The Story of Aline

Chapter I

" BUT don't you think, Aline, that you may sometimes find her just a little in your way ? " They were sitting by the fire in Aline's drawing room. She was curled into her favourite corner upon the sofa. Margaret Bingham sat in the visitor's chair opposite, her heavy fur-cloak unfastened and thrown back from her shoulders. Outside a grey January afternoon was drawing to a close, and London lay in unwonted silence, wrapped lightly in a sheet of fresh fallen snow. Aline answered at once. It was a point upon which she had no doubts. " On the contrary. It will be a pleasure to me to have her. I shall love taking her about with me. It will be a new interest in my life." "A girl is a great tie," Margaret suggested. "Mine is just fifteen, and I am beginning to wonder how I shall like having her always dangling at my skirts.

I have known other mothers who have found it trouble some, and you are young to have that encumbrance." "I don't think I shall mind it," Aline began. Then something in her friend's face seemed to trouble her, and she added quickly, "You see, Margaret, I have thought it all out. It isn't as if I had done it hastily — on the spur of the moment. Henry and I discussed it, and he quite approves of the plan. I am a good deal alone. He is constantly away, hunting or racing. He hates London ; but he likes to keep it as a second string to his bow, because he says it is better than the country with nothing to do. So he wants me to be here, and the house all ready for him, and I think that lately I have been just a little bit upon his conscience. It has struck him that I might be lonely." She spoke without bitterness, and without any conscious appeal for sympathy.

She simply stated the facts, as if eager to justify her decision. Mrs. Bingham turned her head slowly, and looked at the fire. She was a handsome woman, with a grave unemotional face and well-cut features. She drew her lips together with a look of disapproval. " He is away now ? " she asked. " Yes, he is away. He left last week, and I hardly expect him back for a fortnight." Aline glanced at the snow-flakes drifting past the windows. " Unless we have a heavy fall," she added, with an unconscious lowering of her voice. "And have you never thought of going with him ? " Not to the hunting-box. How could I ? " There was the slightest tone of impatience in the answer. " He takes the house with two other men — has done so for years. They are a bachelor party, and there would not be room for me, even if he wished to have me there."

There was a short silence, " What is her name ? " asked Mrs. Bingham, abruptly turning the conversation. "Maud— Maud Newton." " You have seen her ? " "The last time was four years ago, when I went over there after poor Mildred's death. She was a hobbledey-hoy then, shy and awkward, but I thought she might grow up pretty. She is like Mildred, her father tells me, only fairer. I am to keep her entirely for six months ; that is the bargain, and by the end of that time one can't say what may have / in still at * /Jo. want le. the truth, dear," frhe wen; ve got tome one in mj it. atber #tcp-neph' • ■ dar> ;- . . -.■..::/, thaf* the wor#t ju#t everything that 4 wi#h— tw< and the h tm quite clever und will be very rich nome day. What , Ad a ei heart detAu. lo f d's sympatl leaned forward, aiu; wards and forwards across the sable trimming sham's cloak, a movement which was I half-caressing.

Margaret kef* her own face turiu. : fire, and left a considerable interval of silence before she answered. " Nothing, certainly, if it comes off," she said with emphasis. "Ah! Of course there must always be an 'if,' but in this case it isn't a big one. They will be thrown together a great deal, for Cyril is so much here. She has probably never met any men but the curate and the schoolmaster, and if she is attractive, and unless some one else steps in, he is more than likely to fall in love with her." "You don't think that any one else has stepped in already ? " " Xo, I am sure of that, so far." Aline spoke with conviction ; and then hesitated. " You have not heard any talk ? " she asked quickly. " But no, it can't be true ; I should have known." " I have heard people talk," Margaret answered quietly.

" You see, he is a good deal here, as you say." Aline drew her hands away and lay back, with an indignant rustle of her silk tea-gown. "I . hat you mean," she said, "but there is no truth in it — none at all. I am very fond of him, and he is fond of me. He knows that he can look upon this house as his home. He is always in and out, either with Henry or with me. Why, he is staying with Henry now in Leicestershire. But as for there being anything else between us, that is untrue." "On your side I have no doubt it is," Margaret answered hastily ; " but you see a good deal of him, and you are almost the same age. Have you never been afraid that he might " " Never ! Cyril and I know one another too well for that. We are like brother and sister." Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Aline lay back amongst her cushions and looked at the shadows flickering upon the ceiling.

Mrs. Bingham watched the fire. In the silence without they could hear the horses of Margaret's carriage shaking their bits impatiently. " And you say she arrives to-night ? " "At six o'clock. She will have had a long journey this cold day, and London will seem strange to her, poor child. I'm so anxious that her first impression should be a happy one. All depends upon the first impression ; don't you think so ? You'll laugh at me because I have planned it out so carefully — her arrival, I mean, and how I shall receive her. I shall listen for the carriage, and go out on to the staircase to meet her, and bring her in here. There will be a bright fire burning, and tea ready, and the room will look warm and welcoming. I have got fresh flowers, and clean chintzes, and I even put on this white tea-gown just for her.

I thought I looked nicest in it, and I want her to think me nice, and to be fond of me." There was another little pause. Then Margaret answered, more tenderly than she had spoken yet. "Perhaps, after all, I was wrong, dear. I am glad she is coming to you, for I often think that you are not quite happy, and certainly you are very much alone." Aline stretched her arms up above her head, and lay still, watching the ceiling. " Is any one quite happy ? " she asked lightly. " Yes, perhaps ! I know one or two people who are, but it seems to me to last such a short time. I think I am glad that I'm not too happy — glad, at least, that I have not been too happy yet ! " " Then you hope for something ? " " I suppose so. Doesn't every one ? Can hope be put quite out of one's life before one is twenty-five ?

" " Aline, dear, is it a child you want ? " The question came unexpectedly, and Aline had to conquer her first impulse, which was to laugh. "No," she answered, making an effort to speak gravely ; " not now. I wanted that long ago when I first married. I prayed for one, day and night, for three years. It was my only thought. Now — oh no, I don't want a child now ; I am glad that I have never had one." "Isn't it strange," she went on, as Margaret did not speak, " how one outlives one's longings ? I wished that wish to death " — she gave a little laugh. " One of us had to die, and for some time I thought it would be me." " Poor little Aline ! " " Don't pity me, Margaret. You make me feel as if I were cheating you. All that is over and done with now." It had grown to be twilight in the room. Margaret put out her hand to touch the white figure near her.

She wanted to say something more, but how to say it was the difficulty. It was always a difficulty with her. Her nature was reserved, and rather hard ; it did not expand easily, and its sympathy was a rare gift. " Dear," she said, with an effort, " I think you are making a mistake. Let me tell you of it, for I am older than you are, and I am fond of you. I know that it is not your fault altogether. Your life is difficult, I have seen that ; but you chose it for your self deliberately. You must always remember that, in justice to others. It has seemed to me, Aline, that lately you have been in rather a defiant mood — restless and dissatisfied, and inclined to try and shake yourself free from your responsibilities. Believe me, dear, that is not the way to overcome your troubles " She went on speaking, but all at once Aline lost the thread of what she was saying.

Her ear had caught another sound. It was the opening and shutting of the front door below, followed by footsteps ascending the stairs. She did not move ; but she let her head sink back a little deeper amongst the pillows, so that Margaret should not see her face, and she counted the seconds by the loud throbs of her own heart. The drawing-room door opened before Margaret had finished her sentence, and the servant announced another visitor. "Mr. Eversley." Aline sprang to her feet with an air of surprise which was a little over-acted, and went forward to meet him. Margaret rose also, and shook hands stiffly. She was annoyed at the interruption. " I must be going," she said. " I promised I would be in at tea-time, and my poor horses must be tired of waiting in the snow." Aline followed her to the door, and out on to the staircase.

A bitter wind came up from the open street door below, and made her shiver. " Go into the warm again ; you look pale," Margaret said. She lingered a moment, as though she were going to add something more. Then, with a sigh, she went quickly down the staircase. Aline stood still, with her hand upon the banisters, listening to the sounds of departure. The sharp slam of the carriage door, and the rumble of the wheels passed into silence as the house door closed ; and then followed the murmuring of voices as the servants crossed the hall on their way downstairs. After that all was quiet. Through the window a little above her she could see that it was still snowing, large silent flakes falling upon the glass. It was very cold. She felt somehow depressed and forsaken. A sentence of Margaret's half-finished lecture rang in her ears : " Your life is difficult, but you chose it for yourself, deliberately."

"Yes, I chose it for myself — that is true," she thought bitterly, as she turned to go back into the drawing-room. " But I ask for no sympathy. I only want to be let alone." Her visitor was standing by the fire with his back to her, warming his hands. He looked round as she entered, and noticed the shadow which still lingered on her face. " Anything wrong ? " he asked, with the familiarity of an intimate friend. She went and knelt down on the hearthrug beside him. "No, nothing wrong," she said wearily, "or rather, nothing wronger. But do you think — tell me — do you think that people — friends — have a right to interfere ? " " Who has interfered, and about what ? " he asked evasively. " That isn't fair," she said. " You want to find out, but I shall tell you nothing. I think they have no right.

Since the beginning of the world has any one ever profited by good advice ? We must all live our own lives in our own ways. As for obvious truths, moral or physical, we can get them when we want them out of every book we open, from the Bible downwards ; but, as a matter of fact, we have been brought up on them, and know them by heart as well as we know the multiplication table, or the Lord's prayer ; and if we don't follow them it is because we don't choose to." She sank back, sitting upon her heels, and clasped her hands in her lap. She had spoken rapidly, and a little excitedly, not thinking very much of what she was saying. The depression had passed. She had almost forgotten what it felt like in the sensation of well-being which had followed. "Still, I can't help thinking that Mrs. Bingham's advice must be worth having — worth thinking over, at all events," he answered, drawing an armchair nearer to the fire ; " and as for the multiplication table, I must confess that I sometimes find a little difficulty about seven times."

Aline laughed. "You have not been here for five days," she said. " No. I was busy all the early part of the week." She held up her fingers to the fire, interlacing them so as to screen her face. "You are always busy," she said reproachfully, "Not always. I take a holiday to-morrow, and go away to stay in the country over Sunday." She gave him a swift glance, and then looked away again. " How horrid and cold it will be." " Only three days and I shall be back again." Presently he asked, " What news of Henry ? " " He is hunting. I don't hear much, or often, but I fancy they have had good sport. He is out all day, and in the evening he is tired ; it is natural that he should not care to write much then." " Of course." She put up her hands wearily to her forehead, as though her head ached, and he heard her sigh.

" By-the-by," she said suddenly, " I had almost forgotten. You know it is to-night I am expecting my little niece — in about an hour." " Ah, to be sure ! You are going to become a dowager. How will you like the part, I wonder ? " " Margaret and I were discussing that just before you came in. She says it is a mistake. Tell me, do you think so too ? " "Now, really," he exclaimed, laughing, "do you expect me to give you my advice after what you said just now ? " " Not your advice, but your opinion. It is too late for advice about this. Do you really think I shall regret it just because she may sometimes be a little in my way, poor child ? Am I as selfish as that ? " He waited a moment before he answered her. "I think that without being very selfish you may find it a trial to have some one constantly at your elbow," he said at last.

" Some one whom you must always think of, and be responsible for. It will be a great tie to you — it would be to any young woman. In the evening, for instance, when some of your women friends come in to see you, or— — " he hesitated, "well, just now. Wouldn't a girl sitting over there on the sofa be a little in the way ? If you don't mind it yourself, your friends will." She turned her head away, bending forward to arrange her gown. He could not see her face. " But she will have her own sitting-room upstairs," she said. " I have thought of that." " Ah, very well ! " and by the tone of his voice she knew that he was smiling. "But let it be clearly understood from the first that you expect her to go there to do her drawing and practise her scales, while you, dressed in your prettiest tea-gown, sit here by the fire."

She looked round at him with a wistful questioning in her eyes. " Do you think I am not being fair to her ? she asked. " Fair ! Of course you are. You will take her driving and walking with you, and to balls, and parties, and plays. That will be excitement enough for her after her country parsonage. You must think of yourself a little too." " But I must think of her first." She rose and stood leaning against the mantelpiece, looking down at him with her face in shadow. " She is young, and I want to make her happy. After all, that is everything for a woman. Of a man you may ask, ' Is he successful, rich, respected, clever ?' Of a woman you only ask, ' Is she happy ? ' " " I can't agree with you there ; my first question about a woman is quite a different one." She put out her hand to stop him.

" I know ; you needn't tell me. It is, ' Does she dress well ? ' or something that means the same thing. But I was trying to be serious. I think women need happiness more than men. You have your professions, and ambitions, and so many, many interests ; but most women have only happiness c to rely upon, only that to think about, or their troubles." " I like to hear you moralize," he answered. " You are so tremendously in earnest, and yet you know so little. You are such a child still." "Am I?" His words, and especially his indulgent tone hurt her. She thought she did not feel at all like a child. She was realizing very acutely all the seriousness of life— of her own life especially, with its one irre trievable mistake. It was disheartening to her that he would not take her seriously. Possibly he understood her mood better than she imagined, for his voice was graver when he spoke again.

" We all expect to have happiness at the beginning, and go on wishing for it, more or less, all our lives ; even we busy ambitious, men who you think can do very well without it. We only get it by very small instalments. Let me have one now. Go and sing to me. That will suit us both better than moralizing." She went without a word to the piano, and began to sing at once a gay little French air. Her voice was small, but well-trained and very expressive. She sang by heart, gliding without effort from one song to another. He sat watching her, his elbow resting on the arm of his chair, his hand over his eyes. There was a subtle enchantment in the twilight hour, in the warm comfort of the room, and in the sweet clear voice coming out of the darkness. He knew it well. It was his habit often to come and see her in the evening, and make her sing to him.

But to-day something in her voice affected him more than usual. It almost made him forget his habitual self-control. " Sing ' Love wakes us once,' " he asked presently, when she paused. It was a song which had been written for her by a friend to some words of Coventry Patmore's. He thought it suited her voice better than any other. " Love wakes men, once a lifetime each ; They lift their heavy lids and look ; And lo ! what one sweet page can teach They read with joy, then shut the book. " And some give thanks, and some blaspheme, And most forget ; but, either way, That and the child's unheeded dream Is all the light of all their day." There was a trick in the second verse which had been her own idea— a kind of wail that came at the end of the last line. When it had rung out into silence he did not move or speak at once.

She sat still with her fingers resting upon the keys. She could hear across the room the crackling of the hot coals in the grate, and the throbbing sound of the dancing flame. Presently he rose, and came to her. " Thank you," he said quietly. " I must be going now ; and you will be preparing for your visitor. I shall be in again in a day or so." He took her hand and held it between his own. The action startled her, and she caught her breath with a half sob. He stood a moment beside her, looking down at her bent head. He had himself well in hand. He knew he should neither do nor say anything impru dent. As far as he was concerned, the danger was past for the time ; and, being sure of this, he enjoyed going, with calm deliberateness, to the very limit of what was legitimate. With her it was different.

She had only just realized the danger, with a bewildering sense of happiness and distress. In one rapid moment a crowd of vague possibilities flashed across her brain. Then she felt his hands relax their pressure, and with a little shiver of relief she drew her own away. He turned, and she saw his dark outline pass across the grey light of the windows, as he made his way to the door.

Chapter II. Half

an hour later a carriage rolled up the street to the door, and Aline stood waiting upon the landing outside the drawing-room. The girl came slowly up the stairs, following the butler. She held a travelling bag in one hand, and grasped the front of her dress with the other, stumbling a little, as if dazed by the light and warmth. As she reached the landing below the lamp shone full upon her, and Aline saw a slim figure in unbecoming travelling clothes, and a small oval face lit by pale eyes — a face which at that moment was colourless and uninteresting, if not absolutely plain. The eyes met hers, and for a second's space the girl paused as though meditating a retreat ; but Aline made a step forward, holding out her arms, and she came hesitatingly into them. "At last, Maud dear. How late you are!

I thought something must have happened to you. Come in here into the warm ; you must be half dead with cold and tiredness. Let me put down your bag. There, sit here, not too near the fire, and I'll take off your things. What frozen little hands ! Give them to me. Let me rub them." The girl sank passively into a chair, and allowed her hat and coat to be taken off, and her hands to be chafed. She seemed bewildered by her welcome, and only a murmured word of thanks escaped her from time to time. " It was a terrible day for a journey," Aline said, moving to fetch a cup of tea from the table. "I've been thinking of you so much. Did they change your hot-water tins at Rugby ? I asked Henry to write about it." "Yes, thank you." " And the guard looked after you ? " "Yes." " You weren't frightened travelling alone ?

" "No." " Your father took you to the station, I suppose ? Is he quite well ? " "Yes, thank you." "And the sisters, Milly and Dorothy?" "Yes, thank you, quite well." "They must all have grown big since last I saw them. You have altered very much, dear. I think I should hardly have known you." " Really ! The others are taller than me. I am supposed to be small in the family." Maud was beginning to feel more at her ease. She sat back in her chair sipping her tea, and looking about her with occasional swift glances, which seemed to take in all the details of the room. Aline saw that she was prettier than she had at first thought. Her eyes were grey, soft and clear, with large pupils. Her teeth were singularly even and brilliant, and the shape of her mouth when she smiled was very nearly perfect.

" What a pretty room ! " she said suddenly, volun teering a remark for the first time. Aline's thoughts travelled back to the prim little drawing-room of the country vicarage, as she had seen it four years ago, with all its uncompromising, genteel ugliness ; and a half guilty feeling of tenderness stirred in her heart. " I'm glad you like it," she said simply. " I wanted you to think it pretty. Tell me about yourself," she added—" about your life at home, I mean. What do you do all day? You sing I know— I shall like to hear you by-and-by — but do you read much, or draw ? What are the things you like best ? " Maud put down her cup before she answered, and leaned back in her chair again with a little air of importance. " It's rather difficult to say what I like best. Music, I suppose, but there are so many other things.

Our day is always very full. We are out a great deal, visiting in the parish. There is generally some sick person to be looked after, or some old woman to be read to." "Tell me all your day, from the beginning to the end," asked Aline. " I want to hear how you spend it, and then I shall feel as if I knew you better." " Let me see. In the morning when we have finished breakfast, and I have given the orders, I practise, while Milly sees to the children's lessons. She is better at that than I am, and, besides, I often have to be with father to copy letters, and do other things for him. We all meet at luncheon — such a crowd in the little dining-room. When the boys are at home there is hardly room for us. We don't talk much at meals. Father is very silent, and that makes us silent too ; even the boys and little Janet are quiet when he is there.

After luncheon we generally have a walk ; we elder ones take it by turns to go with father, and the rest go out together. In summer we play lawn-tennis, or drive the old pony, or sit in the garden. Often some of the neighbours come in to tea with us, or we go to them ; we have a great many friends round about. But in winter, when the days are short, we come in early, and after tea we all sit together, working, or talking, or reading, in the room we call 'the attic' It is the nicest room in the house, because it is big and airy. We all love it. But it is ugly ; the walls are bare— you would think it dreadful. Father never comes there. He likes to be left quiet from five till seven ; and at seven we dine, and afterwards Milly and I sit with him in the drawing-room, and sing to him, or play chess with him till bed-time.

There ! I think that is our usual day, as nearly as I can describe it." Aline was silent. She was thinking of the peaceful country life. It was somehow different from what she had imagined — fuller, and happier, and less monoto nous. She had never considered much the possibility of country society outside the village. Now she realized that the girl might have had friends, a lover even, from whom it had been hard to part in order to come to her — to that bigger world which Aline thought so alluring. Perhaps, after all, her invitation had not been the deed of charity which she had considered it. There was also the picture of the winter evenings. That caught her imagination. She could fancy that she saw the group of brothers and sisters gathered round the fire in the large play-room, reading, or working, or telling stories, the warm light brightening their eager young faces, and casting great shadows upon the bare walls behind them.

She thought of their last evening together, with the sadness of the coming parting in all their hearts, and for the first time a doubt as to the Tightness of what she had done flashed across her, and half frightened her. "They will miss you terribly," she said. Maud's eyes softened, and the corners of her mouth drooped. " I was sorry to leave them," she murmured under her breath. " But it won't really matter," she added, in her little matter-of-fact way. "They will get on all right without me. You see, the boys are at school, and Dorothy is getting quite grown up. She and Milly are companions to one another, and little Janet is not much trouble. I expect father will miss me the most, for Milly isn't good at accounts." There was a silence. She sat musing, looking into the fire ; and Aline, her conscience feeling a little more at rest, noticed the pretty turn of her neck, and the soft fair curls about her forehead.