The health-giving influences of the voyage had not so invigorated Mr. Stanton that he could sustain the shock of misfortune that awaited him on his arrival at Melbourne. He went to his office almost immediately on landing, and there learned from his brother the critical state of affairs. He had listened calmly, had made full inquiries, and satisfied himself that it was impossible to avoid hopeless, irretrievable failure. Then, without showing any marked signs of agitation, he had returned to his hotel; but on the threshold, his step faltered, a strange spasm passed over his face, and he fell heavily to the ground. It was the last fatal stroke of paralysis. Within three hours he was dead.
But as yet his wife and children knew no particulars, only the bare, cruel facts, conveyed with curt emphasis by the telegram. As they began to recover from the first stunning effect of the blow, their one wish was for Aldyth's presence. The trouble would be less bewildering, less overwhelming, if she were there. Comfort of some kind Aldyth would surely bring.
"Send for Aldyth," Mrs. Stanton whispered to Gladys, in one of the intervals between her fits of hysterical weeping; and Gladys lost no time in obeying.
The girls were very anxious for the coming of their sister, mid made many calculations as to how soon she could arrive, without attaining certainty that she could get to Eastbourne that day.
But the last train, just before midnight, brought Aldyth.
Gladys, watching at the window of their sitting room, saw the cab drive up to the door, and hurried down to meet her. Mrs. Stanton had retired to rest, and, worn out with weeping, was already asleep; Nelly was sitting beside her, so Gladys alone welcomed Aldyth. Gladys, with pale face, pink eyelids, and a weary, anxious expression, looked wholly different from the bright, radiant girl from whom Aldyth had parted a few weeks earlier. Sorrow seems the more pathetic when its shadow falls on one so young and gay.
"Oh, Aldyth, I am glad you have come," she said, clasping her sister in her arms. "Things will seem better now. But is it not dreadful?"
"You forget I do not know what the trouble is," said Aldyth, who had been full of wonder concerning it as she journeyed to Eastbourne.
"Poor papa is dead," said Gladys, "and we are beggars." The two facts were apparently of equal importance to Gladys; but Aldyth only heeded the former.
She was painfully startled: She had always been conscious of the failing appearance of the worn, nervous man, but she was not prepared to hear so soon of his decease, and it struck her as very sad that he should die far away from his wife and children.