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.
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."
"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.
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.
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.