image003
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 imaginingsIn 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.
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.