking of getting married?"
"Oh, I don't know about that," I responded, carelessly, laughing, as I seemed to me, quite merrily and naturally. Then, waiting to hear no more, I bade Sarah good-afternoon, and hastened away from the house.
====================
CHAPTER XIX.
A WOEFUL MISTAKE.
MORE dreary and forsaken than before looked the garden to my eyes as I took my way to the gate. The brightness of the day had passed, the sun had sunk out of sight, a grey mist hid the distances; there was a chill dampness in the air. A wave of bitter feeling passed over me as, pausing at the gate, I looked back at the house.
"It is all over," I said to myself. "I shall spend no more happy hours here."
Then with a shiver I turned away.
I had reached the corner where the narrower road joined the main road, when I saw a number of gentlemen coming up the hill from the station. A train from London had just come in. I glanced at them carelessly, when suddenly my heart gave a wild plunge, and I felt myself trembling from head to foot, for there, on the other side, separated from me only by the breadth of the road, was Leonard Glynne. He was walking rather weariedly, it seemed to me, with his eyes bent on the ground.
For a moment I actually stood still. Some spell seemed to hold me motionless with my eyes fixed on him. Then came a sudden shock of thankfulness that he had not looked up, had not seen me, and, swiftly as my feet could carry me, I hurried in the opposite direction.
I did not pause till I was a long way on the road to Beechwood. Then, as my excitement faded, I found myself tremulous, strengthless, and was fain to stand still, leaning for support against a gate.
As I hurried along, the image of Leonard had accompanied me. Now again his face rose before me, somewhat changed from what I remembered it. Was my fancy deceiving me, or had he indeed looked so grave and sad? Of course it was a delusion, for Sarah had said that he was very pleased at his engagement, and how could he help being joyful if he had won so fair and bright a girl?
Yet it was strange how his countenance had stamped itself on my mind with a sad, downcast look, till I could almost persuade myself that he had looked just so when I saw him across the road.
Well, he was nothing to me now. I felt a sort of fierce disdain of myself for being so agitated at seeing him. He had never really cared for me. The eloquent glances, half-spoken words, tender insinuations, which still dwelt in my memory, had had no such significance as I had imagined. Doubtless they had only expressed the gallantry which young men of fashion like to display in their intercourse with ladies, and I, in my rusticity, had not known how to meet them. I would think of him no more.
So I resolved, but as I continued my walk, I could think of no one else. I was slowly climbing the long hill to Beechwood, when I heard the sound of wheels behind me. The Dugdales' brougham was coming up, and I saw that it held both Ralph and his father. As soon as Ralph caught sight of me, he sprang out and came to my side.
"I am glad we have overtaken you," he said, and he looked very glad. "Have you been far?"
"Only to Weylea and back," I answered.
"Only!" he repeated. "A good six miles. You look tired; had you not better get into the carriage?"
I declined, and he did not urge my doing so. Instead, he bade the coachman drive on without him, and continued to walk by my side.
"You have been to see your friend Mrs. Lyell, I suppose?" he remarked.
"Yes, but my hope was disappointed. I found the place looking quite deserted, Mrs. Lyell being away from home."
"What a pity! Then you have had your long walk for nothing. No wonder you look weary. I wish I had known of your intention; I do not like your taking such long walks alone."
He spoke with the air of one who had a right to watch over my actions. I felt myself flush as he spoke. I suppose he observed my change of countenance, for after a moment he said, very gently, "Forgive me if I seem presumptuous. You do not know that there was an understanding between me and your brother that I would take care of you when he could no longer do so. I do not forget that it depends on you whether I may have the happiness of guarding you as I would."
There was a pause, a stillness, broken at last by the slight crack of the coachman's whip as he flourished it. The horses started forward as they heard the sound, and the brougham passed out of sight beneath the trees. No one was to be seen on the quiet road; we were alone.
In the silence, I seemed to hear the beating of my own heart, as well as my quick, nervous breathing. Ralph's words had carried me back to the sad but hallowed days we had spent in Edmund's sick-room. I remembered what my dear brother had hoped and desired for me and Ralph; how glad he had been in the belief that it was given to me to reward Ralph for his wonderful, self-sacrificing friendship. I recalled the promise I had given to my brother. Vividly came back to me that hour when, as we sat beside his couch, my brother had, in visible act as well as in thought, united me to Ralph, pronouncing us his "two best friends."
Ralph, too, must have been thinking of that hour, for when he spoke it was to say in tones that vibrated with feeling, "Our common love for Edmund would draw us together, Dorothy, it seems to me, if nothing else did. If I had had a brother, I could not have loved him more than I loved your brother. The hopes and fears, the hours of anxiety and sorrow on his account, which we have shared, must surely have wrought for us a deeper mutual comprehension and communion of feeling than exists between most friends."
How true were his words! I did not need to be reminded of the sacred, unutterable memories we had in common. Well did I know that no other friend could be to me what Ralph was. How much I owed to him; how much Edmund had owed to him! Their friendship dated from the beginning of Edmund's college course, and it had ever been marked by signal proofs of Ralph's disinterested affection. Ralph had done all that friend or brother could do to prolong the life of his friend. And to crown all, had he not saved our lives at the risk of his own? All this was in my mind as I said tremulously,—
"Oh, I feel that as much as you do. Can I forget a single hour of those days, or any of your many acts of kindness to me and my brother? If I could forget what I owe you, I should be guilty of ingratitude."
"Pray do not talk of gratitude," said Ralph, hastily, as if the word stung him; "that is not a thing to be named between us. I do not want gratitude, and I cannot be satisfied with mere friendship. My heart craves the greatest gift you can give—yourself. Your brother knew—I could not hide from him my heart—he knew that my happiness was bound up in you. Dorothy, my love is not a thing of yesterday. I believe I have loved you ever since the hour when I found you crying by yourself on your sister's wedding day. Do you remember?"
Did I remember? Ah, with what thrills of pain the past, with its dead joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, renewed itself within me at this question. Surely it was fate that thus confronted me! What could keep me now from fulfilling the promise I had given to my brother? I had thought of that promise before to-day, wondering, with some uneasiness, how far I was bound by it.
"I will try to do as you wish," I had said.
But now the shadowy hope that had haunted me and made it hard to give that promise, had vanished—Leonard Glynne belonged to another. Whatever happened, I must conquer the lingering love that caused the pain with which I had heard of his engagement. Should I not strangle that love with one effort if I gave myself to Ralph Dugdale? It seemed to me that I should, yet I hesitated.
We had come within sight of Beechwood Hall, and were passing up the long line of trees to the house when Ralph spoke. At his words, I stood still involuntarily. The thoughts I have described all passed through my mind in a few seconds. I remember that I had paused at the foot of a grand old tree, one of the oldest in the park, and I stood looking down at the ivy sprays that interlaced themselves about its roots, and the tiny buds of snowdrops that here and there pierced the leafy moss that filled the spaces between. I waited, hesitating, doubting, till Ralph spoke again.
"Have you nothing to say to me, Dorothy?" he asked, anxiously. "Have I startled you, frightened you, by speaking too soon?"
Then I looked up, and as I met his earnest, tender glance, words wholly unpremeditated rushed to my lips.
"Oh, you do not know me," I cried; "I am unworthy of your love. I am full of faults. I should not make you happy."
"If you do not, no one else ever will," he replied, gravely. Then with a smile he added, very tenderly, "Dorothy, my child, do you mean to tell me, who have loved you and watched you so long, that I do not know you? What are your faults to me? They cannot appal me, for I love you the better for them, if that may be."
"Oh, do you really mean what you said just now?" I asked, almost passionately. "Should I indeed make you happy if I gave myself to you?"
"Can you ask it?" he said, his sincere, earnest eyes searching mine. "Have I not told you the very truth of my heart?"
"Then it shall be so," I said, hurriedly. "I want you to be happy. I desire your happiness above everything."
And I put my hand into his.
"My love," Ralph murmured, pressing my hand tenderly between his own; and then raising it to his lips, "you make me happier than words can express."
But the next moment, his eyes sought mine with an anxious questioning look. "You are happy yourself—tell me that?"
"I shall be happy if you are happy," I said, in tones that would falter. "It is what dear Edmund wished that I should make you happy. In your happiness, I shall find my own."
The words satisfied him, for his heart gave them a large and full interpretation.
"Yes," he said, in low tones, that breathed a deep content, "it is all come about just as he wished. I can believe that he rejoices in our joy."
My heart smote me as I heard him say so. Was it, after all, just as Edmund had wished? Would he, seeing past and present with "larger, other eyes than ours," approve of the bond I had sealed? But I strove against the doubt as it rose.
We walked on in silence, Ralph holding my hand in his. He, I believe, was kept silent by the force of deep, overwhelming emotion.
As we came within range of the windows, he dropped my hand, and said, more lightly, as he glanced at me, "There was a deep shadow on your face when we overtook you, my Dorothy. I wanted to ask you what it was that was so troubling you. Shall I ask now?"
A sudden confusion and trembling seized me. I felt myself turn both hot and cold.
"Don't ask, please," I besought him; "it was so foolish I could not tell you."
"Then I will only ask you if the shadow is gone?" he said, with a smile.
"Yes, yes," I said, hurriedly, believing that I spoke the truth; "it is gone, quite gone."
We were at the door. The butler, crossing the hall, had seen our approach, and now threw wide the door, and stood awaiting our entrance, with his usual air of bland solemnity.
Without giving Ralph another word or glance, I went to my room. On the way, I met Mrs. West's maid, and learned that her mistress had gone into the village. I was glad: it would be good, I thought, to be alone for awhile.
Yet when I sat down and tried to reflect upon what I had done, thought was too painful, my loneliness pressed sorely upon me, till in sudden desperation, I rose and began to make my toilette in a more leisurely and careful way than usual, finding it a relief to concentrate my attention on the arrangement of my short, stubborn locks, and in adjusting to the best advantage, amidst the crape folds in the front of my gown, a lovely white camelia Ralph had given me. When I had given the last touches to my attire, I went down to the drawing-room.
There I found Mrs. Dugdale entertaining some cousins who had come from Richmond to see her, and were to stay the night at Beechwood. They were ladies of mature age, clever and cultivated, who had travelled a great deal, and who enjoyed talking of their adventures. I was soon engaged in listening to the younger one, who gave me a thrilling account of some of her mountaineering exploits. I needed to take but the slightest share in the conversation, if such it could be called, and this suited me.
After awhile, Ralph entered the room, and, stationing himself behind my chair, also became a listener to Miss Julia Shuttleworth's brilliant and amusing talk. Thus passed the half-hour before dinner.
Grace did not come in till we had taken our places at the table. She had come from a sick bed, and the sad scene she had quitted seemed to abide with her, making her unusually quiet during the course of that evening. Ralph, too, was quieter than usual, but I knew that his quietness was the outcome of deep satisfaction. What happiness shone in his eyes, gladdened his voice, and gave an indefinable charm to all he said and did!
Surely I should have been glad to see how happy I had made him. But no, his evident joyousness only awakened self-reproach within me. I shrank from the tender glances that sought mine, pretended not to hear the words whose deepest meaning was for my ear alone, and trembled whenever some gentle authoritativeness in Ralph's bearing towards me reminded me of the right I had given him.
But outwardly I was brighter that evening thus I had been for many months. Mrs. Dugdale and I were comparing our experience of Mentone with that of the Miss Shuttleworths, and recalling for their benefit every incident of our sojourn there which was likely to interest them. I think both Grace and Ralph were surprised to hear how I talked and laughed.
We had music. The Miss Shuttleworths were excellent musicians, and one of them played the harp with sweet expressiveness and delicacy of touch. Ah, cheerful as I seemed, when the pathetic, plaintive notes of that instrument vibrated through the room, I could have cried out with anguish. The music gave utterance to my heart's baffled, hopeless yearnings, my young despair of life, with its cruel disappointments and heart-sickening griefs.
It was all I could do to maintain self-control, but biting my lip and forcing back my tears, I bent studiously over some photographs till the music ceased, and no one saw how it had moved me.
"Go, weep for those whose hearts have bled,
What time their eyes were dry.
'Whom sadder can I say?' she said."
Ah, truly, those are not our saddest hours in which our tears flow freely.
The Miss Shuttleworths' presence prevented Ralph from telling his parents of our engagement. I was glad; I hoped that no one would know that night. When her guests retired, Mrs. Dugdale went upstairs with them, and I followed almost immediately, pleading a headache when Ralph attempted to detain me. As I quitted the room, I felt his eyes following me with a wondering, troubled gaze.
A bright fire was burning in my room. As I closed the door, I felt like one who casts off a torturing disguise. I threw myself on the soft rug before the fire, and leaned my head on a low chair which stood by the hearth.
"Oh," I murmured to myself, "what shall I do? How can I go on living? Oh, Edmund, Edmund! If only I could have died when you did!"
And then tears came to my relief, a hot, plenteous rain of tears. How many minutes passed I knew not, but it seemed as if I had lain there a long time, sobbing and weeping, when there came a tap at the door.
I started up in consternation. It was Grace's knock, and Grace's voice now asked for admission.
What should I do? I longed to refuse her entrance, but what excuse had I for so treating such a friend? Thus thinking, I made a futile attempt to wipe away the traces of my tears, and then unlocked the door.
"Dorothy, dear, I am so sorry to hear you have a headache," said Grace coming in. Then she paused in sudden dismay at my appearance. "Why, you have been crying. Is it, then, so very bad? Oh, I wish I had known!"
For answer, I burst into another flood of tears. Grace made me rest in the easy chair; she gave me some drops of sal volatile; she cooled my head with eau de Cologne, but for a while it seemed as if I could never stop crying. Gradually, however, my emotion spent itself, my sobs ceased from very exhaustion, and I lay back in the chair with closed eyes and throbbing brows.
A long silence ensued. At first, I was glad of the stillness, then it grew painful, and I longed for Grace to speak.
I looked up at last. Grace was standing beside me, watching me intently. There was a troubled look on her face.
"You are better?" she said, as she saw my eyes open.
"Yes."
"It was more than the headache made you cry," she said, in the tone of one who states a fact.
"Yes," I said again, feeling compelled to utter the truth, and quailing inwardly as I met her steady, penetrating gaze.
Another pause. It seemed to me that there was something merciless in the searching gaze Grace continued to bend on me, yet even then I knew that it was but such mercilessness as the surgeon shows when he freely probes the wound that he may extract from it all its lingering poison.
"Dorothy," she said, presently, speaking in calm, quiet tones, "Ralph has told me that you are engaged to him. I came to tell you that I was glad, but now—now—I do not know that I am glad."
I was silent. There seemed nothing that I could say.
"I had my doubts before," she went on. "I have known for some time—how could I help knowing?—that Ralph loved you, but I never could think that you responded to his love. Dorothy, I used to think that you cared for someone else?"
"Grace, how can you? I will not have you say such things," I cried, pride and indignation sending the hot blood surging to my brows.
But undaunted, she turned on me the same steady gaze.
"Is it not true?" she asked, quietly.
"You have no right to ask such a question," I replied, hotly. "No, it is not true—at least, no one but your brother has ever sought my love."
"Which is not quite the same thing," she said, gently. Then suddenly, she knelt down beside me, clasping my hands in hers, and looking up at me with earnest, pleading eyes.
"Forgive me, Dorothy, if I seem cruel, if my woods appear unjustifiable," she said. "If I say the thing I should not, believe me, it is for the sake of your happiness and that of my brother, who is dear to me as your brother was to you, that I am thus open."
"Surely, you need not fear for his happiness," I said falteringly. "There can be no doubt that I have made him happy."
"No, no, not unless you are happy yourself," said Grace, with quick decided utterance. "An unhappy woman can never make others happy, least of all can she make him happy whose happiness is bound up in hers. But perhaps I am mistaken. Dorothy, answer me but this one question—can you look forward with joy to your future as Ralph's wife?"
I was silent. It was impossible to frame an evasive reply whilst those truth-speaking, truth-reading eyes were fixed on me.
"Then it is as I feared," she said, presently, and now her tones were tremulous with emotion. "Oh, Dorothy, listen to me. You will make a woeful mistake if you marry Ralph, unless you love him with all your heart, and feel that no other man is anything to you beside him. Esteem, friendship, admiration of his good qualities, is not enough to ensure the happiness of two lives.
"Dorothy, I know; I am not talking like a romantic school-girl. For ten happy weeks I knew the joy of sacred, blessed union with one of the best and noblest of men, and out of my experience I say this to you,—only love can make such union the perfect, holy thing it should be. The bond is too close, it will gall, it will torture, unless it be cemented by love in its highest and purest form.
"Oh, listen to me; it is not too late to repair your mistake. Ralph has told no one but me. It would be kinder to make him suffer now, sharp though his suffering must be, than to cause him life-long suffering."
Her words touched me keenly. I knew that she spoke truth. I almost yielded to her persuasions; I was on the point of confessing to her the secret of my heart, when something rose within me to resist this impulse. Whether it was pride, or obstinacy, or merely a sort of moral inertia which preferred all should be as it was rather than endure any more wearying mental conflicts, I know not, but something prompted me to rise, shake off Grace's clinging clasp, and move to the other side of the room.
"I think it is for Ralph and me to decide what is best for us," I said, coldly and proudly. "If he is satisfied with the prospect before him, I do not see why you should distress yourself, nor do I know what right you have to catechise me and counsel me as you have."
"I have no right," said Grace, humbly and sadly, "yet I could not choose but warn you. Forgive me, dear, if I have spoken amiss, but do think of what I have said, and seek guidance ere you take so momentous a step—guidance from your own true woman's heart, above all, the guidance which God never fails to give those who earnestly seek His direction."
She waited a few moments, but I made no reply. Then she wished me good-night and left me.
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CHAPTER XX.
I BECOME A GUEST AT THE TOWERS.
I WOKE the next morning, after a night of broken, dream-vexed sleep, with a heavy weight of care upon my heart. Grace's words came to me—
"An unhappy woman can never make others happy."
Truly I had no brightness of spirit that could diffuse gladness on others. I shrank from rising and encountering the events of the day. But soon thought became too painfully insistent. To escape it, I rose, and began in haste to dress.
When I was dressed, I knelt for a few moments and murmured a formal prayer, but there was no unburdening of my heart before God. Alas! My sorrows had not taught me to cast myself on the love and sympathy of the only Friend who can perfectly understand our troubles, and sustain us beneath them.
In days gone by, I had uttered vehement, importunate prayers, beseeching the Lord to grant me my heart's desires. I was ready to strike a bargain with Heaven, as it were. If only my brother were restored to health, if only my secretly cherished hope might blossom into the beautiful flower of which I dreamed, I would be so good, I would take up works of charity, I would try to live for others, as Grace West did. But when one hope after another died, when death had torn from me my brother, and everything seemed to be going wrong in my life, I could no longer pray freely. My heart rebelled against the will of God, and questioned the love of God.
Had I been willing to yield my will to God's, I should not have set aside Grace's warning as I did, and chosen to go on in my own way. The inner monitor, which will not be silenced, warned me that she had spoken wisely, and that I was no longer seeking to fulfil my brother's wishes, since I knew that he would have wished me to be guided by Grace's counsel. Deep within me, though unavowed, was a motive for which I might well have blushed. It was a satisfaction to my pride to think that Leonard Glynne would hear of my engagement, and understand that I had never felt for him a stronger feeling than the fleeting fancy he had shown for me.
It was not pleasant to think of meeting Grace in the breakfast-room, but when I went down she greeted me with her usual gentle affectionateness. She had no self-love that could take offence at my resentment of her outspokenness. She looked anxiously at me, that was all.
Not long after breakfast, I was brought by Ralph into his parents' presence to receive their welcome as his betrothed. There was no constraint, no lack of cordiality in the welcome they gave me. They must have been aware how unworthy I was of their noble-hearted, rarely-gifted son, yet that he had chosen me was enough to secure for me their best love and confidence.
"You were like a daughter to me when we were away," said Mrs. Dugdale, in her gentle, kindly manner, "and now you are indeed one of our family."
How ashamed I felt as I listened to their warm, kind words. They were almost more than I could bear. I longed to confess myself the deceiver I was.
Ere the day was over, I wore Ralph's betrothal ring, a circlet of solid gold, studded with pearls. My heart smote me when I looked at it, but I tried to forget Grace's words. I would be true, I vowed to myself; whatever happened I would be true to Ralph, and I would make him happy.
I had arranged to go to Mabel's on the following Tuesday. Mr. and Mrs. Dugdale tried to persuade me to prolong my stay with them, but to this I could not consent, and Ralph, who knew that it had been Edmund's wish that I should go to my sister, did not attempt to delay my going.
We had but a few days together, therefore, ere we parted, but those few days sufficed to show me that it was beyond my power to make Ralph happy. I could deceive others by assumed cheerfulness, but I could not deceive the eyes that watched me with keen-sighted love. And the new relationship into which we had entered seemed to have destroyed the old familiar friendship. I could not treat Ralph now as I had treated my brother's friend, could not talk to him freely, as I had been wont to do. I was shy, self-conscious, uneasy when with him, and he saw the change, and wondered at it.
The shadow that lay on my heart cast its chill on him. I could read in his face the doubts, the questionings, the fears he would not utter. Once he asked me tenderly, anxiously, whether there were any secret trouble I was hiding from him. How I answered the question I know not, but it was in a way that quieted, if it did not satisfy him.
Another day, he surprised me by speaking of our early marriage, and suggesting that we should take a house, which then happened to be vacant at Beechwood—an idea so startling to me that I responded hastily, without pausing to reflect,—
"Oh, please do not speak of that. It cannot be for years, and—and I could not bear to live at Beechwood."
My words amazed him. He looked both pained and bewildered ere he said, "Why, Dorothy, this is news; I thought you liked this neighbourhood. I thought it would please you to be near mother and Grace, and within easy distance of your old friend, Mrs. Lyell."
"Yes, yes," I faltered, colouring deeply, "that would be nice, but I would rather live somewhere else."
"Wherever you please, dearest," he said, the troubled look still on his countenance. "There are plenty of desirable places within easy reach of town. And do not think that I wish to hurry you unduly, or to make any arrangement that you would not like."
I thanked him with a look, the deep gratitude of which must have puzzled him.
It was a relief to me when we parted on the following day. Mabel, who was highly gratified to think that I should make so excellent a match, had invited Ralph Dugdale to come to The Towers for Easter, which fell early that year. I could not truthfully echo his longing for that time to come. Yet my heart reproached me when I saw the sad, harassed look that came to Ralph's face when I bade him a somewhat cold farewell. I had become responsible for this man's happiness, and already I was making him miserable. Yet how earnestly I desired that he should be happy! No other friend was so dear to me; no other life was bound to mine by such strong chords of grateful, undying memories.
Two hours later I was alighting from the train at Burford station. Here there was no sign of change; but how different this arrival was from any I had known before! Mabel had not come to meet me, but the brougham from The Towers was in attendance, and the footman was on the platform looking out for me. In a few minutes, I was driving along the old, well-known road. The low-lying meadows were half under water; the river flowed high beneath the old bridge. I shuddered as I thought of the precious life that had perished there two years ago. Two years! Was it indeed barely two years? It seemed as if ten might have passed, so much experience, such varied suffering had been compressed for me into that brief period.
Presently the ugly landmark of The Towers came in sight. I was glad when we turned from the road to drive up the gravel sweep to the house. I shrank from seeing more of Burford then.
Mabel received me very quietly but affectionately. I think it cost her some effort to subdue as she did every sign of emotion. She looked very pretty and graceful in her handsome crape and cashmere, but I saw a change in her—some lines of care on her brow, some lines of discontent about her mouth, which had become more deeply graved since last I saw her.
It was characteristic of Mabel that she said as little as possible about our recent loss. Yet she doubtless felt Edmund's death more than she would show.
"You are not looking well, Dorothy," she said, as she helped me to remove my wraps. "But it is no wonder; you have had much to bear. It is all very sad. Poor Edmund! I cannot bear to think of his dying so far from home. If I had had the least idea he was so ill, I should have come to him."
I was silent. I could not say that it was her own fault she had not known, since she had refused to believe the truth I sent her. Of course she understood my silence.
"His life should have been saved," she said; "but I suppose it was the effects of that fatal fire that caused his death."
"It hastened it, no doubt," I said; "but the physician who saw him in London has since told Ralph that he had feared the decline would be rapid, and that, in the most favourable circumstances, dear Edmund could hardly have lived through this winter."
"Then I shall never think much of Dr. Fearon's skill," pronounced Mabel, who always liked to find someone to blame for whatever distressed her; "and I think it was very wrong of him to send Edmund to Switzerland."
Mabel had had tea brought to my room for me—such a handsome, luxurious room it was, at once a bedroom and sitting-room—and as we sat by the fire, I told her all I thought she ought to know about Edmund's last days, and gave the tender, brotherly messages with which he had charged me. I gave her, too, some books he had wished her to have, and a precious lock of black hair which I had severed from his dead, cold brow.
Mabel's tears fell fast as she listened to me. The hair should be enshrined in a locket, the best that could be purchased; Howard would see to that, she said. Then, rising, she kissed me and said, tremulously, "Thank you, dear, for telling me this; but we will not talk of it more. It is too sad; if I dwelt on it, I should be unfitted for my duties. I will leave you now. You will remember that we dine at seven."
And when we met at the dinner table, Mabel was calm, graceful, equable as usual. She never willingly spoke of Edmund again. Some embarrassment was visible in Howard Steinthorpe's demeanour as he greeted me; but he treated me with courtesy and kindness.
Before dinner I had found time to pay a visit to the nursery and make acquaintance with my nephew. I had expected to see a fine and bonny boy, but such a lovely child as he was I had not dreamed of seeing. Even at the risk of being charged with an aunt's partiality, I must declare that I have never seen a more beautiful child. Little Percy, with his violet eyes and golden curls, his exquisitely rounded limbs, his delicately fair complexion, had the rare, poetic charm great painters have loved to give to their holy children, their bright-winged cherubs, their pictures of infantile innocence. And his picturesque beauty was heightened by the rich velvets and rare laces in which Mabel attired his baby form, with a magnificent simplicity which was the outcome of her artistic instincts.
But who can describe the attractions of a little child? Every true woman can imagine them without aid, and if a man's imagination cannot help him in this matter, then he is to be pitied.
At the first glance I admired, I was ready to worship, my tiny nephew. But when the sweet eyes brightened with joy and the baby face smiled on me, when, as I bent with outstretched arms and coaxing words, the toys were thrown down, and, without any shy tremors, the little fellow rose and threw himself into my arms, circling my neck with his soft arms, and pressing his rosy lips to mine, then my whole heart went out in love to the child; I was comforted. I was glad as I had not been since my brother left me.
"Say how do you do, aunt," instructed his nurse.
"Ow do, ahne," faltered the baby lips.
"Aunt Dorothy—call me Aunt Dorothy," I said.
The brave little fellow made the attempt, but had to shorten the long word.
"Ahne Dottie," he said.
How touching, yet sweet, it was to hear the pet name, which my brother only had used, come from the baby lips.
"You darling! You darling!" I cried, gathering him again into my arms and kissing him passionately.
What a treasure, what a blessing I had found! I had no longer cause to dread the weeks I should pass at The Towers. It could not be an uncongenial place whilst it was brightened by so sweet a flower.
Mabel was pleased to hear how I admired her little son, and Howard Steinthorpe's face relaxed from its cold passivity as I talked enthusiastically of the child. Percy's father was very proud and fond of him, and showed his fondness in a more demonstrative fashion than Mabel, who had a dread of spoiling the child, whilst he liked nothing better than to indulge Percy's every wish and fancy.
Percy and I became fast friends in the days that followed. How he comforted me words cannot tell. It was sad to move again amidst familiar scenes, when my life was so changed. It was almost more than I could bear to look upon our old house, now occupied by Mr. Steinthorpe's manager; for under the new order of things, the tannery had become a flourishing concern.
Everyone spoke of the wealth Steinthorpe was accumulating by the profits of this business and of his steam mills at New Burford. He would seek parliamentary honours, it was said, whenever there was a desirable vacancy in the county. As I went to and fro at Burford and caught such words as these, or as I talked with Salome, who loved to have me sit in her cottage and talk over bygone days and "poor dear Master Edmund," memory would often stab me.
But when I went back and, as I entered the house, heard Percy's shout of welcome to "Ahne Dottie," as he leaned over the gate at the head of the stairs, when I carried him back in triumph to the nursery and there played with him to his heart's content, I forgot every irritating thought, every sad reflection.
Mabel laughed at me sometimes for spending so much time in the nursery. She used to beg me not to spoil her boy; but she never showed the least jealousy of little Percy's fondness for me. It was not Mabel's way to be jealous. She was sincerely glad that I had taken to him.
Our common love for Percy certainly drew us together. Mabel would talk to me of her plans for his upbringing and education, and even confide to me her fond ambitions for his distant manhood. Sometimes she would let me bring him into the drawing-room, although she was of opinion that a child of his age should be kept in the nursery. Mabel did not lavish caresses on the child as I did; she seldom gave free expression to her love, but there was a proud, yet tender look on her face, giving a new charm to its prettiness, as she gazed on her little son, as I carried him in my arms, or guided his tiny steps amid the bewildering maze of furniture.
And I cannot forget the glow of joy that lit up her face for a moment, when once, as I lifted the wee boy to look at a coloured photograph of his mother, which hung against the wall, he said, unprompted, in his sweet baby tones, "Pretty mamma!"
But, if visitors came in, nurse was at once summoned and Master Percy despatched to the nursery. No persuasions of her lady friends would induce Mabel to let him remain in the room. She would listen with an air of languid indifference to the praises bestowed on his beauty. It was not "good taste," according to Mabel's standard, to betray any parental fondness.
My actions had seldom chanced to cause Mabel satisfaction; but my engagement to Ralph Dugdale gratified her exceedingly. She could not congratulate me enough on my happy prospects. Such a good family the Dugdales were, with plenty of money too, and Ralph was so clever, so attractive, a man sure to make a name for himself. Sore as the subject was, I could hardly help smiling at the naive way in which Mabel all but expressed her astonishment that such good fortune should have fallen to me.
"I do not want him to make a better name than he has," I would say bluntly. "For me the name of Ralph Dugdale already stands for all that is good and noble. What we should most remember is that he was our brother's friend."
I often told myself in those days how good Ralph was and how proud and happy I should be that I had won the love of such a man. But I was not happy. Nor, strive as I would, could I banish utterly the thought of Leonard Glynne.
In spite of the soothing delight little Percy gave me, secret trouble preyed on me. As the spring advanced, I grew more and more restless, irritable and depressed. Sleep left me; my strength rapidly declined. Mabel saw that I was out of sorts, and tried to cheer me by talking of Ralph's approaching visit, for now Easter was close at hand.
"Come, Dorothy," she said to me one mild but rather damp March morning, as I sat shivering over the fire with a throbbing head and generally uncomfortable sensations, which I believed to be the first symptoms of a feverish cold, "you must make haste and change your gown. I have ordered the carriage to come round immediately after luncheon to take us to Dunsted to call on Mrs. Gower."
"Who is Mrs. Gower?" I asked, wondering when I had heard the name before, with which I seemed to have a confused, half-painful remembrance, that refused to define itself.
"She is the wife of the new vicar of Dunsted, and a very charming woman. They have not been at the vicarage much more than a year, and it is their first home, so you see they are quite an interesting young couple. I met her at the Carringtons' a few weeks ago and promised to call soon, because she was expecting a visit from a young lady to whom her brother has lately become engaged."
"Oh, Mabel, please excuse me," I pleaded; "my head aches, and I feel in no mood for seeing strangers."
"Nonsense, Dorothy, you must rouse yourself. The air will do you good; it is the worst thing possible for a head ache to sit over the fire. And I know you will like Mrs. Gower and this Miss—oh, whatever is her name? I have quite forgotten it. Well, it does not matter; but she comes from London and is very pretty and 'distinguée.'"
It seemed easier to go, languid and poorly as I felt, than to resist Mabel's imperious will. So I went away to dress, wondering stupidly what connection the name of Gower could have with my past, and why it should recall to me so vividly the old, quiet days at Weylea and Leonard Glynne.
====================
CHAPTER XXI.
A MISAPPREHENSION REMOVED.
THE village of Dunsted lay some seven miles from Burford. The drive thither seemed to me interminable; for my head still throbbed with pain, and even the easy rolling of Mabel's carriage was almost more than I could bear. Mabel kept telling me that the air would do me good, and indeed the light, damp wind which blew in at the window was grateful to my heated brow, though it made me shiver.
Mabel talked fast to me as we went along; but I heeded little her account of the individuals who lived in this house or in that, and what sort of people they were. I was too languid even to observe with any interest the fields and hedgerows we were passing, and the tokens they gave of spring's advance—the yellow catkins drooping from the black boughs, the feathery grey-green clusters of the willow-palm, the pink, swelling buds of the sycamores, or the blue-green spiral shafts and long, slender buds of daffodils rising amidst the grass of orchards.
"Now, Dorothy, do rouse yourself and try to look less martyr-like; for here we are at the Vicarage," said Mabel at last. "I shall wish I had not brought you, if you persist in wearing so melancholy a look."
We were approaching a long, low house, standing out from a background of leafless trees, and facing a flat expanse of lawn. The bare brown stems of creepers clung about the porch and lower windows; crocuses were blooming sparsely in the borders beneath. Doubtless it was a pretty place in summer-time; but now it looked cold and dreary.
At Mabel's word of command, I roused myself as bid, and tried to meet amiably the social duty before me. We followed the maid who admitted us across a wide hall to a small but pleasant drawing-room. The room looked full of people as we entered, and the atmosphere was very warm.
Mrs. Gower, a tall, graceful-looking woman, with dark hair and eyes, whose face somehow seemed familiar to me, though I had not seen her before, exclaimed at the coldness of my hand as she took it in hers—
"You are not used to taking such long drives in order to visit friends, which is one of the trying necessities of a country life," she said, kindly, unaware that I had had more experience of country customs than of town ways.
With that, she insisted on placing me in a chair near the fire.
I sat down, feeling too listless to resist, though I shrank from the warm blaze; for if my hands were cold, my head was almost unbearably hot and heavy. Such a buzz of talking sounded all around me! Mabel was greeting one acquaintance after another in her pretty, gracious manner. But whose was the voice with clear, liquid tones, which, though low, was heard before any other? Why did it send such a thrill through me? Where and when had I heard that voice before? I turned a little in my chair, and looked around me.
Near the window, and rather behind me, sat a golden-haired, blue-eyed girl, wearing a gown of dark blue cloth, with collar and cuffs of rich velvet. A simple gown enough; yet its style and fit made it seem one with the perfectly-moulded form it covered, and its dark hue set off to full advantage the exquisite, flowerlike beauty of the fair, delicate-tinted face and the flossy golden locks.
She sat the centre of a little group, who watched her with admiring glances, as they listened to her words, and seemed to care to look at no one else. And no wonder; for a prettier girl one could not hope to see. I had noted her beauty before to-day; but new I had a fresh revelation of it, and it wounded me like a sword-thrust.
Rose Carsdale! Leonard Glynne's "fiancée!" How strange, how inexplicable seemed her appearance in this quiet country vicarage!
Whilst I marvelled, the little group was suddenly broken up.
"Rose, dear," said Mrs. Gower, "let me introduce you to Mrs. Steinthorpe."
The girl rose and came forward with light, gliding step. How I envied her, her perfect ease of manner and the graceful way in which she went through the ceremony of introduction to my stately little sister.
"No wonder," I said to myself—"no wonder he was attracted to her."
But I started, and every nerve began to tingle, when I found that Mrs. Gower was about to introduce Miss Carsdale to me. My name seemed to cause her surprise as she heard it. She cast a keener glance at me—then smiled with sudden recognition.
"Why, Miss Carmichael!" she exclaimed. "We scarcely seem to meet as strangers. You were at Mrs. Lyell's, and I often saw you passing in and out of her gates. I wanted to know you then, and I asked Leonard Glynne to bring it about; but he failed, as men generally do in arranging such things."
"Leonard Glynne!" exclaimed Mrs. Gower. "Does Miss Carmichael know Leonard Glynne?"
"Why, of course, Marion," returned Miss Carsdale. "This is the Miss Carmichael who was with Mrs. Lyell for some months. You must have heard of her from Leonard."
"Yes, to be sure; my cousin has spoken to me of that Miss Carmichael," said Mrs. Gower; "but I did not know that she had any connection with this neighbourhood. I could not guess that she was Mrs. Steinthorpe's sister. But, believe me, Miss Carmichael, I am very glad to discover this second link of acquaintance with you."
Since I felt hot and confused before, what was I now? For a few moments the room seemed to go round with me. Mrs. Gower, Leonard's cousin! What did it all mean? How I responded to their words I know not. Happily for me, the departure of some of the visitors made a little diversion, and I had time to recover myself somewhat ere Rose, having bid them good-bye, took a seat beside me. She appeared pleased to make my acquaintance.
"Is Mrs. Gower, Leonard Glynne's cousin?" I asked her.
"Yes. Did you not know that?" she said, with an air of surprise.
"No; I had not an idea of it. Mabel only mentioned her as Mrs. Gower, and she had forgotten your name, so that gave me no light."
"Indeed! Then this is an afternoon of surprises to you as well as to Marion. But you must remember Leonard's going to his cousin Marion's wedding in August of the year before last? Ah, but perhaps you were in trouble at that time. That would make you forget it."
Her voice softened as she said the last words with a gentle, compassionate glance at my mourning attire.
"I do remember it," I said, rather tremulously; "and I can remember now that Mr. Glynne told me that his cousin was going to marry a clergyman—a Mr. Gower. Strange! I did not think of it before. I have been wondering what association I had with the name."
"Yes, it is strange how names will sometimes haunt our minds, and yet memory refuse to give us the clue to them. But, Miss, Carmichael, I cannot tell you how glad I am that we have met to-day. You know I have seen a good deal of dear Mrs. Lyell lately, and I need not say that she has often spoken of you. What she has told me has made me feel much sympathy for you."
The girl's manner was very kind; her sympathy, I felt, was genuine; yet its touch seemed to bruise me. I was conscious of nothing but pain. Past, present, future—all my life seemed fraught with pain.
"You were at Hastings with Mrs. Lyell," I said, feeling that words were expected of me.
"Yes, I came here from Hastings. My mother is there now; but Mrs. Lyell, she tells me, has gone home. Leonard was with us for a few days. He was out of sorts and needed a change; but I do not think he enjoyed it very much. You see, it was dull for him, poor fellow."
I did not see. I could not understand how Leonard should find it dull. I looked in astonishment at Miss Carsdale. My wondering gaze seemed to perplex her. Her questioning eyes drew from me an explanation.
"How could he be dull, if you were there?" I said, bluntly.
She looked surprised; then coloured, and answered laughingly—
"Why, very easily. Did you mean that as a compliment? Well, if my society could have kept Leonard from being dull, he had but little of it. I must tell you that my particular friend—my Mr. Glynne—happened to be at Hastings at the same time, so you see—"
She paused in blushing confusion, sure that I should know how to fill in the pause.
But I could only say, falteringly, scarcely articulately—
"Your Mr. Glynne! What do you mean? Are there two Mr. Glynnes?"
"Why, yes; surely you know. You have heard Leonard speak of his cousin Henry, Marion's brother?"
Had I heard of this individual? I could not tell, I could not think. My head was throbbing so wildly, it seemed as if a hammer were beating within my brain. I was trembling from head to foot.
Miss Carsdale bent towards me with a look of consternation.
"Oh, surely, surely," she murmured, "you did not think I was engaged to Leonard Glynne?"
"Yes, I thought so," I whispered.
"Oh, you made a great mistake," she replied, in the same low, confidential tone. "Leonard has long been a dear friend to me; but it was—because of Henry. I must tell you that there were great difficulties in the way of our engagement. For some time mamma refused her consent, because Henry's prospects were not good. She said that I should break her heart if I married him, and she has always been so delicate, poor, dear mamma! that I could not but submit to her will. She forbade me to see Henry or write to him, and she took me about from place to place, hoping I should forget him. But that was impossible. It was only through Leonard—who has been such a friend to us both—that I could get any news of Henry, or he of me."