Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
I sat long by the lesser hole. Frontispiece.
MISS CON
BY
AGNES GIBERNE
AUTHOR OF "SUN, MOON AND STARS," "BERYL AND PEARL,"
"ST. AUSTIN'S LODGE," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY EDGAR GIBERNE
"Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,
Our hearts in glad surprise
To higher levels rise."—LONGFELLOW.
NINTH THOUSAND
London
JAMES NISBET & CO., LIMITED
22 BERNERS STREET, W.
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
At the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh
PREFACE.
I DO not think I need apologise for sending out another tale about girls and for girls—a tale of everyday life, such as numerous everyday girls in this Nineteenth Century have to live. There may be already a legion of books belonging, more or less, to the same class; but the omnivorous appetite of modern girlhood is not yet satisfied.
Nor, perhaps, need I apologise for its being in some measure a story about and for young Authoresses, incipient or developed. So many girls now crowd the lower rungs of literary ladders, that a few general hints for their guidance can hardly fail to be useful in one quarter or another.
It must not, however, be supposed that "All Those Girls" were would-be Authoresses!
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
[V. A "PRICELESS PRIVILEGE" REALISED]
[IX. THE QUESTION OF ABBREVIATIONS]
[XVI. WHETHER SOMEBODY LIKED SOMEBODY?]
[XVII. GLADYS HEPBURN'S FIRST SUCCESSES]
[XXVI. AUTHORSHIP—WHETHER? AND HOW?]
[XXX. A REAL FIVE-SHILLING BOOK]
[XXXIII. CONFIDENTIAL IN A CAVE]
MISS CON.
[CHAPTER I.]
CRAVEN'S SENTIMENTS.
CONSTANCE CONWAY'S JOURNAL.
February 20.
"THE very thing for you, Constance. Most satisfactory. Really, if we had—a—if we had hunted all England over, we could not—ahem—could not have hoped to find anything more suitable. Positively, it is, if I may so say—if I may venture to use a somewhat time-worn illustration—the fitting of a round man into a round hole,—a round woman, I should rather say,—ha, ha! Nothing better could be desired."
So Craven declared, about ten days ago, with that oily satisfaction which people are sometimes apt to show about a convenient arrangement for somebody else. If I decided to go to the Romillys, it would be particularly convenient for Craven. I had been a full month in his house, and he was beginning to favour me with plain hints that a month was enough. Albinia never ventures to oppose him.
"Just the very thing," he repeated, rubbing his big flabby hands together. He might be a handsome man, this brother-in-law of mine, if less ponderously rotund, and boasting a smaller allowance of cheek and chin. I could not help thinking that afternoon, as he lounged back in his study-chair, what a huge individual he is for his fifty years. Anybody might take him for sixty.
I have not written in my journal for many months. Time enough now to make a fresh start. The only way is to go straight ahead, letting alone arrears and explanations.
"Precisely the opening for you," he went on. "Really, your course is, if I may so say, plain as daylight. As I say, plain as daylight. I am most happy to have been the means of affording you—ahem—a shelter, until this—a temporary shelter, I should say,—until this opening should appear."
Craven, like many other speech-makers, indulges in broken sentences and needless repetitions.
"Not merely an opening, but a duty,—a positive call to duty. I have always held the opinion—always, I may say,—that you were by nature fitted—peculiarly fitted—for the work of teaching. In fact—a—that you were a first-rate instructress of youth thrown away,—pardon me! And really, after the monotony of your existence—a—with the worthy old lady who has been—ahem—has been so lately removed from our midst,—after the monotony of your existence, as I say, hitherto,—you will find—ahem—will find positive excitement, positive dissipation—a—in the surroundings of your new life with the Romilly circle."
Craven ought to have felt exhausted by this time. If he did not, I did.
"Supposing I go," I answered perversely. Craven always rouses the perverse element in me.
"I was not aware that—ahem—that any other opening had—a—had presented itself, my dear Constance."
"I don't wish to decide in a hurry," I replied, though I knew as well as did Craven, that the matter was already practically settled. "Besides," I added, "it is not generally supposed that a governess' life means too much dissipation. Too much work is more likely."
For I did and do think that Craven might be a little less willing to let me enter on a life of possible or probable drudgery. Not that I want pity, or that I believe in the need for real drudgery in anybody's life. Plenty to do is my delight, and the question of drudgery depends on the spirit in which one does things. Moreover, I have never expected Craven to offer me a home; and if he made the offer, I would not accept it.
Still one does like a man to act a consistent part. Craven has in his own person so ardent a love for ease and non-exertion, that from his standpoint, he ought justly to spare me some grains of pity. My protest only set him off afresh, however.
"There can be no question, my dear Constance,—ahem—that your post will be a light one. At the same time, it will afford you—a—will offer precisely such a sphere for your talents as you—ahem—will offer, in fact, an appropriate sphere for your talents. For I see no harm in admitting—a—no harm in admitting that you are possessed of certain talents. Here, for the first time in your life,—as I say, for the first time in your life,—here is a field for their exercise. Not in mere lesson-giving, but in the exercise of—a—the exercise of—ahem—the exercise of a mild and beneficent and improving influence on all around you."
"Am I to begin by improving Mr. Romilly?" I asked.
The laboured and monotonous utterances sounded so exactly like a third-rate platform speech, that my gravity was upset. I had to say something which might serve as an excuse for a laugh.
Craven did not smile. He lifted one broad hand silencingly.
"In the shaping—ahem—the moulding—ahem—the general improvement, as I say, of those young people who will be in your charge. A more delightful occupation could—a—could scarcely be found. There can be no hesitation whatever—I say, there can be no hesitation whatever in pronouncing that you, my dear little sister, are by nature—a—singularly adapted for the post." Craven always calls me "little" when he wants to give me a set-down, though really I am almost as tall as himself. To be sure, I am not so broad!
"That is the question," I said. "If I could be sure that I really am fitted—But the responsibilities will be immense. If I were a woman of forty, instead of a girl not twenty-three—"
"With the appearance of—a—of thirty at least," asserted Craven.
There might be some truth in this. Twice in the month before, I had been taken for Albinia's twin. But also I had been twice taken for only eighteen years old. So much depends on the mood one is in.
"If I could be sure that I am fitted," I said again, rather rashly inviting a further flow of speech.
"Adapted undoubtedly, I should say," Craven answered. He drummed his right hand solemnly on the chair-arm, by way of emphasis. "Unquestionably! For you have gifts, my dear sister,—I may say that you have gifts. You are clever,—ahem—intellectual,—ahem—and you have cultivated your intellect. You are well-read. You draw and paint,—really quite tolerably. Yes, I may say—a—quite tolerably. Your music is, on the whole—on the whole, above the average."
Craven's knowledge of music is rather less than that of his favourite puppy, but this only makes it the easier for him to pass judgment.
"You have—" he went on—"you have your faults also: who has not? A certain impetuosity; somewhat too good an opinion of yourself; an over-readiness to oppose your views to those of others; these defects have—ahem—have to be subdued. But again there are faults which in your new position—which, I may say, in your new position will be—a— transformed into virtues! For instance! A certain faculty for spying out others' weaknesses—ahem—a somewhat unenviable readiness to set others to rights—pardon the suggestion, my dear little sister! But the adaptability of things is remarkable—is really, I may say, most remarkable. For henceforth the business of your life will be—the leading aim of your existence will be—a—the setting of others to rights a—the correction of others' faults. Thus, as I may say, as in fact I have already observed—a—thus at least one faulty tendency glides into a positive virtue."
My impetuosity came, I suppose, into play here. I felt all at once that I had endured as much as could reasonably be expected.
"Have you done, Craven?" I asked, standing up.
Craven was astonished. Probably he had not done; but my sudden movement disturbed the beautiful orderliness of his ideas, and put the remainder of his speech to flight.
"Because I think our discussion has lasted long enough," I said. "I will write to Mrs. Romilly by this evening's post, and promise to be at Glynde House in a fortnight."
Craven rose slowly and examined the framed almanack. We were together in the library, whither he had summoned me on my return from an afternoon stroll in the park.
"Nothing keeps Con indoors," Albinia is wont to declare, and certainly that day's fog had not sufficed to do so.
"A fortnight from to-day," he said dubiously. "That brings us to—the twenty-fifth. Yes; if I am not mistaken—the twenty-fifth."
"Mrs. Romilly names the twenty-fifth," I said. "I cannot offer to go sooner. It is unfortunate; but she does not leave England for another week; and she wishes me to arrive a week later. I am afraid you will have to put up with me so long."
Without waiting for an answer, I passed out of the luxurious library into the spacious hall.
[CHAPTER II.]
AND CONSTANCE CONWAY'S.
THE SAME—continued.
February 21.
ALBINIA has a comfortable home,—so far as carpets and curtains are concerned. If only that mountain of human pomposity were not appended! But then she need never have accepted him unless she wished. Albinia went in for the man, with the carpets and curtains, of her own free-will.
Of course it is pleasant to be comfortable. I should be the last to deny that fact. Velvet-piled carpets, into which the foot sinks as into moss, are superior to bare boards; and tapestry at twelve or fifteen shillings the yard is very much nicer than a cheap cretonne at twelve or fifteen pence. Still a good deal depends on how much may be involved in the possession of mossy carpets and rich tapestry.
Sometimes I find myself wondering whether, if ten years ago could come over again, Albinia would say "Yes" a second time. She was only twenty then, and he was by no means so portly as now. But Craven Smyth was Craven Smyth always. He never could be anything else. He managed invariably to excite naughty feelings in me, though I was a child under twelve. Albinia could not understand why. She used to say he was "so nice!"—That delightfully indefinite term which does quite as well for a man as for a cretonne. And her one hesitation seemed to be on the score of his surname. "To think of becoming Mrs. Smyth!" she remarked often.
After leaving the library, I lingered in the hall, thinking. Should I write my letter first, or speak to Albinia first? Time enough for both before I needed to dress for dinner. The latter seemed right, so I passed on into the drawing-room, with its costly furniture and superabundant gilding.
Not four days had gone by since I first heard of this "desirable opening" in the Romilly household. I had answered the earliest appeal by return of post, asking further particulars, and expressing strong doubts as to my own capacity. A letter had now arrived from Mrs. Romilly herself, urging, nay, imploring me to accept the position.
Had the request come from any one else except Mrs. Romilly, I must have unhesitatingly declined. For whatever Craven may say, I am not fitted for the post. I, a girl of twenty-two, unused to teaching, inexperienced in family life,—I to undertake so anomalous and difficult a task! The very idea seems to me wild, even foolish. Humanly speaking, I court only failure by consenting to go!
And yet—what if it is indeed the right thing for me? For all along it has appeared as if that were the one open path; as if all other paths were hedged up and shut. Any one else except Mrs. Romilly! Yes; that would make all the difference. But then, it is Mrs. Romilly! And she is ill, depressed, troubled, in difficulties, and she implores my help. How can I hesitate or think of self?
I have no other friend in the world like Mrs. Romilly. Not that we have been so very much together; but I think I fell in love with her at first sight, and the love has gone on growing ever since, steadily. Three times, at intervals, she has spent a month with an aged relative in Bath,—an acquaintance of Aunt Lavinia's and mine,—and each time we met as often as possible. We walked and drove together; read and sang together; went often to the Abbey Church together. I can talk freely to her, as I have never talked with any other human being; and she is no less free with me. She has often said that I helped her; and this seemed strange, because she has so often helped me.
Sweet Gertrude Romilly! I have never met with any one else quite like her; and I doubt if I ever shall. She is twenty years my senior; yet I do not think we have found disparity of age any bar to friendship. It would be unreasonable to suppose that I am as much to her as she is to me. She is so lovely, so beloved; and she has so many who are very near and dear to her, while I have but few. But, indeed, I find the love that she gives to me very full and satisfying.
I suppose her spirits in girlhood must have been wonderfully high. She has gone through much trouble, and has suffered under it most acutely; and notwithstanding all, she seems often to be just rippling over with happiness and fun. I never quite know whether to count her more winning in her gay or in her pensive moods.
During the three years since our acquaintance first began, Mrs. Romilly and I have corresponded regularly; and she has pressed me often to pay her a visit at Glynde House. But I have never felt that I could rightly leave poor Aunt Lavinia, since she grew so very infirm.
Now that my dear old aunt has been taken from me, things are changed. It did seem strange for a while that no word of sympathy came from Glynde House. The response has always been so quick, if I were in any trouble. But a few lines from the eldest daughter, Nellie, with a dictated message from my friend, soon let me know the cause.
I cannot now understand precisely what is wrong. Mrs. Romilly has broken down in health, though to what extent I do not know. A sudden attack on her chest has revealed a condition of things there, unsuspected before; and she is ordered off in haste to the south of Europe before March winds begin. That is not all, however. Nellie alludes to "the state of her nerves;" and it seems to be expected that she may have to remain many months away,—perhaps a great part of the summer. Nellie goes in charge of the invalid, and Mr. Romilly remains behind.
In the midst of these anxieties, another blow has fallen. The governess, Miss Jackson, who for fifteen years has lived with the Romillys, was summoned home to the bedside of a dying mother just before Mrs. Romilly's illness. After weeks of absence she wrote, unexpectedly, to plead the claims of a widowed father, begging to be if possible at once released. The claim could hardly be disallowed, and no difficulties have been made. But then it was that Mrs. Romilly turned to the thought of me. She knew of my plans for self-support. Would I, she asked, step into the vacant post, and be—not merely governess, but companion, caretaker, elder sister, guide, and friend to her darling girls?
The first letter on this topic was dictated, but the second was in her own hand,—so changed and feeble a hand, that it grieved my very heart,—pleading earnestly. Would I—could I—refuse to set her mind at rest?
No, I could not; and were the moment of decision to come over again, I feel that my reply would be the same. I could not refuse; even though the sense of incapacity weighed then and weighs still most heavily. I am not old enough or experienced enough for the position. Yet it did seem to me then, and it seems so still, that I have no choice.
[CHAPTER III.]
HOW DIAMONDS FLASH!
THE SAME.
February 24.
I MUST take up the thread where I left off three days ago. The last evening in Albinia's house has come, and to-morrow I make my plunge into a new life. It is late, and I have been busy; but there is much to think about, and sleep looks impossible at present. As well sit up and write, as toss to and fro in the dark.
Albinia was seated near the drawing-room fire when I went in, reading a little, or working a little, I can't say which. She is always doing a little of something, which ends in nothing. Perhaps she was working, for I noticed the flash of her diamond rings as she moved her hands.
Craven likes his wife to dress richly, and to make a good display of jewellery,—perhaps as an advertisement of his wealth. She is apt to be a little overladen with gems, just as her drawing-room is overladen with gilding. Her natural taste is good, but she conforms to her husband's taste in all such minor matters. Wisely, no doubt. Anything is better than a succession of domestic jars; and when Albinia became Craven's wife, she knew the manner of man who was to be her husband.
"What a dull afternoon we have had," I said.
"Yes," Albinia answered slowly. "Have you been out till now?"
I did not at once respond. Her question fluttered by me, and was forgotten. A reflection of our two figures in a pier-glass, lit up by half-lowered gas and dancing flames, had attracted my attention, and set me cogitating.
Albinia and I are often said to be alike. Though eight years my senior, she looks young for her age, and I—at least when grave—look decidedly old for mine. That brings us nearer together, and makes the mistake as to twinship occasionally possible. If I were to describe Albinia as I saw her in the glass—rather tall, rather thin, with a good figure, long supple limbs, and much natural self-possession; also with grey eyes, dark hair, and tolerably regular features—the description would apply equally well to myself, and probably would give no true impression of either.
For in reality Albinia and I are not alike. It is impossible that we should be. We may be formed on much the same model; eyes and hair may be the same in colouring; but we are not alike. Differences of temperament and character must show in the face. Albinia's torpid easiness of disposition and her willingness to submit, are the precise converse of my untiring energy and troublesome strength of will. Strangers may and sometimes do mistake the one for the other; but those who know us well are apt to deny the fact of any resemblance at all,—which is curious.
I have seen Albinia look very pretty at times,—not always, but under certain circumstances. Generally her fault is a lack of animation; and if this is overcome, she wins a good deal of admiration. Much more than I do. Some indeed tell me that I am far better looking than Albinia, but those are only my particular friends. We always see the best of a face when it is really dear to us. Many, I know, count me not at all attractive; and they are the people for whom I do not care. But I do not know why I should write all this.
The difference of our respective standings in life was well marked, that afternoon, by the blaze of Albinia's diamonds and the lustre of her splendid silk, seen side by side with my plain black serge and jet brooch. I did think she might have worn deeper mourning for the good old aunt to whom in childhood we both owed so much. But—there is Craven!
"Well," Albinia said at length.
"I beg your pardon, Albinia. I went into the park first; and since then I have been in the library, talking,—or rather listening."
"Talking about your plans?"
"I shall go to Glynde House in a fortnight."
A glittering flash of the diamonds showed me that Albinia had stirred suddenly.
"Then you have quite decided?"
"Quite. The Romillys want me, and Craven does not."
"We are expecting visitors soon," she said, rather faintly.
Poor Albinia! It was not her fault. I would not suggest that the house contained eight spare bedrooms.
"Of course I would rather have kept you for a few weeks longer," she went on. "But still—" and a pause. "If Craven—" another break. "And perhaps Mrs. Romilly wants you there before she leaves."
"No; not before. It would be her wish, but the doctors forbid excitement. She starts in a week from to-day; and she wishes me to go a week later,—just allowing the household time to recover a little from the parting. That seems wise, perhaps, as I am not to see her."
"You would have liked to see her."
"One cannot think of one's own wishes in such a matter," I said.
"And you only know Mrs. Romilly,—not the husband or daughters?"
"Except that I have heard so much about them all from Mrs. Romilly,—I can hardly feel myself a stranger."
"Are Mr. and Mrs. Romilly rich?" was the next question.
"Yes,—very comfortably off. And I suppose still more so since the death of a great-uncle of Mrs. Romilly's last autumn. An estate in Yorkshire came to them then. Mrs. Romilly spoke in a letter of their intention to go there every summer: though Glynde House will still be their home for the greater part of the year."
"And you will have the entire education of several girls! Housekeeping too?"
"I really don't know, Albinia. My notions as to what I shall have to do are hazy in the extreme. That is the worst of not seeing Mrs. Romilly. No, not the entire education. There are masters for accomplishments, I believe; and there is a nursery governess for the two youngest. Besides, Maggie must be pretty well out of the schoolroom."
"Oh, then of course she will be housekeeper."
"Craven predicts more need for the exercise of a 'beneficent influence' on my part than of actual teaching."
Albinia opened her eyes non-comprehendingly.
"He expects me to improve the household as a whole,—beginning, as I tell him, with Mr. Romilly. My own fear is that I shall be too much of a girl among girls,—with too little authority."
"It all depends on yourself. You must take a proper stand from the first. I dare say things will fit in well enough."
So easy for her to say and think. Hardly anything is more easy than to be philosophical for somebody else. I do not count that my own feeling in the matter is cowardice. I have never feared work or shrunk from responsibility. But from early childhood, I have been under the dominion of a strong sense of duty; and to half perform a duty has been always a misery to me. And I do feel myself so unfitted, so terribly inadequate, for the duties to which I seem called.
"Called." Yes; there it is. If indeed "called" to them, I shall find help sufficient. God does not place His children in positions of difficulty, to leave them alone afterward. My prayer has been—"If Thy Presence go not with me, carry me not up hence." And if His Presence does go with me, then nothing else can matter very much.
"I never expected you to have to take to governessing," Albinia said suddenly.
"Did you not?" I asked.
"No. Two years ago I had not a doubt that you would be married before this." She looked at me with questioning eyes. "What were you about, Con?"
"About my own business, I hope," I said. "Nearly time to dress for dinner. I must be quick."
"You can just as well write a line afterwards."
"No; I would rather catch an earlier post. I must set Mrs. Romilly's mind at rest, and I want to have the thing settled."
"You can write here," said Albinia.
I acquiesced, going to a davenport, though solitude would have been preferable. The letter seemed to need careful wording. Between my desire to bring repose to Mrs. Romilly, and my conscientious dread of promising more than I might be able to perform, I scarcely knew what to say. And I leant back in my chair, thinking.
"Do you know what o'clock it is, Con?"
Albinia's words roused me from a dream. She was crossing the room, and before me lay a black-edged sheet, with the date written—nothing more. While, fading from the foreground of my mind, was a vivid picture of a scene in a certain small Bath dining-room—a scene nearly two years old, called up by Albinia's utterances—a scene unknown to any living person, except myself and one other. I had forgotten Mrs. Romilly, forgotten my letter, forgotten the need for haste.
For recollections of that scene are apt to involve me in a train of questionings. They come up afresh now as I write.
Had I then known how soon the dear old aunt was to be taken away, how short a time she would claim my care, I think I should have come to a different decision. But I did not know. There seemed no reason why she might not live another ten or twenty years, always ill and helpless, always dependent on me.
What I did, I did for the best, and under a compelling sense of duty. At the moment I had no doubts, no feeling of hesitation. My path seemed clear as daylight. He thought me fearfully cold, and he was wounded and angry. Yet it was for his sake—because I would not bind him to years of waiting.
Was it quite needful—even as things then stood? Should I have been wrong to let him see that my "No" was a "No" of sheer duty, not of choice? Was there not at least the fault of too impulsive action, too rapid decision,—of not delaying to ask and wait for guidance?
"He that believeth shall not make haste." Those words come to me sometimes with a sharp sense of pain. I did believe, but did I act practically upon that belief? If I had not made quite so much haste, I might at least have worded my answer a little differently. And—I cannot be sure, but sometimes I do wonder if he had not almost a right to know that I was not so indifferent as I seemed.
After-regrets are worse than useless. They only unnerve one for daily life. I feel that, yet I cannot always hold these questionings in leash. They gain the mastery over me once in a while, though to no purpose,—worse than none. For he is gone out of reach. He will never know how things really were. Communication between us is at an end,—utterly! He said that he would take very good care never again to trouble me with his unwelcome presence, and I—I let him think it was unwelcome. I said nothing; and he went.
It was from thoughts such as these that Albinia's voice aroused me to the consciousness of my unwritten letter. She was going across the room, and had paused behind my chair.
"No, I have not done," I answered quietly. "One moment, please."
And I dashed off, in a rapid scrawl,—
"DEAR MRS. ROMILLY,—
"Yes, I will come—on the 25th inst. I am afraid it will be only to disappoint your expectations; but I cannot refuse. I will at least do my best.
"This is in haste, to catch the next country post. I want you to hear to-morrow morning. I will write again more fully in a day or two.—Ever yours affectionately—
"CONSTANCE CONWAY."
The letter went, and I was committed to the undertaking.
Now, sitting alone by candle-light in my room,—mine no longer after to-day,—with packed and half-packed trunks around, I find myself doing what I have resolved not to do,—turning back to that closed page of my history, and conning it anew.
I doubt if there be any occupation more vain than reading the past in the light of the present, and breaking one's heart for the things which might have been,—if only one had known! Except indeed that from the blunders of the past, one may gain wisdom for the future.
God knew all the time! That is the one great comfort. He knew—and cared—and guided. Not indeed with the precise and explicit guidance, which would have come, if I had expressly waited and looked out for His hand to point the way. But He makes all things work together in the end for the good of His loved ones,—yes, I do believe, even their very blunders. A mother does not neglect to watch the hasty steps of her most heedless little one; and I know that my Father does not—did not—forget me.
Nor will He. And does not the little one learn from its own stumbles to cling more to the mother's hand? I think so.
Still, I cannot help a feeling of loneliness to-night,—this last night of shelter in my sister's home, before stepping out into an untried and new world. One does crave at times for somebody to come very close, knowing and understanding all that one could say—or would not say. People think me so matter-of-fact and sensible and cheerful, and when they tell me what I am, of course I assent. If I demurred, they would only count their own opinion worth the most. But one cannot be always sensible or always cheerful, and the thirst for human sympathy has me in its grip this evening.
Yet is it not at such times that the human sympathy of Christ our Lord comes home—or ought to come home—to one? If not, the want is in us, not in Him—never in Him!
Now it is close upon midnight, and I must go to bed. What sort of a home shall I be in, twenty-four hours hence?
[CHAPTER IV.]
RAILWAY IMAGININGS.
THE SAME.
February 25. Evening.
"SO you leave us—a—to-day, my dear Constance, and—ahem—proceed to your new sphere of work. I am sure I may say—a—that you carry with you our best wishes—my wife's and mine, I should say."
N.B. * I have a great deal to write of first impressions in my new home, but Craven's utterances come up irresistibly, and insist on first attention.
* N. B.—nota bene
"Thanks," I replied. "It is quite a case of speeding the parting guest."
Now this was unkind to Albinia. She never can withstand her husband, but the gratification which beamed from his rotund face was not reflected in hers. I thought her even a little depressed in her apathetic way.
Craven showed no signs of being affected by my sharp utterance, but drawled out his next inquiry, "I believe you—a—start some time this morning—a—my dear Constance."
"The twelve o'clock train. Different lines don't fit in their time-tables well," I said. "It is unkind to passengers. I shall have two changes, and scant time for either."
"No doubt—a—if one train is missed, another runs later," said Craven.
"No doubt," I answered. "But I don't particularly want three or four hours' delay."
"I believe you—a—change trains at—a—at Hurst," said Craven.
"That is my first change," I replied. "The second is at Glynde Junction." But Craven was talking, not listening, so I stopped.
"At Hurst,—yes. Just so,—yes. To be sure,—yes. No doubt you will obtain lunch there,—yes, a very good plan. You will write and inform Albinia soon—inform Albinia as to your welfare—ahem. I may say that—a—I believe—a—that I feel no doubt whatever you will do well—ahem—will do excellently well in your new sphere. Yes, I may say—excellently. You have acted hitherto an exemplary part in the care of—a—your worthy relative,—looking for no return."
This was quite true. Aunt Lavinia cared for me in childish days, and I have cared for her in later years. It was a matter of course that I should do so. She has depended upon me entirely. But I have had no thought of reward. I always knew that the greater part of her income consisted of a life annuity. And it was my friends, not I, who were disappointed when, after her death, it became known that with the exception of one hundred pounds everything at her disposal was left to Albinia, not to me.
"Looking for no return," repeated Craven, with an unctuous little smack of approval peculiar to himself. "Yes, I may say—looking for no return. One reward you have doubtless, my dear little sister,—namely, the satisfactory mandate of your own conscience, and ahem—and a very respectable nest-egg of one hundred pounds, which you will do well to allow to accumulate at—a—at compound interest. The world now lies open to you, and an opportunity has at last arrived—a—has, I may say, at last arrived—for the exercise of your intellectual gifts. As I was about to remark, you—a—you undoubtedly possess—"
"I seem to have heard all this before, Craven," I said, glancing at the clock, which pointed to more than half-past ten. Breakfast in the Smyth household is not inordinately early.
"In a governess, my dear Constance," Craven said slowly, helping himself to fish for the fourth time, "in a governess—a—this fish is very much overboiled, Albinia, very much indeed—a—in a governess, my dear Constance, such impetuosity as yours is, I may say,—"
"Really! I thought I was particularly well adapted for being a governess," I exclaimed.
"Is, I may say,—" pursued the imperturbable Craven, "likely—a—to lead you into serious difficulties—ahem. Remember, my dear sister,—you should—a—remember that your office now is to guide—a—to instruct—a—the young. More than this, you depend—ahem—entirely upon your own exertions; and if—a—if, in a temporary fit of impetuosity, you are led to throw up your situation, you—a—you find yourself homeless—absolutely homeless, my dear Constance."
"I understand," I said. "I shall not come to you for shelter, Craven," and I stood up. "Will you kindly excuse me, Albinia? It is getting late, and I have not done my packing."
Albinia assented, not reluctantly; and I vanished. But I felt very vexed with myself. After many resolutions to keep calm and smooth to the end, here was I giving vent to irritability, like a pettish school-girl. Apart from the wrong-doing, what was the use? Craven would not understand.
As I turned the key of my travelling bag, Albinia glided into the room.
"The cab has come," she said. "It is rather early, and I meant to send you in the carriage; but—"
"No need for excuses," I said. "You can't help things, Albinia. I am only amazed that I could stoop to be angry with him."
Pretty severe, this; but I do not think the words touched Albinia. She said only, "I have brought you a little packet of sandwiches."
"Thank you," I answered. "Craven's plan of luncheon at Hurst is not quite feasible. I shall have just three minutes there."
"You need not say anything about the sandwiches downstairs," observed Albinia. Craven, with all his wealth, is no "lover of hospitality."
Another hour, or less, and I found myself alone in a second-class carriage, passing swiftly out of London, with nearly two unoccupied hours lying ahead.
The train was not an express, and several stoppages took place. Yet no one came into my compartment; and the solitude was not unwelcome. Between the closed chapter of my past life and the opening chapter of my future, this little pause seemed well. I had a book with me, but I could not read. There is something in the steady rush of a train which always inclines me to steady thought; and I had so much to think about.
It is odd to look back to one's previous imaginings of people or things, and to compare those imaginings with the realities.
I can recall clearly now some of the pictures which floated through my mind as I sat in the train. Probably they would soon fade, if I did not jot them down while fresh.
There was Margaret, the second daughter, "my sweet Maggie," as Mrs. Romilly calls her. I felt that I already knew well this dear girl, just nineteen in age, and of a nature so humble and winning that none could fail to love her. Mrs. Romilly doubtless leans more upon the capable Nellie; but it is around Maggie, her "tender, clinging Maggie," that I have seen her heartstrings to be most closely twined. Poor gentle Maggie! How I pitied the young girl yesterday, picturing her left thus suddenly at the head of a large household. She would indeed need all the help and advice that I might be able to give. I longed for Maggie's sake to have had more experience. She was not naturally a gifted manager like Nellie,—so I had heard,—but had always depended on her mother and elder sister.
Then there was Thyrza, some fourteen months younger than Maggie—"that dear difficult Thyrza," she is termed by her mother. I meant to win Thyrza in time, to gain her confidence by slow degrees. But in the reserved and brusque Thyrza, I could not look for so pleasant a return as in the sweet and lovable Maggie. Unconsciously, perhaps, I was a little prejudiced against Thyrza. Mrs. Romilly had so often spoken of her with a sigh.
The twins, Nona and Elfleda came up next, aged sixteen and a half. "My bright Nona," and "my lovely gipsy Elf!" Mrs. Romilly has called them. I could see in imagination the fair face of the one—"all sunshine, with such clouds of auburn hair and such a complexion!"—and the brilliant merry eyes of the little dark beauty. "Not very fond of study, either of them, but able to do anything they liked,—so quick and clever." Yes; Nona and Elfie could not fail to be favourites.
And the two small children, Popsie and Pet; and their young nursery governess, Miss Millington,—I had to be friends with all. There was also the fifteen year old boy, Denham, "my handsome son," Mrs. Romilly has styled him. I thought he must be dearer to her than the elder son, Eustace, which seemed curious. A mother usually clings most to her firstborn. But I had heard little of Eustace Romilly.
In addition to all these, there was Nellie Romilly's great friend, Gladys Hepburn, living "just round the corner," and closely interwoven with life in Glynde House, beside many others with names more or less familiar. But among all these figures, it was that of Margaret Romilly, "sweet Maggie," which stood out with the most inviting distinctness, forming the centre of my expectations. A purely imaginary figure, of course. I pictured Maggie as a girlish reproduction of my friend,—tall, slender, graceful, with liquid loving brown eyes, and pensive winning smile. Mrs. Romilly had shown me few photographs of her people. She always said they were such failures.
The background in my mind to all these moving figures was a fine country mansion, with extensive gardens and something of park land. I can hardly tell how this idea grew into existence; except that Mrs. Romilly has a way of writing and speaking about "our place," which has perhaps misled me. I am sure she does it with the utmost simplicity. It is habit she has fallen into unconsciously.
Mr. Romilly overshadowed the whole. I had formed a vivid idea of him. I knew him to be many years older than Mrs. Romilly, and she has spoken of him always with true wifely enthusiasm. My mental sketch of him was drawn from recollections of things she has said. There could hardly be such another man in the world. His face, his features, his manners, his self-forgetfulness, his kindness, his indulgence, his generosity,—all these have been painted before me, till I could only feel that he must be a very prince among men, and that to live under the same roof with Mr. Romilly must be a priceless privilege. The only marvel to my mind was that he had not gone abroad with his wife. But doubtless a spirit of self-denial restrained him, and he remained in England for the sake of his girls.
I found myself wondering next what manner of Church and of clergyman I should find. Mrs. Romilly may have described them to me, but I could recall no particulars. In my quiet Bath life, I used to attend many week-day Services in addition to those of Sunday. I found them a help—nay, a positive necessity. But things would be different at Glynde. That which had been a duty as well as a privilege in Bath—a duty because I had the leisure to go, and no prior home-claims to hinder me—might at Glynde cease to be a duty, because of such other claims.
[CHAPTER V.]
A "PRICELESS PRIVILEGE" REALISED.
THE SAME—continued.
February 26. Early Morning.
AFTER all, I might have procured my luncheon at Hurst without difficulty: for I missed my train, and had a long waiting time.
It passed, as such intervals do, and I found myself in a crowded compartment on the way to Glynde Junction. This second stage of my journey was a good deal occupied in observation of fellow-passengers. None of them was in any sense remarkable, but all human beings are more or less worth studying.
After a while the compartment began to empty, and I at the same time began to be aware that the train had lagged a good fifteen minutes behind time. No pleasant discovery this, since it probably meant the loss of the next train at Glynde Junction, and another long delay.
One old lady remained alone at the farther end of the carriage, nodding sleepily over a novel. A gentleman had stepped in at the last station, and had taken the corner opposite to me. While busily comparing watch and time-table, I had not noticed him; but a little while before reaching the Junction, I happened to glance up and met his eyes.
Evidently he had been examining me: no doubt from the same general interest in human beings to which I have confessed. He did not snatch away his eyes in the alarmed fashion of some people caught in the act, but met mine frankly. He might be, I supposed, under thirty: a gentleman every inch of him: in manner quiet, steadfast, entirely at his ease, and free from the least suspicion of self-consciousness. Mouth and chin were hidden by the brown moustache and beard, and more of the same soft brown hair receded in waves from the wide forehead. The eyes were singular, large and gentle as a woman's, pale brown in hue, with soft shading lashes, and set in hollowed-out caves, which, together with the delicately outlined temples and the slightness of the ungloved right hand, gave an impression of not very robust health.
I read at once in his look the unspoken question—"Is anything the matter?"
And my answer came involuntarily—
"I was wondering if there is any chance of my catching the train to Glynde."
"At the Junction? Yes; a chance, but a poor one."
"That train does not wait for this?"
"It is not supposed to do so."
"Glynde is new ground to me," I observed. "A pretty place, is it not?"
"There are a few pretty spots in the neighbourhood," he answered; and he mentioned one or two by name, describing briefly.
It is singular that I should have been drawn on to chat with him. As a rule, I am very shy of railway acquaintances. A woman, and especially a young woman, travelling alone, can scarcely act with too much reticence. Somehow I was disposed during those few minutes to make an exception in favour of this particular fellow-traveller, recognising instinctively a man whom one might trust. Not that such instincts may be safely depended on.
Some remark made by him led to the question on my part—
"Can you tell me anything about the Church?"
He asked, "Which Church?"
"The nearest to Glynde House," I answered; and a slight flash or lighting up of his face showed me that he was acquainted with the Romillys.
"The Parish Church is a mile and a half distant," he said. "There is a small Church or Chapel-of-ease not far from Glynde House."
"What kind of Church Services?" I asked next, speaking perhaps with a touch of wistfulness. I did not know it, till I saw the reflection in his face. But indeed the burden of the future and of my own incapacity was weighing on me heavily.
He answered again by a question, "What kind would you wish?"
"I should like—something helpful," I said.
A curious smile came into his face. "Is not the 'something helpful' always there?"
"Always!" I moved my head dissentingly.
"It ought to be."
"But things are so different in different Churches," I urged. "One cannot find the same amount of help, for instance, when the Services are dull and spiritless."
"Perhaps not the same amount," he said slowly. "But sufficient for our need—always that!" After a moment's thought, he went on—"We hear a good deal in our day about Church privileges; and none can value such privileges more highly than I do. Still, one ought not to forget that the greater a man's privileges are, the greater must be his responsibility."
"I suppose so," I said.
"Necessarily. It is an invariable rule—the more given, the more required. If our spiritual advance does not keep pace with the amount of our Church privileges, so much the worse for us."
"Yet there cannot be advance without—" I began, and stopped. For I knew I did not mean that.
"I must differ from you," he said courteously. "Some of God's greatest saints on earth have been by no means the most favoured with outward helps to devotion."
"But still—" I said.
"Still one craves such help. True; and the craving in itself may not be wrong—is not wrong, I should rather say. Though here, too, as with bodily needs, I believe one ought to be content either to 'abound' or to 'suffer need,' as God may appoint for us. Besides," he added, "that which is the greatest help to one, is not always helpful to another. We are differently constituted, and our needs differ. It is a perplexing question sometimes. Our Church Services are meant for the many. I am afraid some among us are, perhaps, a little too much disposed to insist on providing for the many that which only suits the needs of the few."
"And suppose," I said, "that the many insist on having what is no help at all to the few, but only a hindrance?"
"It should not be a hindrance."
"But if it is—"
"It need not be. The question as to a man's spiritual advance does not hinge there. Wine of heaven may be as freely given in a cup of earthenware as in a cup of porcelain, if only one is willing."
I repeated to myself, "If one is willing!"
"The gist of the matter lies there," he said.
The old lady at the other end woke up, looked round, and moved promptly down the seat to our vicinity, putting out a hand and a rubbed kid glove.
"How do you do, Sir Keith—how do you do?" she said, in brisk cordial tones. "Quite well, I hope; and Lady Denham too? Are you going home to her? No? I can't quite hear what you say—the train does make such a noise, and I'm getting just a little deaf."
There was no difficulty whatever in hearing the lady's own utterances, as she shouted in shrill tones at Sir Keith's left ear.
"Not going home till later! Oh, that's it, is it? Ah, you're such a busy man, I know—always hard at work about something or other. Well,—and so poor Mrs. Romilly is really off. Very sad about her, isn't it? I was sure you'd feel it, knowing them so well! And all those girls left behind,—really, it's a thousand pities. Just when they need a mother most! Nice girls too!"
She scanned him with quick inquisitive glances, as he listened, calmly attentive. "I wonder which is your favourite, now! I like Nellie best—not that I know them intimately. The Romillys are difficult people to get hold of. But I always do say they are nice ladylike looking girls, if only they weren't quite so much wrapped up in one another, and in their own concerns. A very attached family, I'm sure, and it's quite pretty to see them all so devoted to their father, dear man! Oh, Mr. Romilly is an immense favourite of mine. But as for Mrs. Romilly,—why, there's no doubt she does keep people at a distance, and holds herself as if she was a duchess. So very exclusive and all that! I hate exclusiveness, and I can't endure airs and graces. Still, Mrs. Romilly is nice enough in her own way, when one gets used—Are you going to get out here?"
It was a marvel to me that the old lady could keep on so long, with her twinkling black eyes fixed on that face of grave disapproval. I had begun to wonder whether I ought to announce myself openly as the new Glynde House governess, for fear something might be said before me which I had no business to hear. But as I hesitated, the train slackened speed, and Sir Keith stood up to lift down my roll of shawls.
"It is just possible that you may be in time," he said. "Ha! There is a man who will do his best." He threw open the door, handed my shawls to the porter answering his summons, then stepped out himself to assist me. Plainly all this came as a matter of course.
"Glynde train off yet?" he asked.
"No, sir." The porter had touched his cap, with evident recognition and as evident pleasure. "Just going, sir."
"See this lady in, if you please. The luggage will be behind. No time to get a ticket, I fear."
"Thank you very much," I said, and he lifted his hat before returning to his seat. Then followed a rush along the platform, a frantic hauling out of my trunks, a breathless scamper upstairs, over the bridge, down the other side, and I found myself in a first-class compartment with two gentlemen. There had been no leisure to choose. My trunks were flung in, unlabelled; and we were off.
Recovering from the flurry of my chase, I became aware of a gentle little piping masculine voice opposite—
"No, I—I could not possibly hesitate,—such very apparent need—er. Poor thing! It is a great gratification to be able to help those in need—er. My dear boy, it is very cold—very chilly—er. I am quite distressed to think of the girls driving to the station—er—in the open chaise. I really wish I had given different directions—er."
I could not help thinking of Craven; though this speaker, with something of the same cautious hesitation in bringing out his words, and even more of a tendency to linger on concluding syllables, had nothing whatever of Craven's grandiloquent pomposity. He was short, and of narrow small-boned make, with sunken cheeks, and delicate girlish hands. Grey hair, in the prettiest silken curls, peeped from under his most dainty travelling cap, partly hiding the defects of a narrow and unintellectual forehead; and a pair of deep-blue eyes, full of anxious appeal, wandered to and fro beseechingly. The mouth was anxious too—a really beautiful mouth in its classic curves, only so tremulously nervous and troubled.
Side by side with this little elderly personage was a young man, not at all resembling him. For the young man was tall, broad-shouldered, and powerfully made, with no pretensions to good looks. It seemed to me a good sensible face, however—that plain sunburnt face of his—though not handsome; and I admired the deferential kindness of his manner towards the older gentleman. Could they be father and son?
"If I had guessed—er—that it would be so chilly—er—I think it would have been advisable to procure hot-water cans for the journey—er. My feet are so very cold—er—quite suffering. I hope you do not feel the cold—er—very much, my dear boy."
He feel the cold! I could have laughed at the question. But the young man answered, without a smile, "Not at all, thanks. I wish I had thought of the hot-water tin for you, though."
"No consequence, my dear boy,—not of the very least consequence—er. And we shall be there directly, so it really does not—er—does not matter. But I am very chilly. I almost think—er—if you could get out a shawl for me, I should like it over my shoulders—er. Thanks—no, not that one. The Scotch tartan. Not there, do you say? Very strange, very strange indeed—er. I must speak to Phipps, I must speak to him quite seriously. He knows so well—er—I always use that shawl in travelling—er—quite invariably. No, nothing else, my dear boy,—nothing else will do. If the tartan shawl is not here, I must endure the chill."
Poor gentleman,—he shivered and looked quite blue. But the young man made no attempt to persuade him, only rolling up submissively the rejected wraps.
"Very cold indeed for the girls," went on the elder gentleman. "I am so afraid they will suffer—er. If only I had desired them to have a closed cab, instead of driving in the open chaise—er—it would have been safer. But perhaps they may think of it. Perhaps when we arrive, we could arrange—er—don't you think, my dear boy?"
"Yes, father," said the young man. He spoke very gravely, with no relaxing in the set of his strong plain face. Was he always so serious? It struck me as singular; for I should not have guessed him to be more than three or four and twenty at the most.
"I think we might arrange—er—if it should be very cold indeed at the station—er—perhaps—but I really do not know. It is very distressing to have had to send away the brougham just now. I shall ask you to see about that, my dear boy,—to get matters pushed forward—er. I have been really too shaken myself to attend—er—to attend to anything."
"Yes, father."
"I should hardly have ventured—er—on this little trip to-day,—if I had not hoped to meet you. It was very thoughtful of you to arrange things so,—very thoughtful. And I am sure that poor lady was most grateful—er. One is glad to be able to do a kindness, even at the cost of personal discomfort."
He shivered dolorously again. I leant forward, and asked, "Would you like me to put up this window?"
An immediate bow was the response. Plainly this little sickly elderly person was a thorough gentleman,—quite as much so, after his own fashion, as my former fellow-traveller, though a very different stamp of man.
"Thanks—er—I am very much obliged. But pray, do not inconvenience yourself—er. It is a chilly day!—" another shudder, accompanied by a suffering smile. "Very chilly, and I—er—am not robust. But pray do not,—unless you prefer it."
I did not prefer it, being a devoted lover of fresh air; nevertheless, I would have pulled up the glass promptly, if the younger man had not started forward to forestall me. I congratulated myself that it was not to be a case of prolonged suffocation. Five minutes more would bring us to Glynde.
The two fast-shut windows thickened rapidly with breath-mist; but the elderly gentleman seemed more at his ease, and shivered in leas deplorable style.
"Glynde at last," he said, as a whistle sounded. "Eustace, my dear boy, pray collect the parcels. And I think we should have the window open—er. Thanks. Ah, there are the girls. Maggie has not thought of a fly. Only the open carriage,—and such a cold afternoon. Thyrza not there—how strange! Pray secure a porter at once, my dear boy, to carry these parcels—er. And I think, as soon as we are out,—I think you should inquire whether Miss Conway has arrived—er—or whether she is expected now."
The train stood still. I had not at once noted the name "Eustace," but the more familiar "Maggie" and "Thyrza" could not be passed by, and what followed settled the business. I turned to the speaker, and said—
"I beg your pardon! I am Constance Conway!"
But could that be Mr. Romilly?
[CHAPTER VI.]
A MOTHER'S SWANS.
THE SAME.
February 26. Thursday.
I AM writing at odd times to-day, as I find leisure. A hot fit of journalism is on me just now; perhaps as a relief to certain nameless feelings; and I have a fancy to note down early impressions fully. The first two or three days amid new surroundings are often the future life there in miniature. Lessons do not begin till Monday; and the girls seem very busy in various ways, leaving me more to myself than I should have expected. Also I had a good spell of writing before breakfast. But—to continue!
I found myself on the platform, in the midst of a family gathering. A few other passengers alighted and vanished. There seemed small chance of our speedily vanishing likewise. My trunks were tossed out of the luggage-van, and the train passed on.
We were near the door of the general waiting-room, with a projecting roof over our heads. The roof ended a few paces farther on, and a white paling bounded the uncovered portion of the platform. I could see an open chaise beyond, with a fat brown pony hanging its sleepy head, and a boy lounging on the small box where was only room for one.
Mr. Romilly formed the centre of an eager group; and I, standing slightly apart, had leisure for a few observations. The grave young man, Eustace, stood also apart, and the immobility of his face struck me anew. I could not understand his receiving so moderate a welcome from his sisters. All eyes were bent upon Mr. Romilly, and the girls hovered about their father, with the devotion of satellites round a sun.
Vainly I looked for the "sweet Maggie" of my expectations, vainly also for the Nona and Elfleda of Mrs. Romilly's painting. Thyrza I knew had not appeared, and the boy in charge of the pony I guessed to be Denham. But Maggie, Nona, Elfie, the two little ones, the nursery governess,—enough were present to stand for all these. The two little ones I could of course distinguish. The rest at first sight I could not.
All the voices talked together. Broken scraps reached me, in tones not loud but excited.
"O father! We've had the jolliest day! We went such a walk!"
"And Millie was so tired!"
"And Gladys went with us."
"Oh, and father, only think—"
"Father, I'm going to have a canary-bird,—Pet and me, I mean."
"Yes, father, isn't it lovely? Mrs. Hepburn is going to give a canary to Popsie and me for our very own."
"Isn't Mrs. Hepburn a dear, father?"
"And it's a green canary."
"I thought canaries were yellow."
"So they are, Pops! But, father, only think, Gladys has heard—"
"O Nona! You might let me tell father that! Gladys has heard—"
"About her book—"
"Her story that she wrote—"
"From the Society where she sent it, father, and he says—"
"Nonsense, Nona: a society is it, not he."
"Well, it says, father, that they'll bring it out—"
"Because she's made the little girl that died get well again instead—"
"Yes, because there are such lots of cripples in stories, you know, father."
"And of course Gladys didn't mind doing that, and now it's really taken and going to be printed."
"And Maggie means to write stories too, father, like Gladys. Won't that be awfully nice?"
"My dears, I really don't—er—quite understand."
"Of course you don't, father, when Nona and Elfie tell you in such a ridiculous way."
"Oh, you don't understand, of course, father, because nobody has known a single word about it till to-day."
"Except Mrs. Hepburn and all of them."
"Anybody out of their house, I mean. At least Nellie might, but Maggie didn't."
"I knew Gladys wrote stories, Nona."
"Yes; but not about her trying to get them printed."
"Father, did you see that poor lady, and give her a lot of money?"
"And Thyrza not here, my dears-er! I don't understand Thyrza's absence."
"Oh, she meant to come in time, father,—if she could."
"Father, who is to walk and who is to drive? Millie thought—"
"Nonsense, Nona. I don't wish to be quoted on all occasions."
"But, Millie dear, I was only going to say—"
"Now, children—er—I think we have talked long enough. Miss Conway is waiting all this time—er—quite neglected. Pray do excuse us, Miss Conway. I fear you will think the children sadly uncivilised. My dears, this is Miss Conway—your beloved mother's dear friend—er—and you will give her a very warm welcome. This is Maggie, Miss Conway, our eldest now at home,—and this is Nona, and this Elfleda. Thyrza, I regret to say, is not here. Our little ones—er—Popsie and Pet—and—er—Miss Millington. My second boy, Denham, is with the pony."
One after another came forward to shake hands, showing more or less of shyness, and no particular warmth.
My first view of Margaret Romilly brought disappointment. For she proved to be in no wise a reproduction of Mrs. Romilly. She is short instead of tall, plump instead of slender; and the only prettiness of which her round innocent face could at that moment boast, lay in the possession of a peach-bloom complexion, and a pair of dark-grey eyes with long curved black lashes. Neither figure nor carriage is good, and the rosy childish hand put into mine might have been years younger than the long fingers of the tall Nona, her more than two years' junior,—both having pulled off their gloves.
Where were Nona's "clouds of auburn hair?" I saw only a knotted coil of decided "carrots" under the brown hat which sheltered Nona's face. A bright face enough, with ordinary features, and with a really transparent skin, which however is a good deal marred by the brown cloudiness resulting from abundant summer freckles.
Elfleda, my friend's "lovely gipsy," I might have recognised earlier, despite the fact that to my critical eyes the loveliness was lacking. I saw only a slim creature, very small in make for sixteen years and a half, with sharp tiny features, elfishly old and quaint, a pair of dusky orbs which neither flashed nor sparkled, a pale sallow complexion, and minute brown hands. Apparently the elf had less to say than anybody. Her little shut-up button of a mouth opened rarely during those few minutes of general talk.
The two youngest girls, Popsie and Pet, or more correctly Mary and Jean, aged eight and seven years old, struck me as rather pretty. They stood hand in hand, under the guardianship of Miss Millington, a young lady perhaps one or two years older than Maggie, and scarcely over Maggie in height, but with greater confidence of bearing, a compact figure, and a neat "pussy-cat" face, by no means intellectual.
A sudden silence fell upon the party with my introduction. Miss Millington's eyes travelled over me from head to foot, taking an inventory of my dress. I made some remark upon the journey, and Mr. Romilly chimed in nervously, repeating my words and enlarging on them.
Then we moved towards the pony-carriage, and the boy in charge descended to greet us. His manner towards me was both more frank and more indifferent than that of the girls. Like Elfleda, he is small in make; and his delicate sharp features are his father's over again, but the slim figure is well-knit, and the blue eyes contain possibilities of unbounded mischief. The silky grey curls of the father are silken brown curls in the son, dropping over a forehead neither high nor broad, but white as alabaster. I have heard much about the singular beauty of this boy, and for the first time I could recall my friend's description with no sense of disparagement.
Mr. Romilly was talking, talking, in his little thin slow voice, about the weather, and about the danger of a chill, and about the need for a closed fly, and most of all about Thyrza's non-appearance. He was fretted and worried, and nothing could be arranged quite to his liking. Eustace offered to go for a fly, but Mr. Romilly could not possibly wait. Denham suggested a hunt for the missing Thyrza, but Mr. Romilly could not think of it. "If Thyrza did not care to come—er!" &c.
Then the question rose anew, who should drive and who should walk. My luggage was to be sent, and it was taken for granted that I must drive, a decision against which I protested vainly. Nobody so much as listened. Maggie stepped in after me, as a matter of course; and Mr. Romilly dallied long, with one little patent-leather boot on the step. He wanted Popsie and Pet with him; and he thought it unkind to permit Miss Millington to walk; and he was quite sure dear Elfie must be overdone; and he was so very sorry not to feel equal to the exertion himself. And everybody waited to know his decision, with, I am afraid, much more patience than I could feel.
Suddenly a girlish figure came swiftly round the corner of the station,—taller than Maggie, taller even than Nona, and thinner than either, with a grave set face, troubled, as it seemed to me, in a vexed fashion. I knew in a moment that this was Thyrza, even before her name was uttered by one after another of the group in varying accents of reproach. She walked straight up to us, bent her head to kiss the father who was shorter than herself, lifted it in like matter-of-fact wise to kiss the tall elder brother, and stood still.
I could hardly have told then what there was in this "dear difficult Thyrza" which interested me at first sight more than all the others. It was not beauty though my own immediate impression was that Thyrza would one day be the best-looking of the sisters. It was not attractiveness of manner, for she made no effort to seem agreeable. I think it must rather have been a certain indefinable something which spoke the presence of character—of that which even more than power of intellect, and far more than mere beauty of form or feature, stamps an individual as standing apart from the throng of his or her fellow-men.
Whatever Thyrza's faults might be, I knew at once that in her I should at least not meet with inanity or weakness. There might be misdirected force, but force there was. While these impressions swept through my mind, others were speaking.
"Thyrza, you never came after all, and father was so disappointed," complained Maggie.
"And you promised," put in Nona.
"Oh, Thyrza's promises are pie-crust," said Denham.
"Made to be broken," added Nona.
Thyrza had said nothing thus far. She stood near Eustace, her slender upright figure shown well by a closely-fitting cloth jacket. Unlike the rest, she has her mother's figure, though not her mother's grace. There was something a little rigid in her attitude, and the two arms hung flat, with no suspicion of a curve. Neither has she Mrs. Romilly's face. The straight thin features, the heavy thick black hair, the dark serious eyes, are Thyrza's own. I could see no resemblance in them to any other member of the family. So, too, are the resolute and beautifully-moulded lips: for if in outline they are Mr. Romilly's, in character they belong exclusively to herself.
Those closed lips parted suddenly. "I did not promise, Nona. I said I would come if I could."
"Oh yes, we quite understand," retorted Nona, with a touch of good-humoured pertness.
"Thyrza, my dear, this is Miss Conway," Mr. Romilly said, in a fretted distressed tone, as if he were restraining serious displeasure. I could not see, for my part, what there was so very heinous in her non-appearance to welcome a father who had been absent only one night. Eustace was evidently left out of the question.
Thyrza stepped forward, and gave me her hand abruptly. I do not know whether she read in my face anything of what I thought. Our eyes met, and some look in mine must have touched her—how, I do not know. Her face did not relax, but a sudden softness came into the black eyes; and as she was in the very act of snatching her hand away, the fingers closed round mine in a sharp awkward fashion, as if from an afterthought.
"Now—er—I think we should decide—er," hesitated Mr. Romilly. He seems to me always at a loss what words to employ next. "So very chilly here. I really think—if anybody has no objection to the walk—er—"
He looked round helplessly, and Thyrza responded—
"Why can't Nona and Elfie and I walk with Eustace? Maggie likes driving best, and Miss Millington says she is tired. There's room enough for the children too, if nobody minds crowding."
She had hit the mark, though no precise explanation of the state of affairs had been tendered for her benefit. I noted a slight stress on the "says," and a slight toss of Miss Millington's head, which revealed to me a condition of something like chronic war in one direction. I thought, too, that I could detect more signs of real fatigue in the little thin face of Elfie than on the "pussy-cat" features of Miss Millington. The timely suggestions were followed, however. Neither Nona nor Elfie objected. The four pedestrians started off briskly, and the well-laden pony-carriage soon followed at a moderate pace, suited to the inclinations of the fat and drowsy pony.
I was rather astonished to find that all this delay and discussion had been with reference to a fifteen minutes' walk. The drive proved to occupy quite as long a time, since we had to take a considerable tour in place of a short-cut, and the ground sloped upwards continuously.
Most of our way lay along a dull road, with a hedge on one side and a wall on the other: an occasional house in a garden alternating with small fields.
Mr. Romilly kept up a diminutive flow of talk with Popsie and Pet, addressing a remark now and then to me; but conversation generally was limited in extent. Miss Millington studied me persistently, with eyes which noted every fold and button in my dress, and had power to see very little beyond the folds and buttons. Maggie's pretty eyes studied me too at intervals, in a girlish and interested though not penetrative fashion. I could not feel sure whether or no Maggie were disposed to like me, but I could be very sure that Miss Millington was not.
Reaching Glynde House, my visions of a possible park died a sudden death. For it was evidently just a good-sized "family mansion," so an agent would term it, roomy and comfortable, and standing in a good-sized garden; nothing more and nothing less. Thyrza stood at the front door to welcome us; if her silent reception could be called a welcome. The three others had vanished. She took possession of my bag and shawl, and held them resolutely, while Mr. Romilly insisted on leading me from room to room on the ground-floor, that I might at once know my whereabouts.
So we walked into the large drawing-room, through a kind of ante-chamber or small drawing-room; then into the capacious dining-room; then into the study, the morning-room, and the schoolroom. I was glad to find the latter nicely furnished, with two windows and plenty of book-shelves.
"The morning sun comes in this side," remarked Maggie, who accompanied us, while Thyrza waited at each door in turn. "It would be very cold with only that north-east window. Millie—I mean, Miss Millington—teaches the little ones in the nursery," she added. "Except that she has to give them their music on this piano, because there is no piano upstairs. And, of course, she sits here a good deal. At least she always has. Jackie—I mean, Miss Jackson—was so fond of Millie, and never minded. And they all three come to schoolroom tea and supper here. It saves trouble for the servants."
"This is, of course—er—your special property, Miss Conway," explained Mr. Romilly. "But I hope—er—I trust you will not confine yourself to the schoolroom. My dear wife is counting on your companionship for our dear girls—er—for Maggie especially,—apart from the teaching. Pray consider yourself as our guest—er—as here in every respect as our friend—er—and pray remember that the more we see of you in the drawing-room—er—I am sure you understand."
I did quite, and I wished people would not make speeches, though of course he meant it most kindly. Maggie's expression struck me as a little curious. I could not make it out, for the simple reason, I suspect, that she did not herself know exactly what to think. Maggie's position is almost as new to her as mine to me. She glanced at us both in a kind of puzzled fashion; and when he went on to talk of her inexperience as a housekeeper, and to suggest the benefits of my advice, a look of dissent came.
Some people in my place would have taken her hand affectionately, and said a few words of just the right sort about the mother whom we both loved, and about my readiness to help if asked. But I never am able to manage these little gushes of appropriate feeling at the correct moment. I have often wished that I could. One loses so much time, waiting for others to take the initiative.
I ventured soon to ask after Mrs. Romilly; and her husband entered into a long and sighing dissertation on her state of health, saying much but telling little, and presently diverging to his own condition. Such a comfort it was that they had such a dear girl as their dear Nellie, to undertake the charge of the beloved invalid, he hardly knew what they could have done but for Nellie. He was really so feeble himself, and travelling always affected him so painfully. But dear Nellie was quite invaluable; and everything had been arranged for the comfort of his precious wife. Such a mercy, too, that this very chilly weather had not set in just before they started. And everybody had been so kind, the amount of sympathy from friends under these exceptionally trying circumstances had been really past his power to describe. And then the unutterable consolation to himself and his dear Gertrude, that her chosen friend should be able to come and take her place with the dear girls,—to act, in short, a mother's part to them,—he felt that he might almost lay aside the burden of responsibility, otherwise so heavy in her absence. He had indeed very much to be thankful for, notwithstanding the deep trial of such a prolonged separation.
All this and much more, uttered in a dolefully pathetic minor key hardly expressive of thankfulness, I heard with less of inward than of outward patience. My stock of patience is not, I fear, very large. And the idea of my "acting a mother's part" to these girls struck me as a little too ludicrous. Why, I am but a girl myself, not four years older than Maggie! But perhaps on first arrival I had my thirty-years-old look, which I must certainly endeavour to cultivate.
At length I was taken to my room, and Thyrza offered to help me in the unpacking of my trunks. Maggie lingered about, coming in and going out, with a certain embarrassed persistency, as if unable to decide on her proper line of action. Then she took me downstairs to afternoon tea in the drawing-room; and different members of the family appeared and disappeared, all seeming more or less constrained because of me. I am afraid I have not the gift of putting people at their ease.
The rest of the afternoon and evening passed slowly. We all dined together at seven, even Miss Millington and the little ones, which seems to be regarded as an unusual occurrence. In the drawing-room, later, I was treated as a visitor. The girls played or sang, as they could, and Mr. Romilly kept the talk going laboriously.
I do not yet know what will be the ordinary course of household events. Information is not readily tendered, and I have a dislike to asking many questions. Maggie, being so young a manager, seems to expect things to take a straight course, without effort on her part.
All the evening I had a feeling of perplexity as to my own real position here. It seems to me an anomalous one,—half guest, half governess. Can that work well?
I thought it over late at night, feeling harassed and lonely. No distinct light on the actual perplexity came, but only one short sentence, running through and through my head, as I lay awake:—
"Be of good cheer: IT IS I!"
No more than this; and what more could I need? Whatever comes or may come in my life—still, IT IS JESUS! Harassing perplexities, loneliness, difficulties, uncertainties, what are they all but the pressure of His Hand, drawing me nearer to Himself?
The restlessness and the craving for human comfort died away into a wonderful peace,—such a sense of my Master's loving sympathy, such a readiness to have all exactly as God my Father should will, such a feeling of being upheld and guarded by the Divine Spirit, as I have never in my life known before. And I fell asleep, quite satisfied.
[CHAPTER VII.]
THYRZA'S SANCTUM.
THE SAME.
February 27. Friday.
THE country round Glynde seems to be tolerably pretty, of the English semi-rural description, with fields and hedges, farmsteads and cottages, and enough undulating ground to obviate flatness.
Glynde itself is a sleepy country town, of ordinary type, possessing its two Churches, its clergy, its doctors, its lawyers, its necessary array of second-hand shops, its town-hall and markets, its occasional small concerts and other entertainments, its local business on a limited scale, and its local gossip on a scale unlimited. So much I gather already, from observation and passing remarks.
I have always said that I should detest above all things life in a retired country town,—Bath being a city of too much character and history to come under that appellation. Having declared which, it is not surprising that I find myself now stranded on just such a spot.
For if one is so rash as to assert positively that one will not do a certain thing in life, one is pretty sure to be called on some day to do that thing.
The geography of Glynde House is not difficult to learn. In shape the building is a square substantial block, with a large conservatory jutting out on one side, and kitchen offices protruding behind.
On the ground-floor a broad passage or hall runs from the front door to the storeroom and lavatory, beyond which lie kitchen-premises. To the right of the hall, as one enters, is first, the ante-chamber or small drawing-room, the large drawing-room and the conservatory; next, a small passage and side-door into the garden; and behind these, the schoolroom. To the left of the hall are the dining-room, the study, and the morning-room.
On the first-floor, a broad corridor traverses the house from front to back, ending in a bath-room. To the right are, first, Mr. and Mrs. Romilly's very large bedroom and dressing-room; then a small room occupied by the twins; and lastly, a two-windowed room over the schoolroom, apportioned to me. On the other side, over the dining-room, is the spare-room with its dressing-room; behind that a spacious room belonging to Nellie and Maggie; behind that a room for Eustace and Denham.
On the second floor the left half is entirely set apart for the servants, being divided off by a wall running the whole length of the corridor, which thus becomes two separate passages. To the right are, first, and in front, a big low-roofed nursery, transformed of late into a secondary schoolroom; behind that a locked-up room containing household linen; then a bedroom for Popsie and Pet, and opening into that another for Miss Millington. Behind Miss Millington's again is a narrow strip of a room, appropriated by Thyrza.
It is Thyrza's own choice to sleep there, and she told me so frankly. At one time she shared the elder girls' really luxurious quarters; but about a year ago she entreated that the little box-room might be fitted up for her exclusive use; and the request was granted.
"Anything to have a corner to myself!" she said yesterday afternoon, when explaining this. I was a long time alone in the morning, the girls having promised to walk some distance with friends. They asked dubiously whether I would not like to go also, but I begged off, with thanks. I had unpacking to do, I said, and letters to write. After all, the unpacking and letters resolved themselves into journalising.
Luncheon over, Maggie proposed to drive me out in the pony-carriage, "to see the place;" and the twins accompanied us. Conversation did not flow very easily, I am afraid; and I could not feel that I was making great way as yet. Nona chattered a good deal about nothing; and Elfie scarcely spoke at all. Her little brown impassive face puzzles me. Is she always like this? Maggie seemed to like talking about the Hepburns; and I was interested in what she said, though it did not amount to much.
"This is Glynde Park," Maggie said, as we passed through iron gates. "It belongs to a great friend of ours—Sir Keith Denham."
"There was a gentleman in the train with me yesterday," I said. "Somebody called him 'Sir Keith,' and asked after 'Lady Denham.'"
"Oh, that was the same, of course. How funny!" Maggie said, in her half-childish style. "Lady Denham is his mother. We don't like her so much as we like him, she is so odd. Everybody likes Sir Keith."
She blushed up in her quick way. I could not tell whether it meant anything. Some girls blush at everything, just as others never blush at all.
Nona chimed in, "Oh, everybody! He's the very nicest man that ever was. Eustace is going to dine at the Park to-night. He and Sir Keith are immense friends, aren't they, Maggie?"
I did not admire the little giggle which followed this speech. It sounded foolish, though all else seemed simple and natural enough.
Drizzling rain came on, and our drive was cut short. As I went upstairs I met Thyrza, and she said, "You haven't seen my room yet?"
"No," I answered. "Will you show it to me now?"
Thyrza followed me into my own room, where I removed bonnet and jacket. Then it was that she explained the sleeping arrangements of the family, ending with the ejaculation, "Anything to have a corner to myself!"
"I can understand your wish," I said.
"Can you? Nobody else does. Mother gave way; but she doesn't like my wanting it."
"You have a cosy corner, at all events!" I said, as we entered, glancing round upon the variety of odd knick-knacks and curiosities which adorned the walls of the narrow chamber, or were crowded upon shelves and brackets. Framed photographs and unframed paintings alternated with porcelain figures, china plates, and Japanese fans; and every available space seemed to be filled up with an assortment of quaint cups and teapots, stuffed birds, nursery toys, geologic specimens, everlasting flowers, dried grasses, bulrushes, strings of beads, draped scarves, Swiss sabots, German carvings, and what not! Such a heterogeneous collection in so small a space I had never come across before. The little iron bed was at one end, the fireplace at the other, the window on one side between, looking towards the north-east.
One corner, near the fireplace, seemed to be given up to sacred subjects. Two framed illuminated texts flanked an exquisite engraving of Holman Hunt's "Light of the World;" around the simple Oxford frame of which was entwined a spray of ivy. Beneath the engraving stood a small table; and on the table lay a Bible, a Church Service, a handsome copy of "The Christian Year," Thomas à Kempis' "Imitation," and two or three other volumes.
"Do you like the room?" asked Thyrza.
"I like anything characteristic," I answered. "Some day you must let me into all the secrets of your curiosity-shop."
"Would you care? That will be nice."
The first three words came with quite a flash of pleasure. After a pause, she added, in her abrupt style, "Nobody else likes it."
"Why?" I asked.
"Except Eustace, I mean, and he only because it pleases me. Oh, I don't know why. Tastes differ, I suppose. Father thinks it all nonsense. And mother says that corner is so incongruous with the rest."
We were near the small table already mentioned, and I turned to look upon the kingly Figure depicted above,—the Figure of One waiting with Divine patience at a barred and moss-grown door, and with a wondrous light of loving pity in His glorious Eyes. A hush crept over me as I gazed.
"Isn't it beautiful?" murmured Thyrza. "If only I could see the original painting!"
"I have seen it," I said.
"And you enjoy this—after that?"
"The more, for having seen that."
"It is so beautiful," she said again.
"More than beautiful," I answered. "One seems to gain a fresh insight into His character from studying that Face. There is such a mingling of majesty and tenderness."
I did not expect a sudden little clutch of my hand, and a quick, "Oh, I am so glad you feel that. It's just what I feel, and can't put into words."
"Of course," I added, "it is only a human conception of what He is; and one knows that every human conception of Him must fall infinitely short of the reality."
Thyrza's dark eyes were fixed on me intently. "And you don't think this corner of my room incongruous with the rest," she asked. "I do so like to have all my pet things about me; and I have nowhere to put them except on the walls. Is there any harm?"
"I can understand your mother's feeling," I said cautiously. "And if there were any touch of the really comic, frankly, I should not like that, side by side with the sacred. But the room does not strike me as comic. It is only singular and natural, a putting forth of your mind and tastes. To me, it seems rather to mean the coming of religion into the common little things of everyday life. If our religion doesn't do that, it is not worth much. Perhaps a good deal depends on how one looks upon a question."
[CHAPTER VIII.]
"MILLIE."
THE SAME—continued.
February 27. Friday Evening.
"THANK you," Thyrza said earnestly.
She led me to the tiny mantelpiece, over which hung numerous photographs. Brothers and sisters grouped round the parents were easily recognisable; most of them having been recently taken.
Somewhat apart from the central family collection, I noted two of cabinet size, placed close together. One was the likeness of a remarkably handsome youth, almost a young man, standing in an attitude of careless and smiling ease. The other represented a lad, perhaps two or three years younger, plain-featured, but brimming over with so irresistible a look of fun and merriment, that I fairly laughed aloud, as I looked into the mischievous eyes.
"Who are those?" I asked, smiling still, and turning to Thyrza.
No answering smile met mine. "Keith and Eustace," she said.
I looked again. "Not your brother Eustace, of course. You have a cousin of the same name, perhaps," I suggested. For the one was far too handsome; and there seemed no possible connection between that other radiantly merry face and the grave young man downstairs.
"Yes, my brothers, Keith and Eustace." She spoke in a curt, even hard tone. "The photos were taken six years ago, just before it all happened. Nobody else can bear to see them together like this. But I think—"
Thyrza stopped abruptly.
"I did not know you had had another brother," I said. There had been the loss of one little girl, I was aware, between the twins and Popsie; but of any older son than Eustace I had not heard.
"Then mother never told you. I wonder at that. She can't speak of Keith generally; but you are her friend!"
"I cannot recall any mention of him," I said.
"And you don't know how it all happened?"
"No." Thyrza was silent, and I repeated the name "Keith! That is the same as your friend at the Park."
"Yes; he was named after his godfather, the old Sir Keith."
I looked at the photograph and asked, "What was his age then?"
"Eighteen, and Eustace was sixteen."
"And you were quite a child."
"Yes, not twelve." She gazed fixedly on the ground, as if thinking. "Everybody knows," she said at length; "and you must too. I would rather you should not say that I told you; but of course you will have to know. It was just before Christmas, and they had come home for the holidays. And the ice on the pond was not safe. Eustace persisted in skating, against orders. Only Keith and I were there, and we begged him not, but it was of no use. He was always so high-spirited, and he liked his own way; and father being so nervous about everything, Eustace thought it nonsense. And he went on; and the ice broke; and Keith plunged in to help him."
"And was Keith drowned?" I asked, in a low voice.
"No; not drowned. But the ice kept breaking, and they couldn't get out, and I ran to call some men to bring a rope. Eustace was saved first, and then Keith sank before he could be reached, and he was insensible for hours after, much worse than Eustace. It was a dreadful time. Eustace soon came all right again; but Keith had never been really strong. He caught a very bad chill, and inflammation of the lungs set in. He died in a fortnight."
"How terrible!" I said.
"Yes. Oh, and if you had known him, such a dear fellow. I can't tell you what he was to us all. Everybody thought so much of Keith, and he never seemed the least conceited. They call Denham like him; and I suppose he is in a way. Father and mother think so, and that is why they can't bear to deny Denham anything he wants. But he is so different. Keith was tall, not little like Denham, and so much more clever and hard-working, and so really good! And he and Eustace were so fond of one another. Don't you think it was worst of all for Eustace, much worse than for anybody else?"
Thyrza's dark eyes looked again earnestly into mine, deepening and dilating with the strength of her own feelings. "Keith did so beg and beseech, before he died, that no difference might be made to Eustace. He said we were never to think of it as Eustace's doing. But—there is a difference. Nobody ever forgets; and nobody ever seems quite to forgive—except—"
"Six years!" I said involuntarily, as she paused.
"Six years and a few weeks! It is a long long while to keep the feeling up. And Eustace meant no harm, Miss Conway. He was just a reckless boy,—in wild spirits. Of course he was wrong to disobey,—very wrong. But still, it wasn't worse that time than fifty other times, I suppose. It does seem such a dreadful punishment to have come upon him."
"I suppose one ought rather to put it the opposite way," I said; "that the fifty other times were really no better than that time."
"Yes—perhaps—but such, a punishment to follow upon that once!" she repeated.
"Hardly upon that once alone," I said. "If he had not disobeyed fifty times before, more or less, he would not have disobeyed then. Don't think me hard upon your brother, Thyrza, for indeed I do feel for him. But I believe we are all a little apt to forget how every single step in life is part of a steady working onward towards some good or some terrible goal. No one deed can be weighed by itself, detached from others."
She gave me a startled glance, and said, "Every single step!"
"It must be," I said. "Everything that we do strengthens either the good or the evil in us; and no one thing done can ever be undone."
Thyrza drew a long breath. "Ah, that is the worst!" she said. After a moment's hesitation she went on, "Eustace has never been the same since. He never speaks of Keith, or of that time. Some don't understand, and think him unfeeling. I have heard him called 'callous.' As if people could not see for themselves!"
"I should have thought it would be enough to compare that photograph with his face now," I said.
"Then you understand," responded Thyrza abruptly.
"And your mother so bright still," I said, with surprised recollection.
"Mother! Oh yes, she is bright by fits and starts. I don't think she can help having a bright manner with strangers, it is her way. But she perfectly worshipped Keith. They thought mother wouldn't have lived through it, when he died."
We did not carry on the conversation farther. I had more unpacking to do, and I went to my room, inviting Thyrza to accompany me. She acquiesced with evident pleasure. Five minutes later there came a tap at the door, and Rouse, the upper housemaid, entered, glancing at my half-empty trunks. She is very staid and superior in look, with the pleasant noiseless manner of a really good servant. "Would you like any help this afternoon, Miss?" she asked.
"Oh no, Rouse, I am going to unpack for Miss Conway," said Thyrza.
Rouse's face showed some lurking amusement. I thanked her, and she withdrew, begging me to ring if I wanted anything.
"What a nice person she seems!" I said.
"Rouse has been with us seven years, and always thinks of everything. Fortunate that she does, for Maggie remembers nothing, and she won't be reminded," said Thyrza.
"People cannot learn housekeeping in a day," I observed; and as I lifted out a dress, Thyrza standing by in a rather helpless attitude of would-be helpfulness, I inquired about the daily arrangements as to meals.
"Breakfast is always at eight, like this morning," she answered. "Father isn't often down till half-past, as you saw to-day, and Prayers are always at half-past, and he breakfasts alone after. And luncheon is at one, always the same, only it is sometimes more of a dinner, and sometimes less. The schoolroom tea is at five, and it is open to anybody. Miss Jackson always made tea, and of course you will now, but Millie is pretty sure to try and oust you, if you don't look out. She dearly likes to put herself first. Mother and Nellie sometimes come to the schoolroom tea; but as a rule they have tea in the drawing-room. Maggie is bent on keeping up the drawing-room tea, though really it is absurd, except just when callers come rather late. Father and Eustace never take tea, and Maggie is only just out of the schoolroom."
"Then she is out of it," I said.
"Yes; and mother wanted me to be out too, so as to be a companion to Maggie. But of course I could not. Why, I am not eighteen for another two months, and Maggie has gone on till her nineteenth birthday is over. Father always promised that I should do the same. I am to pay calls sometimes with Maggie, while mother and Nellie are away. That is bad enough, for I hate calls. Don't you?"
"Not if they come in the way of my duty," I said.
"Are calls ever a duty?" asked Thyrza. "It always seems to me such a sham, going and hoping to find everybody out."
"Is that always a necessary state of things?"
"I don't know," she said. "Not with everybody, but with me. Then there is late dinner at seven, and schoolroom supper at half-past seven. When we are quite alone, all we elder ones down to Denham dine with father, and so will you, because mother settled it so. Miss Jackson never would. She said late dinners disagreed with her. I believe she really was afraid of Millie; for it was only since Millie came that she said so. But you are mother's friend, and differences are to be made. Millie—Miss Millington, I mean,—is awfully jealous of you, because she always has her supper in the schoolroom with the children."
"Thyrza, you must not try to set me against Miss Millington," I said gravely.
"There's no need. You will see for yourself. Besides—" after a pause,—"it is only I who dislike Millie. The others are no end devoted to her, and so was Jackie,—Miss Jackson, I mean. We always called her Jackie. I am afraid it was rude, but she didn't mind. She never minded anything, so long as nobody was cross."
"I should like the schoolroom supper quite as much as the late dinner," I said.
"I like it much best of the two! But mother made a great fuss about that, and it will never do for you to say you don't wish it. Father would be desperately vexed—hurt, I mean! I advise you just to take everything as a matter of course. You will soon learn all the ins and outs of the house."
"One thing is quite certain," I said. "I am your mother's friend, but I am also your governess; and I will not have the last fact forgotten in the first."
Thyrza gave me a wide-eyed glance of wonder and approval.
"You'd better not say that in Millie's hearing."
"Why?" I asked imprudently.
"Oh, nothing offends her more than the word 'governess.' And 'nursery governess' finishes her off altogether."
I could hardly help smiling. "To my mind 'governess' is an honourable term," I said.
Then for a little while I kept Thyrza hard at work, and conversation flagged. By-and-by tapping outside the door sounded, and Nona's bright face appeared.
"Maggie wants me to ask you, Miss Conway—Is Thyrza here?"
"Why not?" asked Thyrza, suddenly on the defensive.
"Father has just been saying that he has seen nothing of you all day, and he wanted to know where you were."
A slight sound of impatience escaped the elder girl. "What were you going to say about Maggie?" she demanded in a brusque tone, which contrasted not quite agreeably with Nona's good-humoured and sprightly manlier.
"Maggie thinks, Miss Conway, that perhaps you are tired to-day, and perhaps you would like Millie to pour out tea in the schoolroom,—as she has done lately."
"Millie all over!" Thyrza muttered.
"I think that had better be as Maggie likes," I answered. "Please tell her so, Nona. If she wishes Miss Millington to pour out the tea this afternoon, I have no objection. But I am not at all tired; and am quite ready to step into my duties without delay."
Nona vanished, wearing a puzzled face.
Thyrza exclaimed, "I shall see about it!" and vanished too.
I do not know exactly what passed among the girls during the next few minutes. When I reached the schoolroom, I found Thyrza mounting guard over the teapot like a young dragoness, and Miss Millington posing as a martyr at the other end of the table, surrounded by a little group of sympathisers. Maggie and Denham were not present.
"Never mind, Millie darling! We'll tell mother!"
"Poor Millie! When she only meant to be kind, and to save Miss Conway trouble!"
"Thyrza is always so cross about everything to do with Millie."
"I think Millie ought to pour out the tea always."
"So do I. Why, Millie has been here ever so much the longest."
"And I'm sure she's nearly as old as that Miss Conway!"
"Oh, I do wish dear sweet old Jackie had never gone away."
"Poor Millie Never mind, darling Millie. We'll always like you best."
These sentences greeted my ears in a rapid rush, as I gained the half-open schoolroom door, spoken eagerly and in raised tones. For a moment I faltered, and could have fled. The difficulties of my new position came over me keenly.
But the next instant, I rallied and opened wide the door, taking care to make myself heard. The small chorus of utterances died a sudden death, and my chief comfort was that nobody could know me to have heard aught.
"This is your seat, Miss Conway," said Thyrza.
I went half-way thither, and paused. "Maggie proposed that Miss Millington should make tea this afternoon."
"Nonsense, Miss Conway,—I mean, that is all nonsense of Maggie's," said Thyrza. "It is your place."
"Millie thought you would be tired," two or three voices cried.
"I don't think I am exactly tired," I said deliberately. "But everything is strange to me, and I am strange to all of you. So it really will be a kindness if Miss Millington does not mind pouring out the tea, just this once. To-morrow I mean to be quite fresh, and ready for all my duties. May I sit at the side of the table and be lazy this afternoon? I shall not ask it a second time."
I saw glances exchanged, and I knew that Miss Millington felt herself in a manner checkmated. It is a misfortune that I have had to do so soon anything which savours of checkmating. She rose without a word and went to the head of the table, Popsie and Pet hanging on to either arm, and Thyrza yielding to her somewhat sullenly.
I must confess to a feeling of relief, when seven o'clock came, at the absence of Miss Millington from dinner. The presence of that little person acts already as an incubus on my spirits.
The evening has been very much a repetition of yesterday evening. To-morrow may be different, for Mrs. Hepburn and her daughter, Gladys, are expected to dine with us. I am curious to see the young embryo authoress. One gets rather tired of embryo authoresses in these days, when everybody is trying to rush into print, with or without anything to say; still, Gladys Hepburn may possibly belong to the more limited class of those who really have something to say.
Maggie is evidently fired by example. I see her scribbling away at side-tables, the other girls peeping over her shoulder and offering suggestions. Apparently she does not dislike a little fuss made about the matter.
The Hepburns have lived for two or three years past in Glynde Cottage, a small house round the next corner. Gladys, Nellie Romilly's friend, is an only daughter, eighteen years old. Mrs. Hepburn is a widow, and seems to be universally esteemed. A brother of hers—bachelor or widower—lives with them; also a lanky lame youth, rather younger than Gladys, and two little girls, about the same age as Popsie and Pet. These three are Gladys' first cousins, and were left orphans not very long ago, I believe.
[CHAPTER IX.]
THE QUESTION OF ABBREVIATIONS.
THE SAME.
February 28. Saturday Evening.
SCHOOLROOM tea was nearly over to-day, when Denham dashed in and took his place. There had been no further question as to patronage of the teapot, which fell to me naturally, though I caught a glowering glance now and then from the two youngest, as they clung to Miss Millington with vehement demonstrations of affection, interlarding their talk with "sweets" and "lovies" innumerable.
"Where have you been all this time?" Nona asked.
"Oh, only round to the Cottage," Denham answered. "No, not bread-and-butter. Cake, please,—and a jolly big piece, for I'm ravenous. There's a note from Nellie to Gladys, inside father's, and he thought she'd want it directly. Gladys said she would tell us this evening if there was any news."
"Has father heard from mother?" cried the chorus.
Denham nodded, his mouth being full.
"And Maggie?"
The boy shook his head.
"Nobody else except father?"
"Only a note to Gladys. Maggie is to hear next."
Elfie's face had struck me already as looking strangely tired and pale, with a complete absence of brightness in the black eyes. I saw her now looking at Denham in a hungry pitiful fashion, which quite touched me, and the muscles of her throat were working painfully. She asked no questions, and I felt sure that she could not trust her voice. One or two more remarks passed about the foreign letters; and the next moment she had slid her chair back, and had rushed from the room.
"Hallo!" exclaimed Denham.
"She's only in a hurry to ask what father has heard," said Nona.
Tea lasted as long as Denham's appetite, which is saying a good deal. It came to an end in time, however, like everything else; and we had just risen from table, when I heard Pet's voice saying—
"What are we to call Miss Conway?"
"Miss Conway, of course," Miss Millington answered.
"What would you like to call me, Pet?" I asked.
Pet's eyes grew round. "I don't see what we can," she answered. "Because we always call Miss Jackson 'Jackie,' and Miss Millington 'Millie.' But we couldn't call you 'Connie!'"
"For shame, Pet! How can you be so ridiculous," cried Thyrza.
Pet turned crimson at the rebuke, and fled to the shelter of Miss Millington's arms.
"I don't see anything ridiculous in the idea," I said. "But I suppose there is one little difficulty in the way. You see, Pet, my name is Constance Conway, so 'Connie' is my Christian name."
Pet was covered with confusion, and had nothing more to say. I thought Miss Millington's protecting embrace unnecessary and affected.
"I say, why not 'Miss Con'?" asked Denham.
Two or three voices repeated "Miss Con!" in doubtful tones; and Denham defended the abbreviation as being "less of a jaw-breaker" than my full cognomen. I should not have thought the absence of one syllable so highly important, but when appealed to, I acquiesced, and Denham clenched the matter by an immediate, "I say, Miss Con; just give me half-a-cup more tea, please."
So that I suppose is to be my new title.
In very good time for dinner, I donned my one handsome black silk, which not only fits well and looks well, but also gives me an appearance of being a good deal older than my real age, no small advantage under present circumstances. It is trimmed with jet beads, and I wore jet ornaments to correspond.
Nearly twenty minutes before seven, finding myself ready, I went downstairs. As I reached the lowest step, Maggie came out of the study, followed by two ladies, one middle-aged, the other young. They were well-cloaked, and evidently had just come in from out-of-doors. None of the three happened to be looking in my direction.
"I dare say we shall like her pretty well," Maggie was saying aloud. "One can't tell yet, of course. But nobody can be the same as dear old Jackie to us. And she does seem so stiff and cold, after—"
This would never do. "Maggie, I don't think you know that I am here!" I said hastily.
The next instant I wished that I had made Maggie aware of my presence, without seeming to suppose that her words bore reference to myself. But the regret came too late. Maggie started, and her peach-bloom grew brilliant.
"Oh! It is Miss Conway, Mrs. Hepburn!" she said.
Maggie was much too confused to attempt any introduction, but Mrs. Hepburn came forward at once, offering her hand. I suppose she is about forty-five in age, ladylike and sweet, with bright dark eyes which looked straight into mine, full of friendliness.
"I am very glad to see you, Miss Conway," she said. "You seem already well-known to us all. We hardly need introductions, do we?"
Maggie started anew, with an awkward, "Oh, I forgot!"
As Mrs. Hepburn continued, "But I must introduce my child, Gladys, to you,—Nellie's friend."
Gladys shook hands in the same cordial fashion as her mother, though with only a shy look of pleasure and no words. She seemed to me a very simple straightforward girl, rather squarely-built, with a fresh complexion, brown hair, and big blue eyes. I should hardly have guessed her at first sight to be particularly clever, though the shady hat certainly sheltered a head of good breadth.
"I have heard of Miss Hepburn before," I said.
"You are in danger now of hearing about us too often," the mother said, smiling. "We live very near. I hope you will come in to see us, the first day that you are able. Now, Maggie dear, I think we ought to take off our wraps, or we shall not be ready when the gong sounds."
Maggie, who was looking most uncomfortable, gladly led them upstairs. I tried to banish from my mind the words I had overheard, and went to the drawing-room.
There I stood still, just within the door, unobserved as yet, but in no danger of overhearing aught not meant for my ears. Nona was playing a lively tune on the piano, and two small couples were spinning round the room.
Popsie and Pet I recognised at once. They were in white frocks, and their fair locks intermingled, tossing to and fro. But about the little light figure clinging to Denham I did hesitate.
At the first moment, when my glance fell on a slender girl in cream cashmere, with deeper cream ribbons, and on a small though by no means childish face, brilliant with exercise, the jet eyes shining, the lips and cheeks carnation-hued, I had not a doubt that I was looking on a stranger—somebody come in to spend the evening with us. But the next moment I noted that her dress was an exact counterpart of Nona's, and as the two went past, there was a flash of recognition from those glancing eyes.
"Is that Elfie?" I exclaimed aloud; and the mother's description recurred to me again.
Nobody heard or answered. I went nearer the piano, and Nona, perceiving me, stopped suddenly. As a matter of course, the four little dancers stopped too.
"I say! What's that for?" demanded the boy.
"Nona, do go on! It's such fun," cried Popsie.
"I can't," Nona said, rising. "And Elfie looks warm now, so it doesn't matter. Besides, here comes father."
Mr. Romilly's entrance was the signal for a general move in his direction. Elfleda alone hung back, leaning against the piano. Already the sparkle was fading out of her eyes, and the extreme prettiness which had taken me by surprise was vanishing. A pinched careworn look came into her face, better suited to thirty than to sixteen. As I watched her, I saw suddenly a violent though suppressed start, and her little hand went with a hasty motion to her ear and cheek.
"Is anything the matter, Elfie?" I asked.
Maggie was just ushering in the Hepburns, with shyly-dropped eyes and still heightened colour. I was struck with her attractiveness, and I began to think I had perhaps too hastily concluded all a mother's swans to be—well, not geese exactly, but at most only ducks.
"No," Elfie answered. Amid the buzz of voices, my question was unheard by others.
"You are sure?" I asked gravely; for the carnation-tints had faded, and the little brown lustreless face of an hour earlier had come back.
"No, it's nothing. Only neuralgia. I often have that, and nobody thinks anything of it. Please don't say a word to the others."
"Poor child!" I responded pityingly: and the sombre eyes glanced up into mine with so singular an expression, that I said, "Elfie, are you really only sixteen?"
"Sixteen and a half," she answered sedately. "But everybody says I'm much the oldest of any of them,—except Thyrza."
There was another sharp movement.
"My dear, I am sure you are in bad pain," I could not help saying.
"Oh no, not all the time. It's only just when a sort of stab comes, I can't keep quite still then. But I promised I wouldn't give way. Please don't say anything."
A sudden flush of tears had filled her eyes, and she swept her little hand across them, giving me a grateful look as she moved aside into the throng of Mr. Romilly's satellites. A few minutes later the gong sounded, and we all went to the dining-room.
[CHAPTER X.]
PLENTY OF "ER."
THE SAME.
March 2. Monday.
I MUST carry on to-day my story of Saturday evening. It was impossible to finish before going to bed.
Maggie could not at all get over the little contretemps in the hall. I could see all dinner-time that she was under a weight of shy uneasiness, even talking and laughing with Gladys; and every remark addressed to me was accompanied by a renewed bloom. The little hesitancy of manner, the bright colouring, and the droop of her long curved lashes over the grey eyes, quite changed her from the Maggie of the last three days. I had not guessed before that Maggie could look so sweet. Few people gain in attractiveness from an uncomfortable mood, but just a very few do, and Maggie seems to be one of those few.
The Hepburns not being strictly counted "company," Denham and the twins were present. Talk flowed without difficulty. I found Mrs. Hepburn a charming g person, well-read and well-informed. Gladys Hepburn's simple style of girlish chat with the other girls made me wonder again at her reputed authorship; though now and then a passing flash of something, a little out of the common way, showed possibilities of more below the surface than appeared outside.
Eustace had an engagement at the Park, and Thyrza was unsociably silent—one might almost say, gloomy. But Nona and Denham's tongues seldom ceased to be heard, and I saw Elfie exerting herself in cheerful wise.
Two or three times the subject of news from abroad came up; and each time Elfie eagerly turned the conversation to some other topic. I had noted before this shrinking on her part from speech about the absent mother and sister. It was more marked on Saturday evening, just because the matter was brought forward more often.
Three times Elfie's efforts were successful; but the fourth time, they failed. We were then having dessert, and the two little ones were present. Mr. Romilly, as he cracked nuts for Popsie and Pet, launched into a series of remarks about his wife, addressed to Mrs. Hepburn and myself. He enlarged on the enormous relief to his mind of knowing that his beloved Gertrude had borne the journey so well, so very well, so much better than might have been expected—er!
"At this time of the year," he repeated in his thin small voice, "the risk so great—really we cannot be thankful enough—er! I am sure we may hope in a very short time, Miss Conway, to hear that our dear invalid is truly benefiting by the change—er, and is growing stronger—"
"Father, have you asked Gladys all about her book yet?" broke in Elfie, speaking very fast.
Gladys looked by no means grateful for the suggestion, and Mr. Romilly pursued, unheeding it—
"As I was saying—er—I hope that in a very short time our dear invalid will so benefit from the soft air of Italy—er—"
"It's going to be published very soon, isn't it, Gladys? You know, father, don't you?"
"Yes, my dear, I have heard some mention of it certainly,—er," said Mr. Romilly, with a polite glance at Gladys, and a troubled air at the interruption. "But I was just saying to Miss Conway—er—that I hope we may expect before long to hear—er—"
"It's not to be a big book. Gladys doesn't exactly know yet how big. Perhaps a shilling or two," continued Elfie, running the words one into another, while I could see every muscle in her face to be on the quiver. "And she wouldn't tell us, till—"
"Elfie, we know all that," said Nona. "Gladys has told us herself."
"And you keep on interrupting father," added Maggie. "He wants to say something."
"Elfie isn't well," interposed Thyrza bluntly, making an original remark for the first time. "Can't you see? If mother were here—"
The rest of Thyrza's sentence was lost. Elfie became in a moment the centre of attention. But for this, she might perhaps have fought through to the end of dinner successfully, long and slow as Glynde House dinners are. We had sat down at a few minutes after seven, and now it was a quarter-past eight.
Thyrza's words may have given the finishing touch: I cannot be sure. But Elfie grew white to the lips and started up, gazing round with great despairing eyes.
"May I go? Oh, may I go?" she gasped.
"Nonsense, Elfie. Sit down and be quiet," said Maggie. "You promised mother not to give way to this sort of thing."
"She really can't help it," I heard Thyrza mutter.
There I laid her on a sofa.
What others would have done, if I had kept my seat, I do not know. But the look in Elfie's face was too much for me. I forgot all about being a stranger, and I forgot Maggie's last words. Before another remark could be made, I was by Elfie's side.
"Come, dear, come into another room with me," I said impulsively.
I had no time to see what others thought of my sudden move. Elfie literally flung herself into my arms, and lay there, a dead weight, rigid and voiceless. The wide-open fixed eyes alarmed me. Others were starting up from the table, with a medley of exclamations.
"It's about the letter from mother! Poor little Elf!"
"Why couldn't you all have sense to keep clear of that?"
"Denham, for shame! It was father who spoke!"
"Call Millie, somebody! Millie will know best what to do."
"Yes, Millie knows how to manage. Call Millie."
"Mother never likes a fuss made about Elfie, Miss Conway!"
I paid no attention to any of them, but dipped my hand into a tumbler, and dashed water into Elfie's face. Then I carried her resolutely through the throng, past Miss Millington as she entered in response to a summons, and into the study. There I laid her on a sofa, kneeling beside her. The rigidity and the fixed stare passed into a burst of the most passionate weeping. Miss Millington drew close, talking and trying to take possession of the sobbing girl; but Elfie turned from her, and clung wildly to me.
"Elfie is very wrong. She ought not to give way like this," Maggie's voice said.
"She would not, but for being petted," observed Miss Millington.
Maggie took her cue from the suggestion. "It will never do to pet Elfie when she is hysterical, Miss Conway. Mother never allows anything of the sort."
I looked up, and said, "Maggie, there are too many of us here. Elfie will leave off, if she is quiet. You and I are quite enough."
Maggie looked rather astonished, and said nothing. Miss Millington whispered to her, and withdrew, followed by Thyrza and Nona. Mrs. Hepburn and Gladys had wisely not added to the crowd, thereby keeping Mr. Romilly, Denham and the little ones, also away.
"Now, Elfie!" I said.
"Petting never does for her, Miss Conway," persisted Maggie.
Whereupon I stood up, with difficulty releasing myself from Elfie's clutch, and said, "Will you undertake her, Maggie, or would you rather leave her to me? Pulling two ways is quite useless."
"Oh, I never can manage Elfie in these states. Mother always says it is best to leave her alone. She will cry and scream about everything, if she is allowed." Maggie walked off as she spoke, with an offended air, shutting the door.
"Now, Elfie!" I said once more.
She buried her face on my shoulder, fighting hard to obey. I stroked her black hair once or twice with my hand, and the slender arms held me in a tight clasp.
"Poor little woman! It seems a long time, doesn't it?" I said cheerfully, after a while. "But the weeks go very fast. You will be astonished soon to find how they have flown. And I dare say you will feel better for having had a cry."
"I did try so hard, and I could not help it," she sighed. Actual weeping had pretty well ceased, though breath came brokenly still.
"I am sure you tried," I said. "But nobody can be surprised at your feeling her absence, Elfie. She is such a dear mother, isn't she?"
"Yes. Oh, I do love her so! But nobody else cries, and they all say I mustn't. And it almost seems as if nobody else cared, and I can't bear them not to care. And I don't know how to bear her being away—such a dreadfully long time! If only they wouldn't say things—wouldn't speak—"
"Hush, Elfie! You have cried enough," I said gravely.
She laid her face on my shoulder, resolutely suppressing every sound.
"That is brave," I whispered. "And you have to be brave, haven't you? Your mother would be so grieved to hear that any of you were unhappy."
"Yes, oh, I know. If only I needn't think of her! If only nobody would speak—"
"But you would not quite like that really," I said. "It is so natural for you all to speak and think of the dear mother."
And then I tried saying a few words about the need for patience and for submission to God's will. I told her that she must ask for strength to fight on bravely, must ask to be kept from adding to others' troubles. I spoke also about God's loving care of our absent ones; and I reminded Elfie how she might pray very often for the dear mother, and how she might always think of her as safe in a Father's hands, guarded and protected.
"That is the best comfort, Elfie," I said, "the only real comfort! For He is just as much with her out there in Italy as with us here in England."
I was surprised at the sudden calmness which came in response to my few and simple words. Elfie's tears stopped, and the hard long breaths grew easy. She sat up on the sofa, put her arms round me once more, and said, "I am so sorry to have given all this trouble."
"No trouble at all," I said. "But I should like to see you happy, dear Elfie."
"I know I ought to be happy," she said quietly.
Then I noticed again a shrinking gesture, and I found her to be suffering from a fit of acute neuralgia.
"It didn't matter," she said gently. She "supposed it had been coming on all day, and crying always made the pain worse. So that was all her own fault, and nobody would think anything of it."
I could not see any "fault" under the circumstances; for Elfie's distress really seemed to me natural, if perhaps a little excessive.
I made her talk more about her mother, thinking anything better than the smothering down all feeling, and I was glad to find that she could respond calmly. One or two facts dropped from her, with which I was not yet acquainted. Mrs. Romilly has evidently been in a state of great nervousness and over-strain for months past. Sometimes for days together she could scarcely endure a voice or a footfall. Nobody has known what was the matter with her. I could not help suspecting from one or two of Elfie's expressions that she has also shown constant irritation.
"It was so difficult to get on," Elfie observed. "And you know I am always the one that teases mother so, not like Maggie."
The pain grew worse, and Elfie seemed hardly able to bear it. She did not complain, and there were no signs of an inclination to cry; but she walked up and down the room, and could not be still an instant. I persuaded her to go to bed, and accompanied her upstairs. Nona presently appeared, and we tried two or three remedies without much success.
"Nothing would do any good, except going to sleep," Nona averred.
I had to endure one of Mr. Romilly's little speeches, later in the evening, when only Maggie was present, beside our two selves; the Hepburns having departed.
"A sensitive girl, Elfie!" he said. "But it is not our way—er—to make much stir about Elfie's little crying fits, Miss Conway. I think—if you will excuse my making the suggestion—er—that it might perhaps be wise on the whole, another time to consult—er—Maggie, or—er—Miss Millington. My dear wife is very particular—er—very particular indeed—about Elfie's hysterical tendencies receiving—er—no encouragement."
"It is necessary of course that she should learn to control herself," I managed to edge in.
"You see—er—Miss Conway,—it is not that Elfie has more heart than the others—but—er—less command—and very nervous. Her dear mother always says—er—that dear Elfie requires much bracing. The dear girls are all so unlike one another. You will find—er—very different modes of treatment required. Elfie has always been something of a trouble to her dear mother. So unlike dear Maggie and Nona, and our dear Nellie—er. Thyrza again—but indeed Thyrza is a difficult girl to comprehend. In Elfie there is no want of feeling—" a slight stress on "Elfie" seemed to imply the want in Thyrza,—"but—er—not a happy temperament, I fear. My dear wife made Elfie promise—er—promise faithfully not to give way in her absence to these hysterical tendencies. I am quite grieved that dear Elfie's resolution—er—should so soon have failed."
"I think Elfie fought well, before giving way," I said. "She is not well this evening."
Mr. Romilly shook his head, demurred, and sighed. Maggie took no part in the dialogue, and her good-night to me was markedly frigid.
I could not but muse much, in the course of going to bed, on things as they were compared with things as I had expected to find them. And never in my life before have I prayed so earnestly for wisdom in everyday life. One false step now might bring on a most unpleasant state of things, and permanently alienate Maggie from me.
Thyrza I have in some measure won already; and Elfie's manner since Saturday evening has been affectionate. But I have no hold on Nona; Maggie does not like me; and Miss Millington is already my distinct antagonist.
"If any man lack wisdom, let him ask of God, . . . and it shall be given him." Clear enough that. "But let him ask in faith, nothing wavering."
I do lack; and I think I am asking, with full belief in the promise. But the wisdom one asks may not be given precisely as and how one would choose. I must be content to wait.
Late as I sat up, Saturday night, others overhead were later still. A prolonged murmur of voices went on long. Not till I was in bed did it cease, and then I heard footsteps come softly downstairs, and pass into "the girls'" room, where Maggie now sleeps alone.
Could that be Maggie? I thought. And next morning I overheard Denham say—
"What were you after, Maggie, not coming to bed till such unearthly hours last night?"
"I know," Nona answered for Maggie. "She was up with Millie, talking. That's all."
I begin to think my journalising is in danger of running to excess. I must curb myself. Lessons have begun to-day, and my leisure will decrease.
[CHAPTER XI.]
JUVENILE AUTHORSHIP.
DIARY OF GLADYS HEPBURN.
July 1 (preceding).
MY eighteenth birthday. Mother gave me a beautiful edition of Shakespeare. She really ought not to spend so much on me, though I do dearly like to have this. Then I have a gold pencil-case from Uncle Tom; and Ramsay's present is a painting of his own, framed. I like the frame better than the painting, but I shall hang it up in my room. I am so glad I was not cross with him yesterday evening.
I do wonder whether I shall have a book out before my next birthday. It seems dreadfully conceited to think of such a thing.
Just two years and three months since we came to Glynde. I am so glad we came. To be sure it was nice being near London, and living alone with Mother and Uncle. But, after all, the children keep us bright, dear little things; and Ramsay can be pleasant sometimes, if he is provoking. Then I have Nellie here. Two years ago I did not dream what friends the Romillys and we would become; though, to be sure, Nellie and I took an immense fancy to each other at first sight. And the more I see of her, the more I love her.
I used not to care at all for Mr. Romilly. He has such a way of going on talk, talk, talk, and expecting everybody to listen meekly without a word in answer. Well, I am afraid I don't care for him much even now, for the matter of that; though of course I ought, because he is so good. I wonder if people ever are loved only for their goodness, and for nothing else.
Mother says she never knew a more truly good and generous man than Mr. Romilly. If only he had not such funny little ways, and were not so desperately careful of himself! I like a dashing soldierly man, who will dare anybody and face any danger, and who can bear any sort of discomfort without grumbling—a man who will do just whatever lies before him to be done, without thinking for a moment whether he may find it a trouble or suffer for it after. And Mr. Romilly is not dashing at all. He is afraid of everything, and the very least uncomfortableness makes him doleful. It always seems to me that he ought to be tied up in cotton-wool, and put away in a drawer for safety.
Besides, I do like clever people, and I can't look up to a man who hasn't mind. And nobody could call Mr. Romilly clever. I don't believe he ever reads a book through by any chance. The most he does is to peck a little at the cover.
Oh no, Mr. Romilly is good and kind, but not the smallest atom clever, or dashing, or soldierly, or self-forgetful. I suppose he can't help it, poor man; but he would be very much nicer if he were different.
Then Mrs. Romilly, how shy she always makes me feel, even to this day. I never know what to say, when she is present. She is so tall, and she dresses so beautifully, and she seems so certain that everybody must admire her. And when she walks, she has a sort of undulating movement, exactly like the waves that go over a corn-field or the squirms that run down a snake's back.
What would Nellie say to all this? But it is only my dear private journal, and I may write what I like. One can say things to one's private journal that one could not say to anybody else—not even Mother or Nellie.
Altogether Mrs. Romilly doesn't suit me, though of course she is a most delightful person, and the most beautiful woman in Glynde—so uncle Tom says. Uncle Tom prefers Mrs. Romilly to Mr. Romilly, and Ramsay can't endure either. Ramsay declares that Mrs. Romilly worships her husband, and expects to be worshipped herself by all the rest of the world. But then Ramsay says hard things all round about almost everybody. He prides himself on liking very few people, which always seems to me so shallow.
Mrs. Romilly doesn't make many friends, I fancy. People talk of her looks, and call her "interesting" and "charming;" but they do not speak as if they loved her. She has one friend, quite a girl, living in Bath, hardly older than Nellie. So odd!
Nellie and I are great friends. She is three years older than I am, and the dearest girl I ever knew. Mother often says that Nellie's place as eldest daughter in that house must be very difficult to fill; but Nellie manages wonderfully. I suppose she is not so pretty as Maggie—at least some would say not. I like Maggie very well; only she has such a droll blundering way of doing things. I never can imagine why Mrs. Romilly is so much more fond of Maggie than of Nellie; but everybody sees it, though one could not say a word to Nellie.
The three eldest girls have spent the evening here, and we have had games and plenty of fun. To be sure I would rather have had Nellie alone, but Mother says that won't do always. Only I did wish that darling little Elfie might have come instead of Thyrza. Elfie is a perfect little witch; and I never can get on with Thyrza. She is so tall and stiff and cold; she freezes me quite up. And she never seems to think it worth her while to talk to me. Perhaps if I were not proud too, Thyrza's proud manner wouldn't make any difference, but I don't like her, certainly. Maggie is the nicest after Nellie,—if not Elfie. And Nona is a kind good-natured girl too; only there never seems to be anything in her. Mother once said that all Nona's growth had gone into her body, and all Elfie's into her mind.
Mrs. Romilly thinks Maggie most wonderfully clever. But somehow Mother and I don't. Nobody calls Nellie clever; only she is always good and unselfish and helpful, doing everything for everybody, and never thinking about her own wants.
July 20.—It is so seldom that I write in my journal, I really ought to put very long entries.
Some months ago Mother made me very happy by saying one day that she almost thought I might, before long, write a little book for children, and try to get it published. She had been reading my last tale, and seemed pleased with it. And she went on to say, "Why not try now?"
Of course I have been writing for years past; so this was not a new idea to me; and I have had some practice. Mother has always seen my stories when she liked, and sometimes she has thought one good enough to read to uncle Tom.
When Mother spoke, I was just going out for a walk; and directly I came back, I started the fresh story. It took me about three months; for I wanted to do my very best; and I wrote the whole out three times, once in pencil and twice in ink. Uncle Tom advised me to try one of the Religious Societies which publish little books, and he sent it up for me to the Secretary. Of course we did not talk about this to anybody out of the house. I never could make up my mind to tell even Nellie.
After waiting more than a month such a kind letter came from the Secretary, giving me real praise and encouragement. We quite thought it meant that the story would be taken, and I did feel happy all day. But next morning the MS. came back, for it was found "not quite up to the mark."
I can see that well enough even now, when I look at it, such blunders, in spite of all my care. But at the time, I was dreadfully disappointed, and Mother even more so. Only we had the comfort of that nice letter, telling me I should most likely succeed by-and-by.
I did not send the MS. anywhere else. It seemed so much better to begin at once upon a fresh tale, and try to make that more "up to the mark." For another three months I have been very busy. The book will only be a small one, if it ever comes out; but then I have copied and corrected a great deal. And last Tuesday we sent it off to a fresh Society; for it is wise perhaps not to go so soon again to where I have been refused.
Now I have to wait for an answer; and I do think waiting patiently is almost the hardest thing one ever has to do.
Some ideas for a fresh tale are coming up; and I am going to set to work soon; but Mother wants me to make a short break.
August 30.—No news yet of my MS., except just a printed acknowledgment that it arrived. I am trying very hard to feel that it will be for the best either way, whatever answer comes. But I do pray and long for success, very very much.
I have said nothing to Nellie yet. Somehow I can't, till I have a scrap of success to tell. Is that pride?
Another short tale is going on pretty steadily. Mother likes me to keep up my practising directly after breakfast every morning; and then I help her for an hour with the children. After that, I can generally get one or two hours for writing; and also there are the evenings. The children go to bed early, and then Mother works, and Uncle Tom and Ramsay read. The Romillys always have to work and talk and play in the evening. It sounds cheerful; but our plan is better for my stories. We do talk, off and on; only not a very great deal; and I get on with writing between whiles.
[CHAPTER XII.]
AND MAGGIE'S EFFORTS.
GLADYS HEPBURN'S JOURNAL—continued.
October 18.
I MET the girls to-day, and they were quite full of the thought of this Yorkshire estate, which has come to Mr. and Mrs. Romilly.
The place is named "Beckdale," and it is far-away in a lonely part of the West Riding. It has belonged to an old great-uncle of Mrs. Romilly's, who stayed there all the year round, and never asked anybody to visit him; or scarcely ever. Once, about ten years ago, the two eldest boys, Keith and Eustace, spent about a fortnight of their summer holidays with the old gentleman; and that is all. So of course his death can't make his relations very unhappy; and naturally the girls do like the idea of spending their summers in such a lovely place.
For it must be really very lovely, quite hilly and mountainous, with beautiful dales, and wild passes, and queer underground caves, and torrents and waterfalls. Eustace was walking with the girls; and though he did not say very much—he never does when they are there—what he did say sounded more like Switzerland than England. But I shall miss Nellie dreadfully, if she is to be away so long every year.
No answer yet about my little book. Every time the postman knocks I hope and hope, but the letter does not come. It is a long while to wait.
Something seems to be wrong with Mrs. Romilly—we don't know what. She has grown terribly thin, and she is weak and low and hysterical. I think Elfie takes after her mother in being so hysterical; only it is treated as a crime in Elfie. Everybody in the house is expected to be always happy and cheerful, for the sake of Mrs. Romilly, and for fear of upsetting her. The least thing upsets her now. She burst into tears in Church on Sunday, and had to be taken out. It did look so funny to see her little bit of a husband trying to support her; and I was angry with myself for feeling it funny, when they all looked so troubled—and yet I could hardly keep down a smile.
I am quite sure life is not very smooth just now in Glynde House. Nellie does not say much; but Elfie looks wretched; and Elfie is a sort of family-barometer, Mother says. One can tell the state of the home atmosphere from her face. Maggie and Nona are not easily disturbed; and Thyrza seems always apart from the rest.
November 22.—A really hopeful answer has come about my little book. If I am willing to make certain alterations, it is most likely to be accepted. Of course I should not think of refusing. They want the story to be more cheerful, and not to have a sad ending.
I sent off lately another small story-book to a publisher; but somehow I am not hopeful about that. Now I shall set to work upon these alterations.
Poor Mrs. Romilly is very ill, with a sharp attack on the chest. A doctor has been down from London for a consultation; and he says she has been frightfully delicate for a long while, and has been under a great strain, trying to keep up. The lungs are affected, he says, but I believe not dangerously; and her nerves are much worse. She can see nobody except Nellie and her maid,—not even Mr. Romilly; and she won't hear of a trained nurse, and they don't know what to do with her. I hardly get a glimpse of Nellie.
December 22.—Poor Mrs. Romilly is a shade better,—not so fearfully weak and excitable, but still she can't leave her room, or bear to be spoken to above a whisper. A step on the landing sends her into a sort of agony. I wonder if she could not possibly help some of this, if she really tried. She makes such a fuss always about Elfie controlling herself. But then Mrs. Romilly is ill, and Elfie is not. That of course makes some difference. I do think it is terribly trying for those girls, though—not to speak of Denham. The house has to be kept as still as if a funeral were going on.
February 20.—Those poor Romillys! Oh, I do feel sorry for them—and for myself!
There has been another consultation about Mrs. Romilly; and the doctors say she must go abroad as soon as possible, and stay away nobody knows how long. Nellie and Benson are to travel with her.
The cold March winds are talked about as the chief reason; but of course that is not all, for she is to stay on the continent six months at least. March winds will be over long enough before then.
Their chief difficulties have been about the home party. Mr. Romilly stays at Glynde House, to be sure; but he is of no use, and Maggie is too young to manage the others. Miss Jackson not being able to come back makes such a difference.
They are writing to ask Mrs. Romilly's Bath friend to be governess. Miss Conway has lost her aunt, and wants now to support herself by going out. But she is only a girl—and there are all those girls to look after. And Mr. Romilly being so fidgety and odd—and Thyrza so set on her own way—and Elfie so easily upset—why, it ought to be a woman of forty or fifty, to know what to do. However, Mrs. Romilly is quite set on having nobody but Miss Conway, and the others daren't contradict her.
February 24.—It is all settled. Miss Conway comes a week after Mrs. Romilly goes. I cannot help pitying her. Uncle Tom says, "No doubt it will all be for the best." But is everything always for the best,—even unwise arrangements of our own? If they were, I should think one would not mind making blunders.
February 25. Wednesday.—This morning at last came the answer from the Society, which we have waited for so long. My book is taken. The alterations are found to be all right. It will be published at once, as a one-and-sixpenny volume, and I am to have fifteen pounds for the copyright.
Uncle Tom says "selling the copyright" of a book means getting rid of it altogether. I shall never have any more right over the tale. He says that is the simplest and best sort of arrangement for a beginner. I am very glad and very thankful; and I do feel that this is a real answer to prayer.
About a month ago I told Nellie what I had done; and she was so interested. But till this morning, the other girls have only known that I was fond of scribbling tales for my own amusement. They had arranged to call after breakfast, and take me for a long walk; and when they came Ramsay told them about my book.
Elfie's eyes grew very big; and Thyrza as usual said nothing. She only seemed rather astonished. Nona said "How nice!" And Maggie began to talk at once about doing the same. She said she should begin a story to-morrow; and I think she thought it the easiest thing in the world.
Is it really easy? Or can it be? I have been wondering. Of course music is easy in one way to a man who has a musical genius,—and painting to a man who has a gift for painting. But in another way it is not easy, for it must always mean hard work, and hard thinking, and perseverance. Not just tossing off a thing anyhow, and expecting to succeed without a grain of trouble.
It doesn't seem to me that writing books is a thing which anybody can do, just in imitation of somebody else. One must have a sort of natural bent or gift—God's gift,—and then one has to use that gift, and to make the most of it by hard work.
I did not say all this to Maggie, however. For she might have such a bent, and yet not have found it out. And at all events she may as well try.
February 28. Saturday Evening.—Mother and I have been to dinner at Glynde House, and had our first view of Miss Conway. It would have been an earlier view, if we had not both been away from home for two nights, a thing which hardly over happens.
I like Miss Conway: and I am sure we shall like her more still by-and-by, as we know her better.
She is rather uncommon in look, almost as tall and slight as Mrs. Romilly, and quietly graceful, without any of those squirming undulations when she walks. I should never guess her to be so young as they say. She has a pale face, oval-shaped and rather thin, with regular features and a firm mouth and dark hair. And her grey eyes look you straight in the face, with a kind of grave questioning expression, as if she wanted to make out what you are, and whether you mean to be friends. She says she is strong, and fond of long walks. And she is very fond of reading.
Maggie made such a blunder, talking about Miss Conway out in the hall, never looking to see who might be near. And Miss Conway was quite close. She spoke out at once, and Maggie was very much ashamed, for she had been saying that Miss Conway was stiff and she did not like her.
Mother and I both thought Miss Conway behaved so well, in such a ladylike manner. She made no fuss, and kept quite calm, and nobody could have guessed afterwards from her look what had happened.
There was quite a scene with Elfie at dinner-time. Mr. Romilly persisted in talking about his wife, and everybody seemed bent on saying just the wrong thing, till Elfie had a sort of hysterical attack, like once before, and could not speak. And Miss Conway seemed to know exactly what to do. Mother says she will be "quite an acquisition." But I am afraid that little prim Miss Millington doesn't think so; and she manages to make the girls so oddly fond of her. I only hope she will not set them against Miss Conway.
March 10.—My second little book has come back from the publisher, declined. I do not think I am surprised. It seemed to me rather poor, when finished. Perhaps I shall make one more try with it; and if it fails a second time, I shall feel sure that it is not worth publishing.
I have another tale in hand now, which I really do like. It is to be larger than the others, perhaps as big as a three-and-sixpenny book, or even a five-shilling one, but this I don't whisper to anybody. To write a five-shilling book has been my dream for years; only of course it may not come to pass yet.
I shall call the tale "Tom and Mary" for the present. I am writing each chapter in pencil first, and then in ink before going on to the next; and a great many parts will perhaps need copying again, after the whole is done.
Miss Conway has fitted quietly into her work. They all say she is an interesting teacher,—even Nona, who hates lessons. Mother thinks it quite wonderful, the way in which she has taken things into her own hands, and the tact she shows, for after all she is such a thorough girl, and there has been nothing in her training to prepare her for this sort of life.
Things may be going less smoothly than we know; and it is difficult to tell from Miss Conway's face whether she is quite happy. She comes in to see Mother and me, but says little about the girls. And in a grave steady sort of fashion she is always cheerful; but, as Mother says, one can't tell if that manner is natural to her. I should like to see her really excited and pleased. I think she would become almost beautiful.
Thyrza certainly likes Miss Conway, but Maggie does not. I fancy Elfie gives her the most affection, and perhaps she would give more, if Nona did not laugh at her.
March 15.—Maggie has actually finished a story, and is sending it off to a publisher. The other girls have helped her to write, and have put in little pieces. I cannot understand anybody being able to do any real work in such a way; but of course people are different.
Yesterday Maggie asked me to go in to tea, and she read aloud the story to all of us in the schoolroom. I thought her very brave to do such a thing. She asked, too, if Mother would like to see it, but decided not to have delays. Curious—that though Maggie is shy about some things, she is not in the least shy about her writing.
The reading aloud did not take long. I believe Maggie thought she had written quite a good-sized volume; and when I calculated for her, and found that it would not be more than a tiny twopenny or threepenny book, she was almost vexed, and would not believe me.
Then Maggie wanted to know how we all liked the story; and the girls praised it immensely. I was puzzled to know what to say; for it read exactly like a rough copy, and the verbs were mixed up so oddly, and there were whole pages without a single full stop. And I could not make out any particular plot. The people in it come and go and talk and do things, without any object; and what one person says would do just as well for all the rest to say.
I could not, of course, be so unkind as to say all this to Maggie, especially just now, when I have had a little success! And, after all, how do I know that others won't say the very same of my story?
When Maggie would have an opinion, I said, "What does Miss Conway think?"
"I think it wants cohesion," Miss Conway said at once.
Maggie repeated the word, "Cohesion;" and looked puzzled.
Then she turned to me again; and I said the story was pretty, I have been wondering since if that was quite honest; only really one might call almost anything "pretty." And then I said that perhaps, if I were Maggie, I would try writing it out once more, so as to improve and polish a little. But Maggie said, "Oh, that would be a bother! It will do well enough as it is."
I am afraid I don't understand Maggie. For I should think one never ought to be content with doing a thing just "well enough." It ought to be always one's very best and very utmost. Isn't that meant when we are told in the Bible to do "with our might" whatever we have to do?
One could hardly look for success, except with one's best. Of course success is not the chief tag in life; and sometimes I am afraid that I wish for it too much. The chief thing is doing all that God gives us to do for Him. One may think too eagerly about success, but never too much about doing His will. And that only makes the struggling after our very best and utmost still more needful. For if it were only for oneself, it wouldn't matter so much how one worked; but if it is all for Him, I don't see how one can be content with any sort of hurried or careless work.
[CHAPTER XIII.]
LETTERS—VARIOUS.
FROM MAGGIE TO NELLIE.
April 15.
DARLING NELLIE,—We are all so glad to hear better accounts of sweetest Mother, and that she likes the idea of going soon to Germany. The weather has been so lovely this week, that tennis is beginning, and I am getting several invitations. So I do hope it will keep fine. Thyrza is asked too, but she won't go. She says she can't possibly spare the time from lessons. It is so tiresome, for I don't half like going alone—at least to some houses.
I wish Lady Denham and Sir Keith would come back, for tennis at The Park is nicer than anywhere else, of course. Did I tell you about Miss Conway meeting Sir Keith in the train, the day she came to us, and getting him to see after her luggage or something of the sort? Poor Millie says she could never have done such a thing. I believe Sir Keith caught a bad cold that day, and that was why Lady Denham hurried off with him to Torquay, and has stayed there ever since. If I were a man, I should not like to have such a fuss made. Lady Denham seems to be always getting into a fright about him.
I expect I shall hear very soon about my book now: and when that is settled I mean to write another. Gladys does, you know. Has Gladys said anything to you about my story? I thought it so funny of Gladys not to say more, when I asked her how she liked it. Millie says Gladys is jealous of anybody else writing books as well as herself: and I do really think she must be—just a little bit. Else, why shouldn't she like my story, as much as the others do?
I wonder if I shall have fifteen pounds for it, like Gladys. It would be very nice: and I don't see why I shouldn't. I think writing books is great fun.
Tell darling Mother I will write to her next. It is your turn now, and Father is sending a long letter to Mother.—Ever your loving sister, MAGGIE.
Private half-sheet, enclosed in, the above:—
I can't say more for Mother to see, of course, as she mustn't be worried, but you know we settled that you should have private scraps now and then only for yourself, darling, and I must tell you how disagreeable things are. Miss Con will have everything just as she chooses in the schoolroom; and poor dear Millie is so unhappy. Miss Con seems quite to forget that Millie has been here so much the longest. I do think it is too bad. Millie says she feels just like an intruder now, when she has to go into the schoolroom.
Only think! Yesterday I found poor Millie crying so in my room, and she said she had come there for comfort. It was something Miss Con had done. I can't imagine what Mother finds to like so in Miss Con. She is so cold and stiff. Thyrza defends her through thick and thin; but of course Thyrza always must go contrary to everybody else. If I liked Miss Con, Thyrza would be sure to detest her.
Elfie is the only one besides who pretends to care for Miss Con: and that is only because she makes a fuss with Elfie. I'm sure I don't know what Mother would say. Yesterday, Nona says, she actually told Elfie to leave off doing her German translation for Fraulein, because she "looked tired"—just imagine!—and made her lie down on the schoolroom sofa, and Elfie went off sound asleep for more than two hours. And Popsie wasn't allowed to practise, when Millie sent her down, for fear of waking Elfie. And it must have been all a nonsensical fancy, for I never saw Elfie look better than she did yesterday evening. We shall have no end of fusses, if she is coddled like this.
FROM THYRZA TO NELLIE.
April 22.
MY DEAR NELLIE,—YOU told us all to write quite openly to you, so long as we could manage not to worry Mother. So I am sending a sheet enclosed in a letter from Gladys to you, as she says she has room.
I do wish something could be done about the way Millie goes on. It is perfectly abominable. She sets herself against Miss Con on every possible opportunity, and does her very best to set the girls against her too.
The fact is, Miss Con doesn't flatter Millie, and Millie can't get along without flattery. It is meat and drink to her. And Millie is frightfully jealous of Miss Con, for being taller and better looking and cleverer than herself—and also for being Mother's friend. I do wish sometimes that Mother had just let things alone, instead of trying to arrange for Miss Con to be like a visitor as well as a governess. Millie counts her dining with us every night a tremendous grievance.
Then of course Miss Con does insist upon having schoolroom matters in her own hands. I don't see how she could manage, if she didn't. Millie has no reasonable ground for complaint. Miss Con is always kind and polite to her, and tries to meet her fancies: but Millie does dearly love to rule the roost; and of course she can't be allowed. She is always stirring up mud; wanting to come into the schoolroom for music, just when Miss Con is reading aloud or giving a class lesson; and fidgeting and grumbling over her "rights," till things are unbearable. Maggie always takes Millie's part; and I only wonder Miss Con stays on at all. I do believe it is just for Mother's sake.
It's no earthly use my saying anything to Maggie. She is so cockered up with having to manage the house, that she won't stand a word. If it wasn't that Rouse and the other servants know exactly what to do, I am sure I can't think what we should come to. It's the merest chance whether Maggie remembers to give her orders in time. She forgets to order dinner about twice a week: but happily it comes up just the same. And Millie just twists Maggie round her little finger. The two have endless gossips every night in Millie's room.
I can't tell you how wise Miss Con is with Elfie. She does not think the Elf at all strong, and she is careful not to let her do too much, and to make her have plenty of rest. But all the time there is no sort of fussing or coddling: and she never encourages self-indulgence. She seems to brace up Elfie, without saying much about it: and I never saw Elfie trying so hard not to give way to nervous fads. Somehow Miss Con has a way of making a pleasant duty of a thing, where other people only give one a scolding.
I do wish you knew her, Nellie, for I think you would understand what she is. It isn't often that Mother's favourites are mine. But Miss Con is so unlike the common run of people, so earnest and good and so clever. She seems to have read and heard and thought over everything. And she helps me as nobody else ever did, in other ways—you know what I mean. Her religion is so real; not mere talk. She makes one feel that life may be made really worth living, and that one need not just fritter it away in girlish nothings—like so many. I think I know better now what "living to God" really is than I ever did before. I mean I know what it is, seeing it in Miss Con. But of course all this is only for yourself, and for nobody else. You know how I hate things being passed round and talked over. If I did not feel perfectly sure of you, I would not say a word.
You will know whether you can manage to write anything to Maggie, which might make her behave more sensibly. I'm not at all sure that you can, and quoting me would be no good at all. But anyhow it is a comfort to speak out for once.
I don't send messages to Mother, as this is only for you, and the others don't know me to be writing. I told Gladys I had one or two things to say which you ought to know, though Mother must not: and she is safe not to talk.—Your affectionate sister—
THYRZA.
FROM NELLIE TO MAGGIE.
April 29.
MY DEAREST MAGGIE,—I am going to enclose a note to you in one to Gladys, as we arranged to do sometimes. If it goes in the usual way, I know how difficult it is for you not to show it all round. Father may see this, by all means: but please do not read it aloud at the breakfast-table. However, I am forgetting,—you will not receive it then.
The dear Mother is much the same,—just so far better on some days, that I can send tolerably cheerful accounts. But I do not see any steady improvement; such as one might count upon for the future. I suppose we ought hardly to expect it yet.
I am always thinking about you, darling, and about all the difficulties that you must have to contend with. Managing a big household, without any practice beforehand, is no light matter. I should find difficulties enough in your place: and yet I have had some little training now and then, when Mother has been away from home.
Your private half-sheet reached me safely, though I have not been able to answer it till now. Lately Mother has seemed scarcely able to bear me out of her sight; and if I am writing, she wants to know who it is to and what I have said. And just now, too, she likes me to sleep with her: so for days I have had scarcely a moment alone.
But I do feel very sorry for all the little rubs and worries you speak of. It is so likely that things should be perplexing sometimes, with no real head to be appealed to. For you would not like, any more than I should, to be always bothering Father. And though I know you are doing your very best, yet of course you are young, darling, and only just out of the schoolroom, and you can't have full authority all in a moment over the rest.
Mother's idea has been all along that Miss Conway would act in many ways as a kind of temporary head. I don't mean in ordering dinner, and so on: but in everything connected with you girls. I know it isn't very easy to make things fit in: but, perhaps, the more you can appeal to Miss Conway the better. And I think it ought to be quite clear that Miss Conway has the entire arrangement and management of everything in the schoolroom; and that Millie's plans must yield to hers.
You see, poor Millie has a rather sensitive temper, and she is a little apt to imagine slights. Kind Miss Jackson gave in to her too easily, more than was right. I am afraid Millie has been spoilt by her: and we cannot expect quite the same from Miss Conway. I should be very sorry to think that poor Millie was really unhappy: but I wouldn't, if I were you, help in the nursing of all her small grievances.
I shall be delighted to hear that your book is successful, and that you have fifteen pounds of your own. Writing books is not at all in my line, for I am a very humdrum sort of individual; but it seems quite a nice new amusement for you. I don't think Gladys would be jealous, darling Maggie. Why should she? There is room enough in the world for books by you both. Perhaps she was a little shy about giving too decided an opinion.
Mother wants me, and I must stop.—Ever your loving sister, NELLIE.
FROM MISS CONWAY TO MRS. ROMILLY.
May 1.
MY DEAR MRS. ROMILLY,—I have not hitherto asked leave to write to you, knowing how you need complete rest. But Maggie says that you are expecting and wishing for a few lines.
Some day, when we meet again, I shall have much to say to you about my first impressions of all your girls: though I must not trouble you now with lengthy outpourings. On the whole, I think I gained a tolerably fair notion of most of them from your previous descriptions. Only I expected perhaps that Maggie would be rather more like yourself.
Thyrza is very hard at work over her various studies: and I am struck with her force and energy. She will never turn into a limp pretty young drawing-room lady, with no ideas in life beyond the last novel or the latest fashion. But I do think there are grand possibilities in Thyrza. There is abundance of steam, ready to be utilised. A few angularities now do not mean much.
At present Nona's energies are expended more upon tennis than upon literature. She delights, as you know, in any sort of "fun," and keeps us all with her high spirits; and she takes life easily. That makes one remark more the contrast of your little sensitive brave-spirited Elfie. There is no taking anything easily in Elfie's case; but I think I never saw a girl of sixteen make so hard and resolute a fight not to be mastered. You will, I know, be glad to hear this: Nona seems to be all bright sunshine without shadow, while in Elfie sunshine and shade alternate sharply. She is a dear little creature, and intensely conscientious.
You may be interested and amused to have these passing ideas of mine. I could, of course, say much more, if I did not fear to tire you. We work very steadily at lessons, and take long country rambles, sometimes all together, sometimes in detachments.
How you will enjoy a few days at beautiful Heidelberg! I hope your time in Germany will be as pleasant as your time in Italy has been.
You will understand that I do not expect or wish for any answer. I hear of you constantly. Only try to get well, my dear Mrs. Romilly, as soon as possible,—as soon as it is God's will. Then we may all hope for the joy of welcoming you home.
Believe me still, your affectionate friend—
CONSTANCE CONWAY.
FROM MRS. ROMILLY TO MISS CONWAY.
May 7.
MY DEAREST CONSTANCE,—I have persuaded my watchful Nellie, with great difficulty, to let me send a few words in answer to yours. I cannot get out of my head a haunting fear that somehow you do not quite appreciate my precious Maggie. It would grieve sue intensely if things were so.
Maggie is like me, reserved as to her deepest feelings: and it may be that you have scarcely read as yet her true nature. She is capable of giving such devoted love. Dear Constance, have you won it yet? Forgive me for asking the question. Forgive a mother's anxieties. I can scarcely judge from Maggie's letters, but I have had doubts, and your letter has awakened real fear. Your mention of her is so slight, compared with all that you say of my other dear girls. Does that—can it—betoken indifference?
I know well how terribly my sweet Maggie is suffering at my absence, though she will bear up courageously for the sake of others. And I want you to see below the surface with her. I want you to know my child's real worth and depth. She is so humble, so tender-spirited,—I could not bear, dear Constance, to think that you and she should not fully understand one another.
It rejoices me to hear that darling Elfie is really trying to be brave. She is, as you say, a sensitive little puss—not with the acute sensibilities and intense feeling of dear Maggie, so seldom allowed to appear,—but excitable, nervous, fanciful, and soon overwrought. Miss Jackson had not quite the right method of managing Elfie. I was compelled at one time to make a strong stand, and to insist on no spoiling. I trust to you for more firmness.
Nona's powers will develop. I am not at all afraid for that dear girl. She is capable of anything: but sixteen is very young, and the high spirits which seem to you such a disadvantage, I should call quite a blessing. I wish I could look forward as hopefully for Thyrza as for Nona. I do find there a strange hardness, which exists in no other of my children. If you are able to influence her for good, so much the better. But, dear friend, do think over what I have said about my precious Maggie. I have so depended on your loving companionship for her, now in her time of trial and loneliness. If you knew how that dear girl has always clung to me and depended upon Nellie, you would realise a little of what she must now be suffering. Try to win her heart, dear Constance,—for my sake! I can assure you my Maggie's love is worth having.
I must not write more. I shall suffer severely for this.—Believe me, your warmly-attached friend—
GERTRUDE ROMILLY.
[CHAPTER XIV.]
SUBLIMITY AND MAGGIE.
CONSTANCE CONWAY'S JOURNAL.
May 12. Tuesday.
IF ever anybody managed to write a harmless and non-exciting letter, I should have said that mine to Mrs. Romilly came under that description. Her answer fell upon me like a small thunder-clap.
Of course I showed Mrs. Romilly's letter to nobody: though, equally of course, I was expected to pass the sheet round the breakfast-table. That very bad habit prevails in this house to an unfortunate extent. Mr. Romilly labours under a ludicrous belief that anything written by any near relative of his own must be intended for his eyes: and nobody is supposed ever to receive a letter or note which cannot be regarded as common property. Hence arises an occasional necessity for objectionable little private slips and secret postscripts, as the only possible mode of saying what must be said, and avoiding betrayed confidences.
All eyes were on me as I read, and when I put the letter into my pocket glances of meaning were exchanged. Mr. Romilly, who had just appeared, sighed in an audible and appealing fashion, while Maggie remarked that "Mother could write so seldom and only to one at once, and tell all the news."
"Mrs. Romilly tells me really no news," I said.
"And no messages to any of us!" exclaimed Nona,—pertly, I thought.
"None," I replied. "Perhaps she was tired with writing, for she ends abruptly."
"Jackie always showed her letters from mother!" These words in a subdued whisper reached my ears. Of course I paid no regard to the sound.
Mr. Romilly sighed afresh, and observed that his dear wife was really not in a state to write at all—er, just before a journey—er. He hoped, however, that she must be feeling a little stronger—er, as she ventured on the exertion—er.
"I am afraid it was not very prudent of Mrs. Romilly," I said.
Then the Prayer-bell rang, and the subject had to be dropped.
My thoughts have dwelt a good deal on that letter to-day, as is perhaps natural. Mrs. Romilly has never before said or done anything to make me really uncomfortable, and to be made uncomfortable by friend is a trial. One must allow for the weakened fancies of illness. But what could induce her to suppose that I objected to Nona's high spirits? I would not, if I could, lower them by a single half-inch. Certainly I should be glad to find something in Nona besides the love of fun.
I am wondering, too, what more I can do with respect to Maggie. True it is, no doubt, that I have not yet succeeded in winning her love. Is this my fault? Everybody cannot suit everybody else: and the winning of another's affection must surely depend in some degree on natural compatibility of temper and of tastes. I hope in time to possess Maggie's trust and esteem. But suppose I never succeeded in gaining her love,—should I be necessarily to blame? Surely I need not count myself so lovable a person, that all with whom I come in contact must needs care for me!
Again, what about Mrs. Romilly's estimate of Maggie? Are there really such hidden depths beneath that childish manner? It might, of course, be so: yet somehow I cannot help thinking with a smile of the famous Chicken's soliloquy, as he views the empty egg-shell whence his little body has just emerged—
"And my deep heart's sublime imaginings
In there!!"
One might almost as soon credit a newly-hatched chicken with "sublime imaginings" as Maggie Romilly with hidden depths of profound affection and acute suffering.
Maggie grieving terribly over the parting! Maggie hiding intense sorrow under an appearance of cheerfulness! I could laugh as I write the words, remembering the high glee with which two or three hours ago she and Nona were racing round the schoolroom, trying to catch the little ones. Quite right too. I am only glad to see them so happy. But certainly I detect no symptoms in Maggie of severe self-control, of concealed depression, of overmastering anxiety. And with one so quick to betray each passing mood, pain and sorrow could scarcely be held under continuously.
It seems to me that Maggie is rather gratified than otherwise with her present position in the house; and is very much preoccupied with out-of-door engagements, especially tennis. She likes an unbroken course of such amusements as Glynde can afford, and is rather apt at present to let duty wait upon pleasure. Care has not fed yet upon her damask cheek. She looks well, is plump and rosy, and at times she strikes me as quite pretty. Indeed, I should say that she and all the girls, except Elfie, are unconsciously rejoicing under the sudden cessation of the strain which always comes upon a household with long illness.
Now and then I see Maggie to be greatly put out with me, when I have to take some decisive step in opposition to Miss Millington.
One odd phase of affairs is Maggie's devotion to Miss Millington. It is odd, because in some respects Maggie is proud. She will not brook a hint or suggestion from any one as to the management of things and she has an extremely good notion, transparently shown, of her own reflected honours as the daughter of Mr. Romilly, owner of a big house in the south and a fine estate in the north. But pride does not come between her and "Millie."
Certainly I will allow that Miss Millington is quite ladylike, as well as almost pretty. Still, it is a little droll and out of place to see Maggie, the eldest daughter at home and present head of the establishment, running perpetually after the little nursery governess, fondling her, making much of her, holding long consultations with her late at night, behaving, in short, as if Miss Millington were her most intimate personal friend and most trusted adviser. I am wrong to say that Maggie will take hints from nobody; for she will receive any number from Miss Millington.
The most singular part of this devotion is its novelty. I suppose Maggie has been fond of Miss Millington before, but by no means to the same extent. "Maggie always allowed Millie to call her by her name," Thyrza observed a day or two ago, "so of course she has done the same to me. I know Nellie didn't think it a good plan. But they were very little together. Maggie was always dangling after mother and Nellie,—it didn't matter which: and she was the same to Jackie as to Millie. But now Jackie is gone, and mother and Nellie are away, there's only Millie; and Maggie always must have somebody!"
Does the clue lie in those words,—that Maggie "always must have somebody!" Woodbine must cling to something. If one prop be removed, it will find a second.
What to write to Mrs. Romilly, I do not know. For I must comfort her: and yet I cannot say what is not true. Something vaguely kind and cheering will be best. I shall tell her how pretty Maggie's eyes are, and how fond she seems of her sisters—not mentioning poor Thyrza. Then I might perhaps generalise a little—abstractedly—about the deepest natures not being always the most quickly won. Not that I believe in that theory, but it will do as well as anything else just now for my poor friend: and it is safe enough to assert that a thing is "not always" this or the other. But I shall have to be very careful. She is so quick to read "between the lines."
May 14. Thursday.—My letter to Mrs. Romilly has gone off. I feel rather "quaky" as to results.
Maggie will scarcely speak to me to-day. She is looking her prettiest, not sulky and disagreeable, like most people when they are vexed, but pensively grave, with just a little heightening of colour, and a shy serious droop in her grey eyes which suits them to perfection. Nona, taking her cue from Maggie, is blunt, almost pert: and Elfie looks pinched and miserable.
Of course I know the reason. Yesterday afternoon I refused permission for Popsie to practise in the schoolroom, while I was giving a lesson on Grecian history to the twins and Thyrza. Miss Millington had kept her upstairs during the usual time for her scale-playing, and desired that she might do it later instead. I sent a kind message, saying I was sorry that it could not be. A small thunder-cloud has brooded in the air ever since. "Millie" was doleful at tea, and she and Maggie shared grievances till twelve o'clock at night, in Miss Millington's room.
But for Miss Millington, I do think my difficulties here would soon lessen. I do not wish to make too much of her conduct. She is what some people wrongly call "sensitive;" that is, she has a susceptible temper, and is always imagining slights. I believe she had delicate health in childhood, which too often means a more or less spoiling preparation for after-life. Whether or no that is the chief cause, I do find her a difficult little person to get on with comfortably. The friction is incessant.
One cannot expect to go through life without some rubs; and no doubt there are faults on both sides. Very likely I am a trouble to her, as well as she to me. I do not exactly see how I could follow any different line of conduct: but perhaps nothing is harder than to weigh dispassionately one's own conduct, above all one's own bearing, towards another, in such a case as this. We are each in a somewhat ticklish position: and then, is not compatibility of temper to smooth matters down.
It often strikes me as remarkable how almost everybody has to do with somebody else who is incompatible, somebody more or less trying, vexing, worrying; not, of course, always with only one. And I often wonder whether this ought to be viewed at all as an accidental circumstance; still less as a subject for regret and complaint.
Trial must be trial, in whatever shape it comes; and I do feel that one is always free to pray for its removal, if God so wills. But this is our time of probation and battling. It is far more essential for us to learn patience and forbearance than to glide smoothly through life. And I cannot at all see how, if there were nothing to try our tempers, we ever could become patient or forbearing. Untried good-humour is not patience: any more than the stillness of ocean on a breezeless day is rigidity. And the very word "forbearance" implies the existence of something which must be borne.
May it not be that our Father does deliberately so place us one with another, side by side—those who are not suited, not compatible—for this very reason, that we may have the opportunity to conquer ourselves, to vanquish our hasty and impatient tempers, as we never could if He allowed us to be only among those who can become so intensely dear to us, that yielding to them must become a pleasure, not a pain at all?
I don't know whether this sentence would be quite clear to anybody else reading my journal: but it is very clear to myself what I mean. There are such different kinds and degrees of love. So often we love or try to love another, merely because of circumstances, because we ought, because we are thrown together, because we are related. So seldom we love soother with pure and heart-whole devotion, entirely because of what he or she is.
If things be thus, "Millie" is certainly my foremost opportunity for patience in life just now, and very likely I am hers.
Looking upon the matter in such a light ought, I think, to make a great difference to one. For, instead of feeling annoyed and worried at everything she says and does, I shall understand that my Father is setting me a lesson in patience and quietness of spirit, which has to be learnt.
Then, too, I must think how my Master, Christ, had the same trial to endure, only to such an overwhelming extent. For what is the utmost incompatibility of character and temper between us and those around us, compared with the infinite incompatibility between His pure and holy Spirit, and the dull grovelling thoughts of His disciples? Only—His love for them was so great! But for that, He never could have borne it all those years. And I am sure a more loving spirit is what I need. If I cannot love Miss Millington for what she is in herself, or for what she is to me, cannot I love her at least with a kind and pitying love—and because she is dear to my Lord and Master?
It is not easy, I know. In the learning of this lesson, I have to spell out the words letter by letter, looking up for Heavenly teaching.
For I have to be patient with her, yet not weakly yielding. I have to do my duty, often in direct opposition to her wishes, yet not be angry when she shows unjust resentment. No light programme to carry out. But "help sufficient" is promised.
June 1. Monday.—No answer has arrived from Mrs. Romilly, and no notice has been taken of my letter. I fear she has been hardly so well lately; and evidently there is no idea of her return to England for many months.
Much talk goes on about our projected journey north, in July. I am looking forward as keenly as anyone to the beautiful surroundings of Beckdale. Mountains will be a new delight to me. But I have my doubts whether we shall get away before the beginning of Denham's holidays. He would be obliged to board with somebody in Glynde if we left earlier. The same difficulty will not exist another year, for after the summer holidays, he goes to Eton. Time he should too; for of all spoilt boys—! Yet there is something winning about the lad too.
Also we have much discussion at meal-times about the future career of Eustace. Poor Mr. Romilly cannot keep any worry to himself: and every day we wander with him round and round the same hazy circles. I never realised before the wearisomeness of a man who is unable to come to any decision, without somebody to lead him by the hand. A woman of that kind is bad enough, but a man is worse. He talks and talks on, in his thin monotonous tones, reviewing all the perplexities of a subject, pulling up first one side and then the other, meekly opposing every suggestion, mournfully refusing to accept any solution of the puzzle. And if by dint of some happy hit, you really think he is at last brought to some more hopeful point—suddenly he slips out of your fingers, and starts the whole question again from the very commencement.
It seems singular that Eustace Romilly should have reached the age of twenty-two, and be still in uncertainty as to his course in life.
He has not been home this half-year, except for three nights at the time of my first arrival, and for one week at Easter. Having finished his University career before Christmas, he is now acting temporarily as tutor to the son of an old friend. This gives umbrage to his father, and is matter for never-ceasing complaint. It seems that Mr. Romilly is bent upon seeing Eustace enter the Church, and that Eustace is at present opposed to the step.
I do not know the ins and outs of the affair, nor am I acquainted with Eustace's motives, but certainly I have a very strong feeling against any man being pressed to take so solemn a charge upon himself, unless distinctly called to it.
All the girls except Thyrza unite in blaming their brother, and Thyrza says nothing.
"So stupid of Eustace! Why can't he do what father wishes?" Maggie said yesterday, and Thyrza's black eyes flashed with silent indignation.
I am more and more convinced that Thyrza has a very strong affection for her eldest brother, though she seldom or never shows it in her manner when with him; and he is uniformly the same to all his sisters.
[CHAPTER XV.]
THAT PUBLISHER!!
THE SAME.
June 16. Tuesday.
MAGGIE'S story has been returned, as any one might have foretold. She has wondered much over the delay, devising all sorts of extraordinary reasons for the same, and she has written repeatedly to remonstrate with the publisher. Poor man! No doubt he has cartloads of such rubbish tilted upon his devoted head. I feel a certain sense of satisfaction in having never contributed my quota to the load,—though perhaps I could achieve a passable second-rate story, if I chose.
Maggie's remonstrances having brought no result, she persuaded her father to write. I believe Mr. Romilly accomplished some six pages, to be fired by post at the same luckless publisher, after a morning of dire effort and mighty consultation. And the six pages, whether read or unread, took effect. For within forty-eight hours a tied up manuscript arrived; and—this being the "most unkindest cut of all,"—no letter of explanation accompanied it; not even one half-page.
The publisher's ears ought to have burned that morning, with the things said of him at our breakfast-table. Everybody, trying in affectionate family conclave to comfort the crest-fallen Maggie, vied one with another in hot indignation at his decision. Never was there living man so lacking in taste, so utterly unappreciative. Such a sweet pretty story,—and he not to want to bring it out! Well, then he didn't deserve to have it! Maggie would soon find a more sensible publisher. Of course it was well-known that all the greatest authors always have the most difficulty at the beginning, and all the best books are always refused by a dozen publishers before one enlightened man consents to bring them out! So being refused meant nothing at all: only he might just have had the politeness to write and explain exactly why he didn't want it, and what he disliked in the tale. And of course he would have done so, if there were anything really to dislike. But never mind, Maggie must just try somebody else, and she would be sure to succeed, and very likely would get twenty pounds after all, instead of only fifteen.
I could not help remembering, as I listened in silent amusement to all this, how Gladys had remarked, a day or two before, "What kind pleasant people editors and publishers seemed to be!" But it was not for me to remark on the contrast. Maggie must, find her own level, through the stern realities of failure.
June 17. Wednesday.—At last I have seen again my travelling companion, Sir Keith Denham!
He and his mother, Lady Denham, have been absent from The Park almost entirely since my arrival in Glynde. At one time they were coming home, then suddenly changed their plans and went abroad. Sir Keith has paid one or two flying visits, I believe, lately, but he and I have not met.
I stood still to break off a small spray of may.
Now they will be at The Park for some weeks, and the girls are quite excited,—Thyrza excepted, and Maggie especially. But I fancy the chief source of their excitement is the prospect of tennis there.
Thyrza and I had a walk alone together this afternoon, the twins going by invitation to the Hepburns. I always enjoy a ramble with Thyrza: for if no one else is present, she opens out, shakes off the shackles of reserve, and allows me some glimpses of her true self. It is an interesting "self" to me, crude and unformed indeed, but thoughtful, earnest, full of vague longings and high aims. If only Mrs. Romilly could see her thus!
Coming homeward after a long round, we passed through a pretty lane, arched over by trees. I stood still to break off a small spray of may from the hedge, and Thyrza knelt down on the bank for the better securing of a few violets. She loves flowers almost as much as I do.
Footsteps drew near, and I looked up. Somebody following in our rear had just overtaken us; and for a moment I was under a puzzled sense of familiarity with the face and form, though I could not recall who it might be. Apparently he had not yet become aware of our presence. He was walking swiftly, and gazing steadfastly downward.
"Miss Con, just smell these! How sweet they are!" cried Thyrza.
Then two large brown eyes were lifted in a curious slow fashion to meet mine, as if their owner had been very far-away in thought; and at once I knew. I should not have expected him to recognise me. The instant pause and the raised hat were a surprise.
"Thyrza!" I said, for her back was turned.
She glanced round, and sprang up, freezing into her usual unapproachable stiffness.
"How do you do?" Sir Keith said, giving her his ungloved hand, or rather taking the rigid member which she poked half-way towards him. "I hope you are all well at home. Pleasant day, is it not?"
He looked towards me again, and Thyrza ungraciously mumbled something about—"Miss Con—at least, Miss Conway!"—which was doubtless intended for an introduction.
Sir Keith's hat was lifted afresh, with his air of marked and simple courtesy,—simple, because so absolutely natural. I have never seen a more thoroughly high-bred manner.
"I must supply Thyrza's omission," he said, smiling. "My name is Denham, and we are near neighbours. We have met before: and the name of Miss Conway is by no means unknown to me, as Mrs. Romilly's friend."
"And governess," I said. I could not help noticing the flash of his eyes, curiously soft and gentle eyes for a man. It meant approval, certainly, and something else beyond approval which I could not fathom. One never loses in the end by claiming no more than one's rightful position. It is rather absurd of me to care what Sir Keith does or does not think about the matter. But I should say that he is a man whose good opinion one could hardly help valuing.
"I hope you caught your train that day?" he said, after a few remarks had passed between us.
"Thanks to you, I did," was my answer.
"Are you going home now? My way is identical with yours, so far as the end of the next lane," he said, and we walked side by side, Thyrza marching solemnly, a yard off, declining to take any share in the talk.
Sir Keith had been ill in Bournemouth, I found, from the effects of a chill, caught on the day of our first encounter, "A touch of rheumatic fever," he said carelessly. Since then he and his mother had been abroad, and he "would have liked to go on to Italy, for a peep at Mrs. Romilly, had that been practicable."
He seemed interested to find that I had never been out of England; and soon the subject of Beckdale came up, whereupon he spoke with warmth of Yorkshire scenery.
"That part of the West Riding is quite unique in style," he said; "I have never seen anything resembling it anywhere else."
"Not in Scotland?" I asked.
"I am not comparing degrees of beauty," he said. "That is another question. Mountains two thousand feet high cannot vie with mountains four thousand feet high: and there are views in Scotland which I don't think can be rivalled anywhere. No, not even in Switzerland. The two are so unlike in kind, one can't compare them. But the Yorkshire dales are peculiar to Yorkshire. English people don't half know the loveliness of their own country. I could envy you the first sight of such surroundings."
He went on to describe briefly the lone heights and passes, the long parallel valleys or "dales," the brawling "tea-coloured" torrents, the extraordinary deep caves and underground waterfalls, the heather colouring, the frank kind simplicity and honesty of the "northeners." Thyrza drew near, looking interested, and I was quite sorry when we had to part.
"How is my particular pet, the Elf?" he asked, with a smile, as we shook hands.
"Elfie is all right," Thyrza's brusque tone answered.
Sir Keith vanished, and I said, "He looks delicate."
"I don't think he ever is very strong," said Thyrza, at once natural again. "He never makes any fuss about his health; but Lady Denham fusses for him."
"Is Lady Denham like Sir Keith?"
"No. She is a little plain sort of person, and rather odd, and she thinks nobody in the world is equal to him."
"He seems to be a general favourite," I said.
"Oh yes, of course he is. Everybody sings his praises. And I hate general favourites," cried Thyrza, with sudden heat. "I should like him fifty times as much, if—"
"If everybody else disliked him," I suggested, as she came to a stop.
"Yes."
"Is that perversity, my dear?" I asked.
"I don't know. I hate running with the crowd."
"If the crowd is going in a wrong direction—yes. I would never have you follow a path merely because others follow it."
"If everybody thinks a thing, I am not bound to think the same, I suppose," she said, hotly still.
"Certainly not. Never think a thing merely because others think it. But always to disagree with the majority is quite as illogical as never to disagree with the majority. And to refuse a particular conclusion, only because many others have reached that same conclusion, savours of weakness."
She blushed, but did not look annoyed. When alone with Thyrza, I can say what I like to her.
"You must learn to take everything upon its own merits, and to weigh it with an independent judgment," I said. "A certain animal which always goes to the right if its tail be pulled to the left is no more really independent than—"
She interrupted me with a laughing protest.
"But I can't make myself like Sir Keith," she added. "Perhaps I ought because he is Eustace's great friend, and Keith was so fond of him. If only one didn't get so tired of hearing about his virtues. And Maggie puts me out of all patience."
I suppose I looked the inquiry which I would not ask.
"Oh, I can't tell you exactly what I mean, it is nothing particular, only she is so silly. I hate to see a girl make a sort of idol of a man . . . and not an atom of reason . . . Of course he is very kind and polite; . . . but he looks upon us as a set of schoolgirls. It is so ridiculous of Maggie. I don't mean that she does or says anything—particular—only she is so absurd! I should like to give her a good shaking. I do wish, girls had a little more common self-respect!" Thyrza concluded fiercely, with burning cheeks.
I listened in silence to this rather enigmatical explanation.
"Sir Keith spoke of Elfie as his 'pet,'" I said, after a break.
"Yes, don't you see what I mean? He just looks on us as hardly more than children. I suppose he will find out in time that we are getting older: but he hasn't yet. And he is just like our elder brother—in some things. Why, when Maggie and I were five and six years old, he was a great boy of fifteen, and he used to carry us about, one on each shoulder. That was when father bought Glynde House, and we came to live here, on purpose to be near the Denhams. And Elfie was always like a sort of pet kitten to him from the first. But it's only lately that Maggie has taken to setting him up as her hero. Somebody put it into her head, I suppose. I do wish she wouldn't be so ridiculously silly."
I thought it best not to pursue the subject. Thyrza is at all times too ready to pass judgment on those older than herself.
[CHAPTER XVI.]
WHETHER SOMEBODY LIKED SOMEBODY?
THE SAME.
June 22. Monday.
LADY DENHAM has been to call, and her call was avowedly on me as well as on Maggie. This is very kind. She is, as Thyrza has said, a plain little woman, yet a thorough lady and kind in manner. I should think one would not know her quickly. She dresses in a rather peculiar style, wears limp black still and a modified widow's cap, though her husband died seven or eight years ago, and has a certain quaint way of saying things, which strikes one as uncommon. I expect to like her, but she is not a favourite among the Romilly sisters.
Sir Keith dined here to-night, and I have watched him with a good deal of interest. He is thoroughly at home in the house, and almost on brother-and-sister terms with the girls, which makes it difficult to guess the real nature of his feelings towards them. Almost; not quite; since he speaks carefully of Nellie as "Miss Romilly;" and though he addresses the younger girls by name, they all call him "Sir Keith."
I cannot resist an impression that somebody here is a good deal to him: but I could not say which. Perhaps the absent Nellie.
Maggie was in a pretty flutter of shy pleasure and blushes and drooped sweet eyes, all the evening, but it was so like a child's innocent enjoyment of a toy! I don't really think she is touched. And Sir Keith seemed no more occupied with her than with the others. He talked indeed chiefly to Mr. Romilly, and to me, as the greatest stranger present.
I see that he likes to draw out Thyrza, and respects her blunt truthfulness. Sometimes she responds; sometimes she grumpily retreats into her shell. Elfie he seems very fond of,—as a child, or a kitten. But can that last? Small as she is, she will soon be seventeen, and he is only twenty-eight. It must be difficult for him to realise how fast they are all growing up. And his manner towards them all, even towards Popsie and Pet, while brotherly, is also so chivalrously polite and gentlemanlike, that really one could wish nothing changed,—only—one wonders what things may develop into. For, whatever Thyrza may say, there can be no question that he is a singularly attractive man.
June 29. Monday.—A short letter has come at last from Mrs. Romilly, the coldest briefest epistle I have ever had from her. Does this mean that she is seriously vexed or distressed with what I have said—or have not said? Well, I can only go straight on, meeting each difficulty as it arises. I will write again soon. But I cannot pretend to believe that Maggie does really care for me. I know she does not.
Calling to-day at Glynde Cottage, I could not help thinking again about "incompatibility of temper," and the rubs which must come to one in daily life. I do not often see Ramsay Hepburn. He is a tall lanky youth, slightly lame, and just invalidish enough to give an excuse for perpetual fuss about his own health. I suppose he has his better side, and his pleasanter moods; but this afternoon he was by no means agreeable.
Not that he meant to be disagreeable to me. He is given to showing a rather elaborate politeness to people outside his own home-circle, so elaborate, in fact, that he seems to have none remaining for home-use. I overheard him snub Gladys two or three times, when he thought it would be unnoticed; and he has an objectionable habit of breaking into what Mrs. Hepburn or any one else is saying, contradicting, questioning statements, and getting up absurd little discussions on every possible unimportant point.
If somebody else remarks that the wind is east, Ramsay declares it to be west. If somebody else expects a fine day, Ramsay is certain it will rain. If Mrs. Hepburn refers to an event as having happened on the 10th of February, Ramsay contends that it occurred on the 9th. If Gladys observes that Mr. Smith told a fact to Mr. Brown, Ramsay will have it that the information came from Mr. Robinson to Mr. Jones.
That sort of individual must be very trying to live with. Mrs. Hepburn is most gentle and forbearing, but I could not help pitying her and Gladys, not to speak of "Uncle Tom." And then I remembered that they all needed opportunities for patience. No doubt Ramsay is one of the family "opportunities."
July 2. Thursday.—I could not have thought that I should be so weak, so easily unhinged. I, who always pride myself on my powers of self-restraint.
I suppose it was the thing coming so suddenly, with no sort of expectation on my part.
Yesterday morning an invitation arrived from Lady Denham, for all of us to spend the afternoon at The Park: not only the girls and myself, but also Miss Millington and the little ones. Nobody else was to be there except ourselves. Denham was asked, but he had a half-holiday cricket engagement. Mr. Romilly was asked too, and he sighed, complained of his inability for exertion, wished kind friends would leave him in peace—er,—settled after all to go, and finally stayed at home.
Tennis was for a while the order of the day; then came tea on the lawn, with a profusion of strawberries and cream. Then tennis again, or rambling about the lovely garden, whichever one preferred,—and I had a very pleasant stroll with Lady Denham, who thawed and became quite friendly. I was surprised, having heard much of her coldness.
Since coming to Glynde I have not played tennis for I am afraid of seeming too juvenile. They used to say in Bath that I always looked young over tennis.
A sharp shower, arriving unexpectedly, drove us all indoors, and photograph albums were put in requisition. Sir Keith brought a big volume to Elfie and me, full of foreign views, which he undertook to display. Two or three others of the party drew near to look also, including Miss Millington.
About half-way through the book, we came upon a photograph of an old street in Rouen. "It is more than two years since we were there last," Sir Keith remarked. "I always connect this scene with a poor young fellow who was in the same hotel with us,—do you remember him, mother?"
Lady Denham looked round rather vaguely from a talk with Thyrza, which seemed difficult to keep up.
"A poor fellow in a hotel!" she repeated. "No, my dear, I don't recollect. Where was it? At Rouen? Yes, I do remember that young officer who seemed so ill and miserable, and had no friends. If you mean him?"
"Hadn't he anybody with him?" inquired Elfie.
"No, Elf," Sir Keith answered. "Not only that, but he seemed to have few relatives anywhere."
"And was he very ill?" asked the Elf, her black eyes full of pity.
"Yes, quite ill for some days; and I think still more unhappy."
"What was he unhappy about? Done something wrong?" demanded Nona.
"Not that I am aware of. He did not tell me his trouble; only one could see from his face that he felt very sad. Nobody could help being sorry for him," Sir Keith went on in his kind way, and he added musingly, "What was his name? Linskell—Lemming—no,—Len—"
"Captain Arthur Lenox. My dear, your memory is not so good as mine," Lady Denham said, with pardonable satisfaction.
Sir Keith laughed and assented. "I am not good at names," he said. "Yes, that was it,—Arthur Lenox. A fine soldierly young fellow,—only rather too cynical in his way of speaking. But that might mend in time. I wish we had not lost sight of him since. He seemed—"
A sudden pause took place. I knew why. Till the utterance of that name, I had not dreamt of whom they were speaking. Then in a moment the past came back, and I was once more in the little old Bath sitting-room, alone with Arthur Lenox. And an added pain had come to me, in a new realisation of the suffering that I had caused to him. I did not stir, did not lift my eyes from the photograph, but I knew that every drop of blood had left my face, driven inward, as it were, and for the instant I knew myself to be incapable of steady speech.
That dreadful silence! It did not last, I am persuaded, over three seconds, if so long. Yet they might have been three hours to me.
Then Sir Keith turned over a page of the album, and began talking again in a quiet even voice, drawing away the attention of the girls. And I was able to look up. I saw Elfie's eyes wide-open and startled, while Miss Millington's were on me in a fixed stare, which perhaps proved more bracing than anything else. I knew that I must act at once, so I turned back the last page, as if to look once more at the street of Rouen, and remarked with a smile—
"Those quaint old French towns must be very interesting. I should like to see them." In a doubtful tone, I added, "Lenox, did you say? I have known one or two of that name, but I am not aware of their having been to Rouen."
And I said the words with entire composure.
"Rouen lies very much in the beaten track," said Sir Keith. "Tourists seldom fail to go there, sooner or later. I can show you other views of French towns, very similar. But I see that the rain is over. Would anybody like to come and take a look at the fernery?"
"I should," I said at once. "Yes, really—" and as his eyes met mine in a swift questioning glance, I laughed quite naturally. "I believe I am rather tired to-day, and I have just been feeling a little—not quite well, perhaps. And the fresh air will revive me."
"My dear, you fag too hard with all these young folks," Lady Denham said, in such a kind manner. "You ought to take a little rest sometimes."
And Elfie crept close up to me, slipping her hand into mine with mute sympathy.
I had some difficulty in getting off a quiet half-hour indoors with Lady Denham. But I wanted to be on the move, to be able to forget myself and the past, and I pleaded anew for fresh air.
Lady Denham yielded at once, with the genuine courtesy which so distinguishes herself and her son, and she accompanied us into the grounds. She was quite motherly to me in manner, and Sir Keith looked grave and troubled, evidently fearing that he had given pain.
Before we left The Park, I succeeded in doing away with a good deal of the impression caused by my sudden change of colour. Miss Millington's inquisitive eyes kept me up to the mark. I had to submit to being treated as a semi-invalid, a thing I particularly dislike; but by resisting, I should have given countenance to that which I most wished to drive out of people's minds. So when I was told that I looked pale and fatigued, that I must rest in an easy-chair, and must be driven home instead of walking, I gave way without a struggle. The plea of fatigue was a genuine enough plea for me to use. I do not know when I have felt such languor as during some hours, after that little event. Still, in a general way, I would have laughed at any suggestion of care-taking, so long as I had two feet to stand upon.
The girls were all kind. Maggie became quite gentle and sympathising in manner, the moment she thought me unwell. That has been a real comfort. Can it be that she dislikes me less than I have imagined?
Even Miss Millington said, "You really do too much, Miss Conway!" And Nona insisted on carrying my shawl, while Elfie would hardly leave me for a moment. When saying good-night, she threw her arms round my waist, and held me as in a vice. I understand fully the dear child's unspoken sympathy. Of all the girls, I do not think one has crept so far into my heart as this loving tiny Elf.
I must not think more about what Sir Keith said. It unnerves me. For myself I can endure, but I cannot bear to picture Arthur Lenox' grief.
And I have to be very calm and cheerful after this, or others will certainly guess something of the truth.
July 8. Wednesday.—Another short letter from Mrs. Romilly, kinder than the last. I think she must have felt, after sending that off, that it would trouble me. This is more in the old style, only she harps still incessantly on the one string of "her precious Maggie." I suppose nothing in the world would convince her that Maggie is not, all these months, in a broken-hearted condition about her absence.
Yet it is Elfie, not Maggie, whose eyes fill up with tears at any sudden reference to the absent ones. It is Elfie, not Maggie, who craves for every scrap and item of news about them. It is Elfie, not Maggie, who has distinctly lost flesh and strength with worry and anxiety of mind for the dear mother's condition.
If we had not the prospect of so soon going north, I should certainly press for medical advice for Elfie. I do not feel satisfied about the child. Her little hands are transparently thin, and her eyes look bigger than ever in the tiny brown face, while this constantly recurring neuralgia shows weakness. "Oh, it is only Elfie," Maggie says, if I speak to her, and Elfie fights on bravely. I do not like the state of things, however.
July 9. Thursday.—Mr. Slade Denham has been to dinner here this evening, an unusual event, for he detests society.
It strikes me that I have written little or nothing in my journal hitherto about the Church we attend. There is always so much to say about these girls.
St. John's is only five minutes distant, a graceful little Gothic Chapel-of-Ease to the Parish Church, built by Sir Keith himself to meet the growing needs of Glynde. The Rector of Glynde, Mr. Wilmington, is an elderly man, with two curates; one of the two, the Rev. Slade Denham, having sole charge of St. John's. We go there regularly, the Parish Church being too far off.
Mr. Denham is a first-cousin of Sir Keith's, and about the same age, but not in the least like him,—very plain, shy and brusque in manner, and rather odd in his ways. He is a thorough "study-man," a hard reader, a hater of platforms, and a busy organiser of Parish work,—characteristics not always found in juxtaposition. He is rarely to be seen out of his study, except in the cottages of the poor, in the sickrooms of either poor or rich, and in needful Parish gatherings. Tennis is not in his line; and his one recreation takes the shape of long lonely walks in the country,—hardly sufficient recreation, perhaps, in the case of so severe a brain-toiler. He looks like a burner of midnight oil.
The poor are devoted to Mr. Denham,—and the rich are not. Easily explained, for to the poor he is all gentleness, and to the rich he is all shy curtness. It is a pity; since he loses influence thereby. Yet one does not know how to regret the hermitage-loving turn of mind which results in such sermons as his,—no strings of platitudes strung together in a hurry, and spun out to fill up a stereotyped twenty minutes or half-hour, but real downright teaching, Sunday after Sunday, in a full and systematic course. Surely our Church means us to have such systematic teaching, declaring to us throughout the year the "whole counsel of God," and not merely to be fed upon stray scraps of that "counsel," gathered up almost at random without plan or method. But I have never had it before.
The services too are full of help and refreshment, bright, hearty, reverent, with a good choir and congregational singing. Everybody seems to join. There is no lounging or lolling, and scarcely any staring about. It is wonderful how infectious in a Church is a spirit of deep earnestness and intense reverence.
I often think of Sir Keith's words on any journey here,—of the responsibility involved in greater privileges. For I do feel that such a Church as St. John's near at hand is a real privilege, and ought to be a real and practical help. And that means that I ought to advance more quickly, that I ought to become more Heavenly-minded, that I ought to live more nearly such a life as Christ my Master lived, that I ought to walk more fully as He walked.
Is it so, indeed? The question is a very serious one. For if not—better far that greater privileges and means of spiritual advance were not mine, than that having I should fail to use them!
"Search me, O God, and know my heart; try me, and know my thoughts, and see if there be any wicked way in me, and lead me in the Way everlasting."
No better prayer for me than this. Of all dangers, I dread none more than the perils of self-deception and of spiritual stagnation.
[CHAPTER XVII.]
GLADYS HEPBURN'S FIRST SUCCESSES.
DIARY OF GLADYS HEPBURN.
April 23. Thursday (preceding).
UNCLE TOM was in London on Tuesday, and he very kindly went to see two or three publishers for me. Mr. B. spoke a long time about the great necessity for careful preparation and revision. And Mr. D. also spoke about that. He said he had just refused two manuscripts, written by a lady, for nothing but because they were so carelessly done. If I like at any time to send him a very carefully prepared MS., he will look at it. And Mr. F. told Uncle Tom about some other publishers who might be the right sort.
I begin to understand that it isn't only a question about a story being pretty good in itself, but also one has to be careful where one sends it. Some publishers chiefly bring out novels; and some history; and some religious tales; and so on. And a man might refuse a book just because it didn't suit him, while it might be the very book for another publisher over the way.
Mr. F. also said that the better plan was to send my MSS. straight off, instead of writing first to ask leave. Because, naturally, if a man hasn't seen the MS., and can't possibly judge anything about it, he is more likely to say at once "No" than "Yes."
May 2. Saturday.—My little book is out! It costs one-and-sixpence. Twelve copies have arrived, bound in different colours. The first picture is really pretty, and it is nice to see my own ideas embodied by somebody else.
So at last my wish is granted, and I am very pleased and thankful. Only perhaps not so desperately excited in myself as I expected to be,—not nearly so excited as others are about it, I think. For somehow, now it has come to pass, the thing seems quite natural. And of course I am very much more interested in the story I am actually writing than in one which was finished so long ago.
May 14. Thursday.—Fifteen pounds came yesterday,—the first money I ever earned by my own brains. I have put some into the Savings Bank, and part of it I mean to spend. I hope I shall never get into spendthrift ways.
Several kind letters have reached me about my little book,—and some give advice. I think I liked best of all Mr. Wilmington saying he had nearly cried over it. Aunt Anne Hepburn complains that the colour of her copy is very ugly, and she points out a misprint on the fourth page. But I don't see how one can choose out the prettiest colours for everybody.
The little ones from Glynde House have been here this evening, and we all had a good game of play. It was rather fun to feel that, as I had a printed book out, nobody would count me too childish for my age, and so I could just enjoy myself as much as ever I liked. Was that silly?
I wonder how soon poor Maggie will hear about her MS. She seems getting rather impatient. I don't wonder, for I have often felt dreadfully impatient.
May 16. Saturday.—Mother and I don't think Miss Conway looks quite so strong and bright as when she first came. I wonder if anything is worrying her.
It is so strange that Maggie does not grow more fond of Miss Con. Mother and I think Miss Con delightful. And Ramsay is growing quite absurd. At first he used to say all sorts of hard and contemptuous things about her, as he does about almost everybody; but now he has turned right round, and he seems to think the ground scarcely good enough for her to tread on. But I don't suppose Miss Con has the least idea of his state of admiration, for he only gets red and awkward when he sees her. If she had, how she would laugh! She a girl of twenty-three, with the mind of a woman of thirty, as Uncle Tom says,—and he a backward boy of seventeen.
And yet I don't know whether she really would laugh,—at least it would not be unkindly.
June 17. Wednesday.—Maggie's little MS. has been sent back, as I felt sure it must be, if she wouldn't work it up more carefully. I am very sorry, for she is so disappointed. But the odd thing is, that she seems quite angry, too, with the publisher. I don't understand that, because of course he must be free to take or refuse books. And it always seems to me that one has just to learn what one can do, by trying. One trial doesn't settle the matter; but a good many trials would. And if one really had not the gift, if God really had not called one to the work,—ought one to be vexed?
Still, if I had failed instead of succeeding, I might not find it so easy to write like this.
July 7. Tuesday.—My book "Tom and Mary" is finished at last,—was finished last week, I mean: and I have been correcting hard ever since. I don't mean the MS. to have one single untidy page. Of course that means more copying, but it is worth while. The greatest difficulty is to think of a good title.
It really does seem to me large enough for a five-shilling volume: but I have not said so to anybody, for fear of being mistaken.
We have pretty well settled what publisher to send it to. But I don't feel very hopeful of another success so soon. It seems more than I ought to expect. Not very good accounts of poor Mrs. Romilly. There seems no idea of her coming home yet. Even if she did, I should not see Nellie, for the Romillys all go north in about a fortnight,—as soon as Denham's holidays begin. They did talk of going sooner, but Mr. Romilly couldn't make up his mind to it. I'm sure I don't know what he will do when Denham has gone to school,—only sometimes people bear a thing better when it can't be helped than when it can be helped. Lady Denham is very much taken with Miss Con; and Mother and I are so pleased. Lady Denham says she is "distinguished-looking." I believe Sir Keith admires her too, only he is so cautious and polite that one never can know what he does truly think and feel. I can't make out whether he cares for anybody, really,—more than just as a pleasant acquaintance.
It provokes me, rather; and yet of course I like him,—at least, I suppose so. He is very good, and very handsome, and most people count him perfect. I don't think I do. And the sort of liking that I have wouldn't make me the least unhappy if he went away to-morrow and never came back again. For I should have Mother still—and Nellie,—and my dear writing,—and a great many delightful things besides. And yet Sir Keith is a real friend of ours, and he certainly means to be as kind as possible to everybody all round.
That is just it! I suppose I don't care to be merely one of "everybody all round." And if I don't, it must be pride.
And yet I shouldn't wish him not to be pleasant and polite. And I know he likes Mother,—and I like him for that. And if he didn't always bring on such a shy fit that I can't speak, I might perhaps think him nice to talk to.
There is one other thing that I do like in Sir Keith; and that is, that he doesn't think himself bound to make pretty remarks about my writings, only just to please me. As if I were a child, wanting sugar-plums!
I don't mean that one isn't glad to have an opinion worth having; and honestly-meant praise is pleasant. But that is different. And it seems to me that the people whose opinion one cares for the most are very often the most backward of all in giving it.
July 9. Thursday.—My MS. has gone off. Oh, I do hope and pray that it may succeed!
July 11. Saturday.—Such a kind answer has come from the publisher, Mr. Willis, promising "immediate attention."
July 17. Friday.—I do believe this has been the most delightful day I ever had in my life.
First of all there came a long letter from Nellie, just like her dear self all through.
Then at breakfast-time Mother told me that I am to have a quarter of really good music lessons, from a master just come to live in Glynde. It is two years since I had any. Won't I work hard!
After breakfast, Maggie came in to ask if the children and I would go for a long day's ramble, to the woods. Mother said "Yes" at once, and lessons were left. We took our lunch with us, and had all sorts of fun.
Miss Con and I were together a good deal, and I really do begin to love her dearly. She was so sweet,—thinking about everybody except herself. Maggie kept hanging about Miss Millington, just exactly in the same way she used to hang about Nellie. It provoked me then, because I wanted more of Nellie; and it provokes me now, because I can't endure that little Miss Millington. But anyhow it gave me more of Miss Con.
Thyrza and I got on better than usual; only I can't help seeing that Thyrza does not care for me; and that makes it so difficult to be kind and bright towards her. And the twins were as merry as could be. So we enjoyed ourselves immensely, and we didn't get home till past six o'clock. I haven't had such a holiday for a long while.
But then came the best of all. A letter was waiting for me at home,—from Mr. Willis. And he offers to give me £25 for the copyright of "Tom and Mary," which he thinks will make a 5s. book. And if I agree, it is to go to the printer's at once.
Oh, I am so glad and thankful! It does seem so kind of God to answer prayer like this. I know quite well I didn't half expect it.
[CHAPTER XVIII.]
SERIOUS NEWS.
DIARY OF GLADYS HEPBURN—continued.
July 27. Monday.
THE Romillys leave to-morrow, and I have seen almost if not quite the last of them to-day. They spend one night in London at a hotel,—a troublesome plan, we think, for such a large party; but it allows the servants to arrive a day sooner, and to get things ready. Beckdale House seems to be smaller than Glynde House, and so not all the servants will go. Rouse and Phipps are to be there of course, and two housemaids, and what Nona calls "a local cook." The old cook stays here in charge, with one of the housemaids,—and the gardener and his wife will be here in their cottage too.
I wonder how the "local cook" will answer. Mr. Romilly is so very particular about his eating.
Maggie goes flying round to-day, forgetting everything; and Miss Con is just as quiet as usual, forgets nothing. And poor Mr. Romilly is in a dreadful state of fuss and fidget. He always is before a journey. A whole mountain of luggage went off last week, and another mountain goes to-morrow; but still he is quite sure they won't have everything they want, and he seems perfectly certain that nobody can be ready in time. It is comical to hear him, for, after all, the most likely person to be late is Mr. Romilly himself. I really don't think he can make haste. It doesn't seem to be in him.
I should feel their leaving much more if Nellie were here. But she isn't; and none of the other girls can be the same to me. I'm not sure that I don't mind most of all saying good-bye to Miss Con. Yesterday evening, after Church, she came in for a few minutes, and she was so very affectionate. She said to Mother, "I shall miss you and Gladys extremely." I know we shall miss her.
Just now I am beginning another story, and that is, of course, a great interest.
This morning I had my first music-lesson. Mr. Lee is rather odd; and the lesson was delicious.
He said, "Play the Scale of C in octaves." When I had done it, he said, "Wrong, from first to last."
That made me feel rather small; because I thought I certainly could play—well, just a little nicely. I am always asked to play at friends' houses, and once or twice I have even been clapped, and perhaps made to feel rather conceited. But of course Mr. Lee is a much better judge than the common run of people, and it must be such a good thing to find out one's real level in anything one does. I shall have to work hard now, to get on. And the first thing will be to learn the "wrist-action," as he calls it, which he thinks so much of.
His touch is just splendid. He seems to bring something out of the piano which I never knew before to be in it. All day long I have been hearing the ring of those wonderful octaves and chords,—almost more exciting than the thought of my book. It has been very hard to settle down to anything else, and trying to write was a sham.
Wasn't it odd? I was going into the drawing-room to-day, and I overheard Mother say—
"Gladys is very much pleased with her new music-master."
"Placidly pleased," Uncle Tom said, and he laughed, while Ramsay added—
"Oh, that's all one must expect. Nothing excites Gladys."
And I turned and ran away. I felt so stupidly hurt, I could have cried. It was stupid, for I shouldn't at all like any one to know just exactly how I do feel, and yet one does wish to be understood. It has made me think how very little one person can know of another's inside, merely from his or her outside,—and how easily I may be mistaken in others, just as they are mistaken in me!
By-the-bye, I must be very careful not to say much about the book before Maggie; for it might not seem kind. She has had her MS. sent back by a second publisher. I do wish she would take a little more trouble to do well, so as to give herself a fair chance.
She has an idea now of writing to some well-known authoress, to ask for advice about getting a book published, and for an opinion on her story. Miss Millington has put this into Maggie's head. Miss Millington says young authors often do it. I wonder if that is true. I never thought of trying such a plan; and I can't fancy that it could make much difference in the end. For, after all, one must go, sooner or later, to publishers and editors. Still, perhaps she will get a little advice of some sort.
July 28. Tuesday.—The Romillys are off; and I feel a great deal more flat and dismal than I expected. Glynde House looks so frightfully empty. I can't bear to walk past it.
We have not had a comfortable day: for Ramsay is in a mood to rub everybody the wrong way. Because of Miss Con, I suppose. Mother says, "Poor Ramsay!" While I am afraid I feel more like saying, "Poor Gladys!" For when he is like this, he makes me cross too.
Mother spoke to me this evening about giving way to temper: and I know she is right. Another person's ill-humours are no excuse for me. But it is very difficult. If only people would be reasonable and sensible.