“Lydia, Lydia dear! Where are you?” and he groped before him blindly.
“Here I am, Papa.” She sprang to the bed-side and grasped his questing hand.
“Lydia dear, take care of your sister, won't you. And your stepmother too – she has not been the kindest of mothers, I know, but...”
“Yes Papa, I will do everything in my power, if she will let me.”
“You are a good girl, Lydia. God bless you.” Here he lapsed into silence.
He was silent for some minutes, and Lydia began to think he had fallen back to sleep, when he spoke again. He seemed to take her for her mother.
“Sylvia! Sylvia, my darling!” Lydia had begun to withdraw her hand, but he clasped it with fierce energy.
“No, dearest, don't let go, don't let go. I need you to guide me, I can't see you, but I'm coming my love. Don't let go.”
Lydia suffered her hand to remain, but he did not speak again. He never spoke again on Earth. All that long night Lydia sat clasping his hand, as he slipped deeper into sleep, and then from sleep to unconsciousness, and from thence to that bourne from which no traveller returns.
As the sun rose on that winter morning, it's first rays fell on a pathetic scene. On that pillow lay two heads. One was that of an exhausted young woman in dark brown cashmere, her sandy hair fallen from its pins and tumbled about her, her face turned toward the occupant of the bed, fast asleep. The other was the thin and wasted face of a man still in the prime of life, and six short months ago so hearty and full of vitality. Now he too slept, the sleep from which none shall awake until the Last Trump sounds. And on the air floated the sound of gaily pealing church bells – it was Christmas.
Chapter the 7th
How sorrowfully dawned that New Year for Lydia and Adeline. They sat together on the morning of New Years Day, reading the funeral service from the prayer book. Their new black dresses were stiff and uncomfortable, but the greater pain within their hearts caused them to forget mere bodily discomfort. Both were pale and wan from the long months of care, their white faces looked the paler against the ground of black caps and black gowns. Outside the window, the bright, pale January sun glittered off a hard frost, and the doleful tolling of the church bell sounded clearly through the cold, still air.
“Do you think they will be long now?” asked Adeline, speaking of the funeral party, expected back from the church shortly.
“No, perhaps a half-hour more. I do hope we have enough cold meat to give them – I have asked James to tap a barrel of beer for the villagers, and there is sherry for the gentlemen, though I know not if there will be glasses enough. I did not quite realise how much respected Papa was in the village, nor quite how well attended his funeral would be.”
“And so when we should be left in peace with our sorrow, we are expected to work and entertain those who did not love him half so well.” This was a bitter speech indeed from the gentle Adeline.
“Nay, dearest, I am glad of it. I need work and bustle, and to think of others. I do believe that if I were left alone with my thoughts for more than an hour together I should go melancholy mad, dwelling on how bleak the future seems just now. Ah, will we ever see bright days again?”
At this, Adeline coloured slightly, for her own bright days that were to come seemed a little closer than Lydia's.
On that joyless Christmas morn, Alfred had found her, walking alone in the garden. Lydia was busy attending to all the dreadful arrangements necessary at such a time, so Alfred had sought out Adeline in the hope he could comfort her a little.
“Oh Alfred, he is gone. Papa... my Papa...” and in a paroxysm of grief she flung herself on his breast, her slender body wracked by great, dry, convulsive sobs. There was no help for it, and Alfred's strong arms stole around her shoulders, until she was nestled in his protecting embrace. Gradually, Adeline's sobs grew less, until she was still, but she did not move to put him away.
“Adeline,” whispered Alfred tenderly, and she looked up at him. Her changeful eyes looked navy blue and as bottomless as the sea at that moment, and in those wide, troubled, wild eyes, Alfred suddenly read the whole secret of her heart. She loved him – she had always loved him, although perhaps she had not always known it. How could he help but kiss that sweet pale face, that leaned on his shoulder, clinging to him as protector and friend? Nothing was said – Adeline withdrew, but gently, with no sign of anger or distress at this liberty. No words were necessary – an unspoken understanding now lay between them, a tie as binding as a royal betrothal-contract.
Adeline was awakened from this bitter-sweet recollection by a bustle in the entrance-hall, and by the rustle of silk as Evelyn swept into the morning-room. This lady had kept her chambers the past few days, it being her pleasure to maintain the fiction that she was prostrated by grief, but now thought it best to bestir herself, and so she appeared in magnificent mourning. Gone were the simple, luxurious gowns of her wifehood. Now, as a widow, as if freed from some restraint, she veritably glittered with lustrous black silk and jet beads, voluminous flounces of black lace, and fringed shawl. Her auburn hair, which as yet showed no hint of grey, was surmounted by a complicated widow's cap, trimmed with yet more black lace, velvet ribbon and jet beadwork.
Contrast this picture of elegant grief with the simple round gowns of black merino her daughters wore, with no ornament save a simple jet cross tied round each slender throat by a narrow black velvet ribbon – these last being Alfred's first gift to his lady, and her sister, as an accepted lover. They were exactly suited to the tastes of both girls, and had been received with affectionate tears.
The magnificent widow had just time enough to arrange herself in an attitude of patient suffering upon a straight-backed chair, and open the tiny morocco-bound prayer-book she carried in her black silk mittened hand, before the entrance of the first of the funeral party.
The first to enter was Mr John Trent, the London stockbroker, brother of William and his junior by three years. He was taller and somewhat stouter than his brother had been, even in his prime. His hair was darker and his face somewhat more angular, with a heavy brow and a decided chin, but he had the same honest eye as his brother, and the same air of intelligence and good humour. This gentleman made his obeisance to the widow, with a polite mumur, then approached his neice and step-neice with an air of kindly solicitude.
“Well now, my dears, and how are you bearing up? As well as can be expected, I hope. You have had a hard time of it, poor girls - poor girls.”
“Thank-you, Uncle, we are as well as we can be. Your part in the arrangements has certainly made this hard time easier.” said Lydia – Adeline was too touched by his sympathy, which was expressed in his tone and manner more, even, than by his kindly words, to make any reply beyond a graceful bow and a brief, wan smile.
“Alas, I never looked to lose my poor brother – only three years my senior, and still in his prime. It is sobering indeed, a very sad business. And Mrs Trent? How does she bear it?”
“She is as well as can be expected,” said Lydia tactfully, painfully aware that in truth her stepmother was little affected by her loss. “You know this sad event has been expected for some weeks now, and no doubt she has grieved much in private.”
“Aye, no doubt – no doubt.”
Alfred now came forward, having followed John Trent into the room, and spent a few moments exchanging commonplace condolences with Mrs Trent, who sighed dolefully and often raised a lace handkerchief to her dry eyes. He pressed each girl's hand with a warm, sympathetic grasp, and then offered Adeline his arm. John Trent likewise escorted Lydia, and the small party, after receiving the condolences of the gentlemen there assembled – friends, neighbours, the rector, both the unhappy physicians who had fought in vain for William Trent's life – moved out into the hallway, where mourners of a humbler class had gathered. The family had never been reluctant to share their wealth with those in need, and, worth more than money, had spread kindness and good cheer wherever they went. William Tr
ent, though elevated by wealth into a fine gentleman, had not forgotten that he had once been in trade, and was not above sharing a pipe, a tankard of ale, and a comfortable chat with some farmer or yeoman. There were some intelligent, well-read men in that village, though they had never set foot near a University, and it was with these that Mr Trent loved to talk, arguing out some thorny problem of politics or trade, lending books, advising, guiding and learning as much from their converse as they did from his.
Lydia and Adeline were now to find just how greatly respected and loved their father had been, and how much good he had done in that little neighbourhood. Each man had some fond recollection to share with the girls, of kindness and good fellowship, of some problem or trouble relieved by the good gentleman's capacious purse or more capacious mind. Each woman – for these humbler orders did not share in the popular prejudice which forbad women a place at the funerary rites – had some kind word to say of the true gentleman whose old-fashioned courtesy had treated even the lowest of these 'like as if I was a duchess at St James', Miss.' The girls were consoled in some measure by the discovery that their Papa, though his life had been cut cruelly short, had not lived in vain, that he had died a richer man, in the true treasures of life, than one whose balance at the bankers stood at ten - nay, a hundred - times as many thousands. They might well cry with Venus – 'Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost'.
The servants, in mourning, now advanced amongst the crowd with trays of ale and cold meats, and the girls left the throng there assembled to toast the virtues of the dear deceased and drink the health of the survivors. They retired to the parlour, where the more genteel mourners were being regaled with sherry, port, and ham.
Being disengaged for a moment, Mrs Trent pulled the butler to one side.
“What wine is this?” she sharply enquired, indicating that functionary's tray of glasses.
“Why, Ma'am,” stammered the butler in some confusion, “There were almost a full bottle left in the decanter, and such a fine old port, that it seemed a shame to waste it, being as you ladies don't drink it...” and he trailed off under the force of the lady's glare. She opened her mouth briefly as if to say something, then, as if deciding against it, she pressed her lips tightly together.
“Very well.” she snapped, adding to herself, 'They cannot drink more than a glass or two apiece – it can't do much harm.'
After these polite ceremonials, those mourners who lived locally made their departure, leaving the principal persons concerned – Mrs Trent, Adeline, Lydia, John Trent, and Mr Elkwood, Mr Trent's solicitor, to assemble in the pleasant book-lined room that had been Mr Trent's study.
The will was a simple one, Mr Elkwood explained, and had been drawn up at the time of Mr Trent's second marriage. No later will was believed to have been made.
There were some sundry small bequests to the servants, and to old friends for the purchase of mourning rings, amounting to some few hundreds altogether. Lydia had inherited from her mother the sum of two-and-a-half thousand pounds, and William had settled a like amount on Adeline, 'for I do not wish any difference to be made between my two daughters'. Adeline could barely repress a sob as this sentiment was read out in the laywer's calm, quiet voice. These fortunes were left in the trust of his brother, John Trent, who was also appointed guardian to the two girls, should they not be of age.
The remainder of William Trent's fortune, amounting to some forty-thousand pounds, as well as the lease on the house - a long lease, for it still had some seventy years left to run - was left absolutely to his wife, to use as she saw fit. This was a matter of some surprise to Mr John Trent, who was quietly perturbed, not having the same faith in that lady, as his brother evidently did, that she would consider his children in the slightest. He kept his thoughts to himself on this occasion, however, only noting with disgust the look of evident satisfaction that lady barely troubled herself to hide.
Mr Elkwood went back to London by that evening's train, but Mr John Trent remained some few days longer, in hopes he could be of service to the young ladies. In truth, the old bachelor felt an unexpected happiness in the company of his two nieces, finding that their father's best bequest to them was an uncommon amount of sense and goodness, which he was not used to find in the generality of young ladies, those representatives of the species which he had encountered in fashionable life being set down by him as invariably silly, shallow and selfish. Not so his nieces.
Lydia, in particular, was capable forming sound opinions and conversing sensibly and intelligently on any number of topics. Under her good father's guidance she had read deeply as well as widely, and formed enquiring habits of thought that made her as interesting a companion as the best-educated young gentleman. She could not be accused of being a bluestocking, however. She had not neglected the softer arts in the pursuit of dry knowledge, nor lost her femininity through contact with the harder truths of life.
Adeline, though less lively and less thoughtful, was the sweetest and gentlest of girls. Though mourning deeply herself, she did not forget that those around her had also suffered loss, and her sympathetic smile as she drew up a chair for him, supplied him with tea and the choicest dainties from the tea-table, and sat down to play her softest and sweetest old songs, was like some little taste of heaven in this weary world.
So it was with heavy heart that the venerable stockbroker betook him self to his elegant but lonely townhouse at the heart of the great metropolis, wishing he had such daughters to cheer the solitude of that bachelor hearth.
The days that followed their uncle's departure were uneventful. Winter snows had set in, making outdoor exercise impossible, and of course they accepted no invitations, though Evelyn sometimes went out to the quieter sort of tea party, always providing, of course, that there were no such frivolities as dancing or cards involved. The widow kept to her own chambers, except for at mealtimes, and so the girls were left to cheer each other as best they might, occupying the short dark days with reading and needlework, answering the letters of condolence which came from far afield, and teaching young Maisy to read and write, as the income of the poor girl's extensive family had not stretched sufficiently to send any of the numerous brood to school. They looked forward each morning to the near-daily visits of Alfred, who always brought some offering of books or fruit or village gossip, and formed the one bright spot in their day.
There was one small, odd occurrence toward the end of that dreary month, which puzzled Lydia exceedingly. It was the custom of the house for the butler to collect the post-bag, and distribute the family's letters at breakfast. This morning there were several for Evelyn, who, running her eye quickly over the directions, and believing them to be all letters of condolence from her husband's many friends, commenced opening them and carelessly glancing over the contents.
One of them caused her to start, however, and then her hard mouth curved in a grim and triumphant smile. The letter was an unusual one, comprising in it's entirety but a single short sentence of three words, without date, direction, or signature. It merely read:
'It is done.'
Unnoticed by Mrs Trent at first, a small slip of newspaper had fluttered out of the envelope, and landed before Lydia's plate. Now the widow espied this fragment of paper, and held her hand out toward her stepdaughter peremptorily.
“I believe that is mine. Give it to me, if you please.”
Lydia readily complied, but the item was so short that it had taken her but a moment's glance to master the contents. It treated briefly of an unfortunate accident in a London street, where a nameless gentleman, 'of address and origin unknown', had apparently fallen from the window of an hotel, of which establishment it was averred he was not a guest, and had been taken up lifeless.
Why this should be of any interest to her stepmother she could form no conjecture, and she satisfied herself that there must have been an advertisement or story on the other side of the paper, which was the true object of interest.
Chapter the 8th
Though Alfred and Adeline had understood one another a full month, as yet no positive word of love had passed between them. They had been thus far content to speak in looks rather than words, and to read the sweet story in one another's eyes, not in billets-doux. Adeline felt that hers was too great a love to be spoken in words, and Alfred was all too conscious of how recently his beloved had been bereaved. There could not decently be any talk of love and marriage just yet.
The subject of the girl's future however, was painfully obtruded on them one morning, when Evelyn enquired blandly of Lydia what that young lady's intentions were.
“Mamma, I do not quite understand you.”
“My dear Miss Trent, I do feel that, as that sad event at Christmas has in some way dissolved all relationship between us, you may now dispense with the useless form of calling me 'Mamma'. It was only done to please your father, you know. 'Mrs Trent' will be sufficient, I think.”
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