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.

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