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I stood still to break off a small spray of may.
Now they will be at The Park for some weeks, and the girls are quite excited,—Thyrza excepted, and Maggie especially. But I fancy the chief source of their excitement is the prospect of tennis there.
Thyrza and I had a walk alone together this afternoon, the twins going by invitation to the Hepburns. I always enjoy a ramble with Thyrza: for if no one else is present, she opens out, shakes off the shackles of reserve, and allows me some glimpses of her true self. It is an interesting "self" to me, crude and unformed indeed, but thoughtful, earnest, full of vague longings and high aims. If only Mrs. Romilly could see her thus!
Coming homeward after a long round, we passed through a pretty lane, arched over by trees. I stood still to break off a small spray of may from the hedge, and Thyrza knelt down on the bank for the better securing of a few violets. She loves flowers almost as much as I do.
Footsteps drew near, and I looked up. Somebody following in our rear had just overtaken us; and for a moment I was under a puzzled sense of familiarity with the face and form, though I could not recall who it might be. Apparently he had not yet become aware of our presence. He was walking swiftly, and gazing steadfastly downward.
"Miss Con, just smell these! How sweet they are!" cried Thyrza.
Then two large brown eyes were lifted in a curious slow fashion to meet mine, as if their owner had been very far-away in thought; and at once I knew. I should not have expected him to recognise me. The instant pause and the raised hat were a surprise.
"Thyrza!" I said, for her back was turned.
She glanced round, and sprang up, freezing into her usual unapproachable stiffness.
"How do you do?" Sir Keith said, giving her his ungloved hand, or rather taking the rigid member which she poked half-way towards him. "I hope you are all well at home. Pleasant day, is it not?"
He looked towards me again, and Thyrza ungraciously mumbled something about—"Miss Con—at least, Miss Conway!"—which was doubtless intended for an introduction.
Sir Keith's hat was lifted afresh, with his air of marked and simple courtesy,—simple, because so absolutely natural. I have never seen a more thoroughly high-bred manner.
"I must supply Thyrza's omission," he said, smiling. "My name is Denham, and we are near neighbours. We have met before: and the name of Miss Conway is by no means unknown to me, as Mrs. Romilly's friend."
"And governess," I said. I could not help noticing the flash of his eyes, curiously soft and gentle eyes for a man. It meant approval, certainly, and something else beyond approval which I could not fathom. One never loses in the end by claiming no more than one's rightful position. It is rather absurd of me to care what Sir Keith does or does not think about the matter. But I should say that he is a man whose good opinion one could hardly help valuing.
"I hope you caught your train that day?" he said, after a few remarks had passed between us.
"Thanks to you, I did," was my answer.
"Are you going home now? My way is identical with yours, so far as the end of the next lane," he said, and we walked side by side, Thyrza marching solemnly, a yard off, declining to take any share in the talk.
Sir Keith had been ill in Bournemouth, I found, from the effects of a chill, caught on the day of our first encounter, "A touch of rheumatic fever," he said carelessly. Since then he and his mother had been abroad, and he "would have liked to go on to Italy, for a peep at Mrs. Romilly, had that been practicable."
He seemed interested to find that I had never been out of England; and soon the subject of Beckdale came up, whereupon he spoke with warmth of Yorkshire scenery.
"That part of the West Riding is quite unique in style," he said; "I have never seen anything resembling it anywhere else."
"Not in Scotland?" I asked.
"I am not comparing degrees of beauty," he said. "That is another question. Mountains two thousand feet high cannot vie with mountains four thousand feet high: and there are views in Scotland which I don't think can be rivalled anywhere. No, not even in Switzerland. The two are so unlike in kind, one can't compare them. But the Yorkshire dales are peculiar to Yorkshire. English people don't half know the loveliness of their own country. I could envy you the first sight of such surroundings."
He went on to describe briefly the lone heights and passes, the long parallel valleys or "dales," the brawling "tea-coloured" torrents, the extraordinary deep caves and underground waterfalls, the heather colouring, the frank kind simplicity and honesty of the "northeners." Thyrza drew near, looking interested, and I was quite sorry when we had to part.
"How is my particular pet, the Elf?" he asked, with a smile, as we shook hands.
"Elfie is all right," Thyrza's brusque tone answered.
Sir Keith vanished, and I said, "He looks delicate."
"I don't think he ever is very strong," said Thyrza, at once natural again. "He never makes any fuss about his health; but Lady Denham fusses for him."
"Is Lady Denham like Sir Keith?"
"No. She is a little plain sort of person, and rather odd, and she thinks nobody in the world is equal to him."
"He seems to be a general favourite," I said.
"Oh yes, of course he is. Everybody sings his praises. And I hate general favourites," cried Thyrza, with sudden heat. "I should like him fifty times as much, if—"
"If everybody else disliked him," I suggested, as she came to a stop.
"Yes."
"Is that perversity, my dear?" I asked.
"I don't know. I hate running with the crowd."
"If the crowd is going in a wrong direction—yes. I would never have you follow a path merely because others follow it."
"If everybody thinks a thing, I am not bound to think the same, I suppose," she said, hotly still.
"Certainly not. Never think a thing merely because others think it. But always to disagree with the majority is quite as illogical as never to disagree with the majority. And to refuse a particular conclusion, only because many others have reached that same conclusion, savours of weakness."
She blushed, but did not look annoyed. When alone with Thyrza, I can say what I like to her.
"You must learn to take everything upon its own merits, and to weigh it with an independent judgment," I said. "A certain animal which always goes to the right if its tail be pulled to the left is no more really independent than—"
She interrupted me with a laughing protest.
"But I can't make myself like Sir Keith," she added. "Perhaps I ought because he is Eustace's great friend, and Keith was so fond of him. If only one didn't get so tired of hearing about his virtues. And Maggie puts me out of all patience."
I suppose I looked the inquiry which I would not ask.
"Oh, I can't tell you exactly what I mean, it is nothing particular, only she is so silly. I hate to see a girl make a sort of idol of a man . . . and not an atom of reason . . . Of course he is very kind and polite; . . . but he looks upon us as a set of schoolgirls. It is so ridiculous of Maggie. I don't mean that she does or says anything—particular—only she is so absurd! I should like to give her a good shaking. I do wish, girls had a little more common self-respect!" Thyrza concluded fiercely, with burning cheeks.
I listened in silence to this rather enigmatical explanation.
"Sir Keith spoke of Elfie as his 'pet,'" I said, after a break.
"Yes, don't you see what I mean? He just looks on us as hardly more than children. I suppose he will find out in time that we are getting older: but he hasn't yet. And he is just like our elder brother—in some things. Why, when Maggie and I were five and six years old, he was a great boy of fifteen, and he used to carry us about, one on each shoulder. That was when father bought Glynde House, and we came to live here, on purpose to be near the Denhams. And Elfie was always like a sort of pet kitten to him from the first. But it's only lately that Maggie has taken to setting him up as her hero. Somebody put it into her head, I suppose. I do wish she wouldn't be so ridiculously silly."
I thought it best not to pursue the subject. Thyrza is at all times too ready to pass judgment on those older than herself.
WHETHER SOMEBODY LIKED SOMEBODY?
THE SAME.
June 22. Monday.
LADY DENHAM has been to call, and her call was avowedly on me as well as on Maggie. This is very kind. She is, as Thyrza has said, a plain little woman, yet a thorough lady and kind in manner. I should think one would not know her quickly. She dresses in a rather peculiar style, wears limp black still and a modified widow's cap, though her husband died seven or eight years ago, and has a certain quaint way of saying things, which strikes one as uncommon. I expect to like her, but she is not a favourite among the Romilly sisters.
Sir Keith dined here to-night, and I have watched him with a good deal of interest. He is thoroughly at home in the house, and almost on brother-and-sister terms with the girls, which makes it difficult to guess the real nature of his feelings towards them. Almost; not quite; since he speaks carefully of Nellie as "Miss Romilly;" and though he addresses the younger girls by name, they all call him "Sir Keith."
I cannot resist an impression that somebody here is a good deal to him: but I could not say which. Perhaps the absent Nellie.
Maggie was in a pretty flutter of shy pleasure and blushes and drooped sweet eyes, all the evening, but it was so like a child's innocent enjoyment of a toy! I don't really think she is touched. And Sir Keith seemed no more occupied with her than with the others. He talked indeed chiefly to Mr. Romilly, and to me, as the greatest stranger present.
I see that he likes to draw out Thyrza, and respects her blunt truthfulness. Sometimes she responds; sometimes she grumpily retreats into her shell. Elfie he seems very fond of,—as a child, or a kitten. But can that last? Small as she is, she will soon be seventeen, and he is only twenty-eight. It must be difficult for him to realise how fast they are all growing up. And his manner towards them all, even towards Popsie and Pet, while brotherly, is also so chivalrously polite and gentlemanlike, that really one could wish nothing changed,—only—one wonders what things may develop into. For, whatever Thyrza may say, there can be no question that he is a singularly attractive man.
June 29. Monday.—A short letter has come at last from Mrs. Romilly, the coldest briefest epistle I have ever had from her. Does this mean that she is seriously vexed or distressed with what I have said—or have not said? Well, I can only go straight on, meeting each difficulty as it arises. I will write again soon. But I cannot pretend to believe that Maggie does really care for me. I know she does not.
Calling to-day at Glynde Cottage, I could not help thinking again about "incompatibility of temper," and the rubs which must come to one in daily life. I do not often see Ramsay Hepburn. He is a tall lanky youth, slightly lame, and just invalidish enough to give an excuse for perpetual fuss about his own health. I suppose he has his better side, and his pleasanter moods; but this afternoon he was by no means agreeable.
Not that he meant to be disagreeable to me. He is given to showing a rather elaborate politeness to people outside his own home-circle, so elaborate, in fact, that he seems to have none remaining for home-use. I overheard him snub Gladys two or three times, when he thought it would be unnoticed; and he has an objectionable habit of breaking into what Mrs. Hepburn or any one else is saying, contradicting, questioning statements, and getting up absurd little discussions on every possible unimportant point.
If somebody else remarks that the wind is east, Ramsay declares it to be west. If somebody else expects a fine day, Ramsay is certain it will rain. If Mrs. Hepburn refers to an event as having happened on the 10th of February, Ramsay contends that it occurred on the 9th. If Gladys observes that Mr. Smith told a fact to Mr. Brown, Ramsay will have it that the information came from Mr. Robinson to Mr. Jones.
That sort of individual must be very trying to live with. Mrs. Hepburn is most gentle and forbearing, but I could not help pitying her and Gladys, not to speak of "Uncle Tom." And then I remembered that they all needed opportunities for patience. No doubt Ramsay is one of the family "opportunities."
July 2. Thursday.—I could not have thought that I should be so weak, so easily unhinged. I, who always pride myself on my powers of self-restraint.
I suppose it was the thing coming so suddenly, with no sort of expectation on my part.
Yesterday morning an invitation arrived from Lady Denham, for all of us to spend the afternoon at The Park: not only the girls and myself, but also Miss Millington and the little ones. Nobody else was to be there except ourselves. Denham was asked, but he had a half-holiday cricket engagement. Mr. Romilly was asked too, and he sighed, complained of his inability for exertion, wished kind friends would leave him in peace—er,—settled after all to go, and finally stayed at home.
Tennis was for a while the order of the day; then came tea on the lawn, with a profusion of strawberries and cream. Then tennis again, or rambling about the lovely garden, whichever one preferred,—and I had a very pleasant stroll with Lady Denham, who thawed and became quite friendly. I was surprised, having heard much of her coldness.
Since coming to Glynde I have not played tennis for I am afraid of seeming too juvenile. They used to say in Bath that I always looked young over tennis.
A sharp shower, arriving unexpectedly, drove us all indoors, and photograph albums were put in requisition. Sir Keith brought a big volume to Elfie and me, full of foreign views, which he undertook to display. Two or three others of the party drew near to look also, including Miss Millington.
About half-way through the book, we came upon a photograph of an old street in Rouen. "It is more than two years since we were there last," Sir Keith remarked. "I always connect this scene with a poor young fellow who was in the same hotel with us,—do you remember him, mother?"
Lady Denham looked round rather vaguely from a talk with Thyrza, which seemed difficult to keep up.
"A poor fellow in a hotel!" she repeated. "No, my dear, I don't recollect. Where was it? At Rouen? Yes, I do remember that young officer who seemed so ill and miserable, and had no friends. If you mean him?"
"Hadn't he anybody with him?" inquired Elfie.
"No, Elf," Sir Keith answered. "Not only that, but he seemed to have few relatives anywhere."
"And was he very ill?" asked the Elf, her black eyes full of pity.
"Yes, quite ill for some days; and I think still more unhappy."
"What was he unhappy about? Done something wrong?" demanded Nona.
"Not that I am aware of. He did not tell me his trouble; only one could see from his face that he felt very sad. Nobody could help being sorry for him," Sir Keith went on in his kind way, and he added musingly, "What was his name? Linskell—Lemming—no,—Len—"
"Captain Arthur Lenox. My dear, your memory is not so good as mine," Lady Denham said, with pardonable satisfaction.
Sir Keith laughed and assented. "I am not good at names," he said. "Yes, that was it,—Arthur Lenox. A fine soldierly young fellow,—only rather too cynical in his way of speaking. But that might mend in time. I wish we had not lost sight of him since. He seemed—"
A sudden pause took place. I knew why. Till the utterance of that name, I had not dreamt of whom they were speaking. Then in a moment the past came back, and I was once more in the little old Bath sitting-room, alone with Arthur Lenox. And an added pain had come to me, in a new realisation of the suffering that I had caused to him. I did not stir, did not lift my eyes from the photograph, but I knew that every drop of blood had left my face, driven inward, as it were, and for the instant I knew myself to be incapable of steady speech.
That dreadful silence! It did not last, I am persuaded, over three seconds, if so long. Yet they might have been three hours to me.
Then Sir Keith turned over a page of the album, and began talking again in a quiet even voice, drawing away the attention of the girls. And I was able to look up. I saw Elfie's eyes wide-open and startled, while Miss Millington's were on me in a fixed stare, which perhaps proved more bracing than anything else. I knew that I must act at once, so I turned back the last page, as if to look once more at the street of Rouen, and remarked with a smile—
"Those quaint old French towns must be very interesting. I should like to see them." In a doubtful tone, I added, "Lenox, did you say? I have known one or two of that name, but I am not aware of their having been to Rouen."
And I said the words with entire composure.
"Rouen lies very much in the beaten track," said Sir Keith. "Tourists seldom fail to go there, sooner or later. I can show you other views of French towns, very similar. But I see that the rain is over. Would anybody like to come and take a look at the fernery?"
"I should," I said at once. "Yes, really—" and as his eyes met mine in a swift questioning glance, I laughed quite naturally. "I believe I am rather tired to-day, and I have just been feeling a little—not quite well, perhaps. And the fresh air will revive me."
"My dear, you fag too hard with all these young folks," Lady Denham said, in such a kind manner. "You ought to take a little rest sometimes."
And Elfie crept close up to me, slipping her hand into mine with mute sympathy.
I had some difficulty in getting off a quiet half-hour indoors with Lady Denham. But I wanted to be on the move, to be able to forget myself and the past, and I pleaded anew for fresh air.
Lady Denham yielded at once, with the genuine courtesy which so distinguishes herself and her son, and she accompanied us into the grounds. She was quite motherly to me in manner, and Sir Keith looked grave and troubled, evidently fearing that he had given pain.
Before we left The Park, I succeeded in doing away with a good deal of the impression caused by my sudden change of colour. Miss Millington's inquisitive eyes kept me up to the mark. I had to submit to being treated as a semi-invalid, a thing I particularly dislike; but by resisting, I should have given countenance to that which I most wished to drive out of people's minds. So when I was told that I looked pale and fatigued, that I must rest in an easy-chair, and must be driven home instead of walking, I gave way without a struggle. The plea of fatigue was a genuine enough plea for me to use. I do not know when I have felt such languor as during some hours, after that little event. Still, in a general way, I would have laughed at any suggestion of care-taking, so long as I had two feet to stand upon.
The girls were all kind. Maggie became quite gentle and sympathising in manner, the moment she thought me unwell. That has been a real comfort. Can it be that she dislikes me less than I have imagined?
Even Miss Millington said, "You really do too much, Miss Conway!" And Nona insisted on carrying my shawl, while Elfie would hardly leave me for a moment. When saying good-night, she threw her arms round my waist, and held me as in a vice. I understand fully the dear child's unspoken sympathy. Of all the girls, I do not think one has crept so far into my heart as this loving tiny Elf.
I must not think more about what Sir Keith said. It unnerves me. For myself I can endure, but I cannot bear to picture Arthur Lenox' grief.
And I have to be very calm and cheerful after this, or others will certainly guess something of the truth.
July 8. Wednesday.—Another short letter from Mrs. Romilly, kinder than the last. I think she must have felt, after sending that off, that it would trouble me. This is more in the old style, only she harps still incessantly on the one string of "her precious Maggie." I suppose nothing in the world would convince her that Maggie is not, all these months, in a broken-hearted condition about her absence.
Yet it is Elfie, not Maggie, whose eyes fill up with tears at any sudden reference to the absent ones. It is Elfie, not Maggie, who craves for every scrap and item of news about them. It is Elfie, not Maggie, who has distinctly lost flesh and strength with worry and anxiety of mind for the dear mother's condition.
If we had not the prospect of so soon going north, I should certainly press for medical advice for Elfie. I do not feel satisfied about the child. Her little hands are transparently thin, and her eyes look bigger than ever in the tiny brown face, while this constantly recurring neuralgia shows weakness. "Oh, it is only Elfie," Maggie says, if I speak to her, and Elfie fights on bravely. I do not like the state of things, however.
July 9. Thursday.—Mr. Slade Denham has been to dinner here this evening, an unusual event, for he detests society.
It strikes me that I have written little or nothing in my journal hitherto about the Church we attend. There is always so much to say about these girls.
St. John's is only five minutes distant, a graceful little Gothic Chapel-of-Ease to the Parish Church, built by Sir Keith himself to meet the growing needs of Glynde. The Rector of Glynde, Mr. Wilmington, is an elderly man, with two curates; one of the two, the Rev. Slade Denham, having sole charge of St. John's. We go there regularly, the Parish Church being too far off.
Mr. Denham is a first-cousin of Sir Keith's, and about the same age, but not in the least like him,—very plain, shy and brusque in manner, and rather odd in his ways. He is a thorough "study-man," a hard reader, a hater of platforms, and a busy organiser of Parish work,—characteristics not always found in juxtaposition. He is rarely to be seen out of his study, except in the cottages of the poor, in the sickrooms of either poor or rich, and in needful Parish gatherings. Tennis is not in his line; and his one recreation takes the shape of long lonely walks in the country,—hardly sufficient recreation, perhaps, in the case of so severe a brain-toiler. He looks like a burner of midnight oil.
The poor are devoted to Mr. Denham,—and the rich are not. Easily explained, for to the poor he is all gentleness, and to the rich he is all shy curtness. It is a pity; since he loses influence thereby. Yet one does not know how to regret the hermitage-loving turn of mind which results in such sermons as his,—no strings of platitudes strung together in a hurry, and spun out to fill up a stereotyped twenty minutes or half-hour, but real downright teaching, Sunday after Sunday, in a full and systematic course. Surely our Church means us to have such systematic teaching, declaring to us throughout the year the "whole counsel of God," and not merely to be fed upon stray scraps of that "counsel," gathered up almost at random without plan or method. But I have never had it before.
The services too are full of help and refreshment, bright, hearty, reverent, with a good choir and congregational singing. Everybody seems to join. There is no lounging or lolling, and scarcely any staring about. It is wonderful how infectious in a Church is a spirit of deep earnestness and intense reverence.
I often think of Sir Keith's words on any journey here,—of the responsibility involved in greater privileges. For I do feel that such a Church as St. John's near at hand is a real privilege, and ought to be a real and practical help. And that means that I ought to advance more quickly, that I ought to become more Heavenly-minded, that I ought to live more nearly such a life as Christ my Master lived, that I ought to walk more fully as He walked.
Is it so, indeed? The question is a very serious one. For if not—better far that greater privileges and means of spiritual advance were not mine, than that having I should fail to use them!
"Search me, O God, and know my heart; try me, and know my thoughts, and see if there be any wicked way in me, and lead me in the Way everlasting."
No better prayer for me than this. Of all dangers, I dread none more than the perils of self-deception and of spiritual stagnation.
GLADYS HEPBURN'S FIRST SUCCESSES.
DIARY OF GLADYS HEPBURN.
April 23. Thursday (preceding).
UNCLE TOM was in London on Tuesday, and he very kindly went to see two or three publishers for me. Mr. B. spoke a long time about the great necessity for careful preparation and revision. And Mr. D. also spoke about that. He said he had just refused two manuscripts, written by a lady, for nothing but because they were so carelessly done. If I like at any time to send him a very carefully prepared MS., he will look at it. And Mr. F. told Uncle Tom about some other publishers who might be the right sort.
I begin to understand that it isn't only a question about a story being pretty good in itself, but also one has to be careful where one sends it. Some publishers chiefly bring out novels; and some history; and some religious tales; and so on. And a man might refuse a book just because it didn't suit him, while it might be the very book for another publisher over the way.
Mr. F. also said that the better plan was to send my MSS. straight off, instead of writing first to ask leave. Because, naturally, if a man hasn't seen the MS., and can't possibly judge anything about it, he is more likely to say at once "No" than "Yes."
May 2. Saturday.—My little book is out! It costs one-and-sixpence. Twelve copies have arrived, bound in different colours. The first picture is really pretty, and it is nice to see my own ideas embodied by somebody else.
So at last my wish is granted, and I am very pleased and thankful. Only perhaps not so desperately excited in myself as I expected to be,—not nearly so excited as others are about it, I think. For somehow, now it has come to pass, the thing seems quite natural. And of course I am very much more interested in the story I am actually writing than in one which was finished so long ago.
May 14. Thursday.—Fifteen pounds came yesterday,—the first money I ever earned by my own brains. I have put some into the Savings Bank, and part of it I mean to spend. I hope I shall never get into spendthrift ways.
Several kind letters have reached me about my little book,—and some give advice. I think I liked best of all Mr. Wilmington saying he had nearly cried over it. Aunt Anne Hepburn complains that the colour of her copy is very ugly, and she points out a misprint on the fourth page. But I don't see how one can choose out the prettiest colours for everybody.
The little ones from Glynde House have been here this evening, and we all had a good game of play. It was rather fun to feel that, as I had a printed book out, nobody would count me too childish for my age, and so I could just enjoy myself as much as ever I liked. Was that silly?
I wonder how soon poor Maggie will hear about her MS. She seems getting rather impatient. I don't wonder, for I have often felt dreadfully impatient.
May 16. Saturday.—Mother and I don't think Miss Conway looks quite so strong and bright as when she first came. I wonder if anything is worrying her.
It is so strange that Maggie does not grow more fond of Miss Con. Mother and I think Miss Con delightful. And Ramsay is growing quite absurd. At first he used to say all sorts of hard and contemptuous things about her, as he does about almost everybody; but now he has turned right round, and he seems to think the ground scarcely good enough for her to tread on. But I don't suppose Miss Con has the least idea of his state of admiration, for he only gets red and awkward when he sees her. If she had, how she would laugh! She a girl of twenty-three, with the mind of a woman of thirty, as Uncle Tom says,—and he a backward boy of seventeen.
And yet I don't know whether she really would laugh,—at least it would not be unkindly.
June 17. Wednesday.—Maggie's little MS. has been sent back, as I felt sure it must be, if she wouldn't work it up more carefully. I am very sorry, for she is so disappointed. But the odd thing is, that she seems quite angry, too, with the publisher. I don't understand that, because of course he must be free to take or refuse books. And it always seems to me that one has just to learn what one can do, by trying. One trial doesn't settle the matter; but a good many trials would. And if one really had not the gift, if God really had not called one to the work,—ought one to be vexed?
Still, if I had failed instead of succeeding, I might not find it so easy to write like this.
July 7. Tuesday.—My book "Tom and Mary" is finished at last,—was finished last week, I mean: and I have been correcting hard ever since. I don't mean the MS. to have one single untidy page. Of course that means more copying, but it is worth while. The greatest difficulty is to think of a good title.
It really does seem to me large enough for a five-shilling volume: but I have not said so to anybody, for fear of being mistaken.
We have pretty well settled what publisher to send it to. But I don't feel very hopeful of another success so soon. It seems more than I ought to expect. Not very good accounts of poor Mrs. Romilly. There seems no idea of her coming home yet. Even if she did, I should not see Nellie, for the Romillys all go north in about a fortnight,—as soon as Denham's holidays begin. They did talk of going sooner, but Mr. Romilly couldn't make up his mind to it. I'm sure I don't know what he will do when Denham has gone to school,—only sometimes people bear a thing better when it can't be helped than when it can be helped. Lady Denham is very much taken with Miss Con; and Mother and I are so pleased. Lady Denham says she is "distinguished-looking." I believe Sir Keith admires her too, only he is so cautious and polite that one never can know what he does truly think and feel. I can't make out whether he cares for anybody, really,—more than just as a pleasant acquaintance.
It provokes me, rather; and yet of course I like him,—at least, I suppose so. He is very good, and very handsome, and most people count him perfect. I don't think I do. And the sort of liking that I have wouldn't make me the least unhappy if he went away to-morrow and never came back again. For I should have Mother still—and Nellie,—and my dear writing,—and a great many delightful things besides. And yet Sir Keith is a real friend of ours, and he certainly means to be as kind as possible to everybody all round.
That is just it! I suppose I don't care to be merely one of "everybody all round." And if I don't, it must be pride.
And yet I shouldn't wish him not to be pleasant and polite. And I know he likes Mother,—and I like him for that. And if he didn't always bring on such a shy fit that I can't speak, I might perhaps think him nice to talk to.
There is one other thing that I do like in Sir Keith; and that is, that he doesn't think himself bound to make pretty remarks about my writings, only just to please me. As if I were a child, wanting sugar-plums!
I don't mean that one isn't glad to have an opinion worth having; and honestly-meant praise is pleasant. But that is different. And it seems to me that the people whose opinion one cares for the most are very often the most backward of all in giving it.
July 9. Thursday.—My MS. has gone off. Oh, I do hope and pray that it may succeed!
July 11. Saturday.—Such a kind answer has come from the publisher, Mr. Willis, promising "immediate attention."
July 17. Friday.—I do believe this has been the most delightful day I ever had in my life.
First of all there came a long letter from Nellie, just like her dear self all through.
Then at breakfast-time Mother told me that I am to have a quarter of really good music lessons, from a master just come to live in Glynde. It is two years since I had any. Won't I work hard!
After breakfast, Maggie came in to ask if the children and I would go for a long day's ramble, to the woods. Mother said "Yes" at once, and lessons were left. We took our lunch with us, and had all sorts of fun.
Miss Con and I were together a good deal, and I really do begin to love her dearly. She was so sweet,—thinking about everybody except herself. Maggie kept hanging about Miss Millington, just exactly in the same way she used to hang about Nellie. It provoked me then, because I wanted more of Nellie; and it provokes me now, because I can't endure that little Miss Millington. But anyhow it gave me more of Miss Con.
Thyrza and I got on better than usual; only I can't help seeing that Thyrza does not care for me; and that makes it so difficult to be kind and bright towards her. And the twins were as merry as could be. So we enjoyed ourselves immensely, and we didn't get home till past six o'clock. I haven't had such a holiday for a long while.
But then came the best of all. A letter was waiting for me at home,—from Mr. Willis. And he offers to give me £25 for the copyright of "Tom and Mary," which he thinks will make a 5s. book. And if I agree, it is to go to the printer's at once.
Oh, I am so glad and thankful! It does seem so kind of God to answer prayer like this. I know quite well I didn't half expect it.
SERIOUS NEWS.
DIARY OF GLADYS HEPBURN—continued.
July 27. Monday.
THE Romillys leave to-morrow, and I have seen almost if not quite the last of them to-day. They spend one night in London at a hotel,—a troublesome plan, we think, for such a large party; but it allows the servants to arrive a day sooner, and to get things ready. Beckdale House seems to be smaller than Glynde House, and so not all the servants will go. Rouse and Phipps are to be there of course, and two housemaids, and what Nona calls "a local cook." The old cook stays here in charge, with one of the housemaids,—and the gardener and his wife will be here in their cottage too.
I wonder how the "local cook" will answer. Mr. Romilly is so very particular about his eating.
Maggie goes flying round to-day, forgetting everything; and Miss Con is just as quiet as usual, forgets nothing. And poor Mr. Romilly is in a dreadful state of fuss and fidget. He always is before a journey. A whole mountain of luggage went off last week, and another mountain goes to-morrow; but still he is quite sure they won't have everything they want, and he seems perfectly certain that nobody can be ready in time. It is comical to hear him, for, after all, the most likely person to be late is Mr. Romilly himself. I really don't think he can make haste. It doesn't seem to be in him.
I should feel their leaving much more if Nellie were here. But she isn't; and none of the other girls can be the same to me. I'm not sure that I don't mind most of all saying good-bye to Miss Con. Yesterday evening, after Church, she came in for a few minutes, and she was so very affectionate. She said to Mother, "I shall miss you and Gladys extremely." I know we shall miss her.
Just now I am beginning another story, and that is, of course, a great interest.
This morning I had my first music-lesson. Mr. Lee is rather odd; and the lesson was delicious.
He said, "Play the Scale of C in octaves." When I had done it, he said, "Wrong, from first to last."
That made me feel rather small; because I thought I certainly could play—well, just a little nicely. I am always asked to play at friends' houses, and once or twice I have even been clapped, and perhaps made to feel rather conceited. But of course Mr. Lee is a much better judge than the common run of people, and it must be such a good thing to find out one's real level in anything one does. I shall have to work hard now, to get on. And the first thing will be to learn the "wrist-action," as he calls it, which he thinks so much of.
His touch is just splendid. He seems to bring something out of the piano which I never knew before to be in it. All day long I have been hearing the ring of those wonderful octaves and chords,—almost more exciting than the thought of my book. It has been very hard to settle down to anything else, and trying to write was a sham.
Wasn't it odd? I was going into the drawing-room to-day, and I overheard Mother say—
"Gladys is very much pleased with her new music-master."
"Placidly pleased," Uncle Tom said, and he laughed, while Ramsay added—
"Oh, that's all one must expect. Nothing excites Gladys."
And I turned and ran away. I felt so stupidly hurt, I could have cried. It was stupid, for I shouldn't at all like any one to know just exactly how I do feel, and yet one does wish to be understood. It has made me think how very little one person can know of another's inside, merely from his or her outside,—and how easily I may be mistaken in others, just as they are mistaken in me!
By-the-bye, I must be very careful not to say much about the book before Maggie; for it might not seem kind. She has had her MS. sent back by a second publisher. I do wish she would take a little more trouble to do well, so as to give herself a fair chance.
She has an idea now of writing to some well-known authoress, to ask for advice about getting a book published, and for an opinion on her story. Miss Millington has put this into Maggie's head. Miss Millington says young authors often do it. I wonder if that is true. I never thought of trying such a plan; and I can't fancy that it could make much difference in the end. For, after all, one must go, sooner or later, to publishers and editors. Still, perhaps she will get a little advice of some sort.
July 28. Tuesday.—The Romillys are off; and I feel a great deal more flat and dismal than I expected. Glynde House looks so frightfully empty. I can't bear to walk past it.
We have not had a comfortable day: for Ramsay is in a mood to rub everybody the wrong way. Because of Miss Con, I suppose. Mother says, "Poor Ramsay!" While I am afraid I feel more like saying, "Poor Gladys!" For when he is like this, he makes me cross too.
Mother spoke to me this evening about giving way to temper: and I know she is right. Another person's ill-humours are no excuse for me. But it is very difficult. If only people would be reasonable and sensible.
I do want not to grow horrid and conceited, just because I have had a little success. And that, of course, is a real danger. If I were not the least proud, I shouldn't mind so much the things he says. And of course I ought to think of his lameness, and of what a trial it must be to a boy not to play at cricket and football, or to run races and do everything like other boys. It wouldn't matter so much for a girl, but for a boy it really is dreadful. Yet when he worries me, I don't remember that, I only think of defending myself.
Nellie wrote so sweetly in her last letter. She said, "You know, darling Gladys, I am not clever, and I shouldn't like you to think me preaching, but still I do hope that having this work given you to do for Jesus will make you keep very close to Him."
And oh, I do hope the same! For it is work for Jesus,—though I am afraid some of it is for myself too, because I do so love writing, and I do so like what it brings. But He does give me the work to do; and I want it to be for Him; and I want to honour Him. I must pray to be able to keep silent when I feel vexed.
July 29. Wednesday.—Such a thing has happened,—and I am very unhappy. And yet I am so thankful that darling Nellie herself is not hurt.
Just before breakfast this morning a telegram came for Mother. It was from Nellie. She and Mrs. Romilly have just reached Cologne, where we knew they were going for a few days on their way farther North. The telegram is from a Cologne hotel, and it says—
"Please break news to father, railway accident, Mother much hurt, will Eustace come?"
And that is all. Not a word about whether she is in danger or not. But we all know that it must mean danger. Nellie would never frighten Mr. Romilly without good reason,—or send for Eustace.
The telegram seems to have been delayed, for Uncle Tom says it certainly ought to have come sooner, and that is so unfortunate, for it might just have caught Mr. Romilly.
The question was what to do. Uncle Tom would have gone straight up to London, but it was impossible that he should arrive before they had all left for Yorkshire. So a telegram was sent to Miss Con, repeating Nellie's words, and asking her to break it. Uncle Tom also telegraphed to somebody in the hotel, begging to hear at once whether the other telegram had arrived in time.
But it did not. The Romillys were off first. So then Uncle Tom sent another copy of the same telegram to the station where we believed they would stop for lunch, and a second copy to Beckdale Station, which is some miles off from Beckdale House.
All day long we have been waiting for a reply. It has been impossible to do much of anything. Of course the children's lessons had to go on: and I took out my writing just as usual, because I am determined not to get into the way of being a slave to moods. But I couldn't get a single page done, worth keeping. And every time a bell rang, one of us ran into the passage.
We are afraid now that they will not know what has happened, till they get to Beckdale Station. If the first telegram had reached them, we must have heard before this.
It is a comfort to know that Eustace has joined them in London. But what will poor Mr. Romilly do? And to think of Nellie, all this time alone with Mrs. Romilly among strangers,—Mrs. Romilly perhaps dangerously ill, and only one English maid there to be any help. It does seem very terrible. Only I know how brave darling Nellie is, and how she forgets herself and always seems to lean upon God, when she is in any difficulty.
July 30. Thursday.—Quite late last night, after we had all gone to bed, a telegram came from Miss Con. Mother slipped into my room, to tell me, if I should be awake: and I was. It was dated from Beckdale Station, and it only said—
"News received, Mr. R. and E. off at once to Cologne, rest of us go to Beckdale."
I shouldn't have expected Mr. Romilly to show so much spirit; but it seems quite right. Uncle Tom has been looking out about trains, and he finds that Mr. Romilly and Eustace could come south by a return-train from Beckdale Station, not long after they got there. Most likely that is what they have done.
A MOUNTAIN STATION.
CONSTANCE CONWAY'S JOURNAL.
July 30. Thursday.
I SHALL never forget our arrival at Beckdale Station yesterday.
Everybody was in the highest spirits,—that is to say, the highest of which each was capable,—charmed with the glimpses of mountain scenery which we had during the last hour or so of our journey. Clouds hung rather low, shutting off the summits; but I don't know that this did not make the views only more Impressive. For imagination was free to add unknown altitudes, and a touch of mystery always gives sublimity,—not alone in landscapes.
Fine rain had begun to fall when we reached Beckdale Station, and the wind was gusty enough to send Nona's hat bowling along the platform. Of course a chase took place, with much laughter. The luggage was bundled out from the van; and we found a waggonette and dog-cart in waiting, besides two carts for the luggage.
Privately I wondered how we were all to pack into these two vehicles, for a drive of five or six miles; but I would not suggest difficulties, and after all the waggonette was a very roomy one. Mr. Romilly seemed greatly disturbed at the thought of a dog-cart for any of his party: two-wheelers being his pet aversion: and he also showed alarm about the steep descent before us. For the line of rail by which we had come, since our latest change, had gradually ascended to quite a respectable height on the mountain-sides, and a particularly rugged road led downward from the station into the valley,—Beckdale Station being at the head or upper end of the long valley or dale wherein our "summer residence" is situated.
Poor Mr. Romilly! He fidgeted up and down the platform, counting his packages, bemoaning the deploring his choice of this route, dolefully wondering how we should ever reach Beckdale House. I am afraid I must confess to a sense of amusement. Naturally I have not much sympathy with the state of mind which insists on manufacturing troubles out of nothing. Yet I hardly know whether any weakness is more deserving of pity than this,—just because it is so distinctly a character-weakness as to be seldom recognised as such by its possessor, and therefore seldom really cured.
For two or three minutes I listened; and then I forgot all about Mr. Romilly, standing outside the station-shelter. The rain drove against me in fine sheets, like spray; but what did that matter? I was revelling in my first view of mountains. Bath hills I know well, but aught like this I have never seen before.
Beyond the valley, on either side, there rose wild grey heights, capped by stormy grey clouds which seemed to drop long trains or fringes into every gorge and cleft. I think it was the wildness, the greyness, the lonely and solemn unworldliness of the scene, which told upon me most. The stately march of those cloud-battalions over the mountain-tops was grandly indescribable. I seemed to be gaining a glimpse of something high and pure, far removed from the littlenesses of everyday life. This small station and our tiny selves were a mere accessory—almost a mistake.
Then all at once everyday life came back to me. For somebody stepped up, and put a telegram-envelope into my hand.
I thought of Albinia instantly—Albinia as ill, or perhaps suddenly widowed. She would want me in London. Could I go, or was I tied to my duties at Beckdale? These questions flashed past while I opened the envelope. Elfie was close to my side,—I had not seen her before,—and her dusky eyes grew large with ready sympathy, as she murmured, "Poor Miss Con! I hope it isn't anything the matter with anybody."
Anybody belonging to me, she meant. But at once I saw.
"Elfie dear, I must speak to your father," I said quietly. "You and Nona had better put on your waterproofs meantime, for it is raining."
I have not the least idea how I managed to evade inquiries, and to get into the waiting-room, alone with Mr. Romilly and his eldest son. That came about somehow,—Elfie assisting, under the evident impression that I had some trouble of my own to communicate. And then I broke the news.
Telegrams tell so cruelly little,—I have always felt this, yet never so keenly as when I stood in the little bare waiting-room, with the slip of paper in my hand, and those two faces looking anxiously for more—more! A railway accident,—of what kind we do not know; Mrs. Romilly "much hurt,"—how much we cannot guess; Eustace wanted there,—for what purpose we are not informed. Cologne so far-away too. The telegram went first to the Hepburns, and Mr. Hepburn has forwarded the sad news to me.
Eustace heard with his usual gravity; and somehow the shock to Mr. Romilly seemed less than I had expected. He did not lose his presence of mind, and there was not half so much fretting over this real calamity as over the minor worries of the journey. He said sighingly, "Poor dear Gertrude!" And then—"But I think—er—our duty is quite plain. Pray inquire about trains, my dear boy. I think—er—you and I should be off with—er—as little delay as possible. Yes, at once—er,—no need to go on to Beckdale. I could never forgive myself, if—er—if anything happened, and I had remained here. And Miss Con will undertake—er—the entire management—er—"
He came to a helpless pause.
"Yes, father," assented Eustace.
"I think—er—Phipps must accompany us,—yes, certainly—er—I cannot manage without Phipps." He sighed again dolefully. "It is a severe strain—er—in my health. But the call is urgent—er—undoubtedly urgent. Your dear mother is 'much hurt,' Nellie says,—and whatever that may mean—er—my duty is, I think—plain."
The thought flashed across me, quite wickedly, that poor little Mr. Romilly was by no means sorry to escape "that frightful descent," as he termed the road from the station. I cannot, of course, calmly let myself suppose that he thought of this at all: but the idea did intrude.
"Perhaps—" he went on,—"perhaps it would be best, Miss Conway—er,—if you could be so very kind as to call the girls—I think it might be as well to explain—"
I obeyed with no delay, and Eustace disappeared also, doubtless to make other arrangements. Denham was outside, and he rushed off at my request to collect his sisters.
"Your father has heard from abroad," I said in an undertone. "Yes,—not quite good news; but don't frighten any one. Only ask them all to come to the waiting-room."
I saw a general move at once in the right direction, and went back myself to Mr. Romilly.
Maggie entered first, rosy and laughing, her arm through Miss Millington's,—then the twins and the little ones, followed by Thyrza and Denham.
"My dears—er—something very sad has happened—er—very sad indeed," Mr. Romilly began, his delicate lips trembling like those of a distressed child. He launched into a long and hesitating speech, which I would fain have cut short, had it been in my power. "Your beloved mother," and "our dear Nellie," alternated with unhappy conjectures and dismally-expressed hopes. He read the telegram aloud, and enlarged upon it piecemeal. Then he explained that he and Eustace, with Phipps, would start immediately—at once—that very evening—for London; going thence as fast as possible to Cologne, where he hoped—er—trusted—er—to find their precious invalid on a fair road to recovery-er. Meanwhile—er—they were all to be dear good girls—er—and to do exactly what their mother's friend, Miss Conway, desired—er. He was sure he could depend upon Miss Conway to undertake—er—all responsibility.
Eustace bent lower at this point, and said something to him in a low voice. I had not till then noticed the return of Eustace, and I could not hear what he said; but Mr. Romilly nodded.
"Yes, you are right, my dear boy. It is necessary—that one should be at the head,—in case—er—my absence should be at all prolonged. Maggie is—er—unfortunately too young. You understand, my dear children—all of you—" he looked at Miss Millington among the rest,—"that during my absence I leave—er—Miss Conway entirely responsible—and with full authority. Yes,—with full authority—er. I wish—er—everything to be referred to Miss Conway,—and I expect—er—implicit obedience to her." His eyes ran over the group. "Thyrza—you understand? If difficulties occur, the decision will—er—will rest with Miss Conway. You understand me, Thyrza?" He seemed to count Thyrza the only one likely to resist my authority, whereas I knew her to be the one who would most steadfastly uphold it.
"Yes, father," she answered. "Then I suppose Miss Conway will have the housekeeping too."
Maggie and Miss Millington exchanged looks. Mr. Romilly's face fell into a helpless set.
"I really—er—hardly know," he said feebly. "That is—er—I think—er—a matter which I must leave you to—er—settle among yourselves."
"It is unimportant—" I began; but Eustace interrupted me—
"I beg your pardon, Miss Conway. I think Thyrza is right. There ought to be no possibility of a mistake. While my father is away you are, by his appointment, distinctly and unequivocally head of the household. This includes housekeeping. A divided authority cannot work well. For the time, Maggie must be content to count herself one of the girls,—subject to you. Do you not agree with me, father?"
Maggie made no protest. She only looked prettily downcast and pensive. Mr. Romilly sighed at being appealed to, and endorsed his son's words, though not very emphatically. Then he went back to the telegram, and discussed anew its meaning, with divers conjectures as to the nature of the accident.
I do not know whether all this slow speechifying stupefied the girls as it stupefied me. They listened for the most part in submissive silence. Maggie's cheeks had not lost their bloom: and though she grew serious, I am not sure that the question of household authority did not form the leading topic in her mind. Thyrza's face settled into a rigid unhappiness, and Nona's eyes filled repeatedly with tears. Elfie was the one I had feared for most; and, strange to say, Elfie seemed the slowest of all to take alarm. Gradually, however, a pinched misery came over her, and the large eyes wandered about despairingly.
Eustace made use of the first pause to speak about trains: and then I found Elfie by my side. She clutched one of my hands, and muttered, "Can't we go? Don't let anybody say any more."
"We will get off as soon as possible," I whispered. "Try to be brave, Elfie. You know we may hope for brighter news to-morrow."
"Oh, I don't know,—only don't talk,—don't let anybody speak. Please!—please!" And she wrung her hands.
I sent her out on the platform, and had a few words with Eustace, obtaining his help. My aim was, if I could, to keep Elfie away from the chatterers. After some discussion, she and I were allowed to mount the front of the dog-cart, with only Thyrza and packages occupying the back-seat. The remainder of our Beckdale party were packed into the waggonette.
Once in the course of these arrangements, I found Eustace by my side, saying something which he evidently meant to be unheard by others.
"My father has asked me to give you these for immediate use," he observed first: and I found bank-notes and gold in my hand. "We will write, authorising you to draw, if needful, on the bank for more,—if our stay should be of any length." Then came a grateful—"It is very good of you! We are asking you to undertake a great deal!"
"I am most glad to do all in my power," I said. "Yes, the responsibility is heavy; I wish I had had more experience."
"It always seems that you must have had so much. But I want to say one word. I think the girls will behave well, and not give trouble;—still, if any difficulty should arise, there is always Lady Denham. You could not do harm by appealing to her. And pray write freely to Nellie. She never makes mischief."
"Thank you very much," I said, and his warm hand-shake was a surprise. Generally he is so undemonstrative.
It is well that these few words passed between us, for certainly I should not have thought of Lady Denham in the event of any difficulty. My impulse would rather have been to appeal to Mrs. Hepburn. But evidently such an idea never occurred to Eustace: and of course the Denhams are much older friends.
"We shall send you news as soon as possible," Eustace said, while tucking the wrapper well in round Elfie and me. "Don't fret, dear;" and he kissed her cold cheek.
I was struck with his unusual freedom and almost cheerfulness of manner. I fancy it arose from a certain gratification in finding himself for once necessary to his father, and useful to all of us.
"Don't fret," he repeated. "Nellie was right to send for me: but you see, she did not mention my father, and she would have been pretty sure to do that, if there were any real cause for anxiety. Don't you think so?"
Elfie tried to smile, and to say, "Yes."
AND A YORKSHIRE DALE.
THE SAME—continued.
OUR dog-cart took the lead, descending first the steep and rugged road which led from the station, our driver walking at the horse's head. I found that the waggonette was Mr. Romilly's property, but that the dog-cart was hired,—said driver being its owner, a kind and fatherly old farmer, living near Beckdale House. He and his will be our nearest neighbours here, I imagine.
Rain still fell, though not heavily; and it soon ceased, for which I was not sorry. We could not hold up umbrellas. The wind came in blasts.
Elfie would in a general way have been nervous to the last degree about so abrupt a descent; but she scarcely seemed to notice it. Her whole mind was with her mother. The horse planted his feet slowly and with caution, his great haunches going down in successive jerks. I could hear little cries and exclamations of half-simulated half-real alarm from the waggonette: yet no sound came from Elfie.
It was getting very dusky, for we had been long at the station. I was able, however, to see distinctly the small sharp face leaning against me, whitey-brown in hue, with wide-open terror-stricken eyes fixed on vacancy; and the chill of Elfie's clasping fingers came through her gloves and mine. I did not speak to her, however. I knew she would rather be let alone.
The very steep hillside safely over, our drivers mounted, and we bowled along a good road, still indeed descending, but often so gently that one scarcely perceived the fact.
Dusky hills or perhaps mountains rose high on either side of the long narrow dale through which our way led us: and to our left a brawling stream rushed downward from the dale-head. My attention was riveted, as the road brought us near. I have never before seen a genuine mountain-torrent. The seeing was indeed partial; but the swirl of white foam gleamed weirdly through semi-darkness, and the roar of small waterfalls over opposing boulders came to my ears like grand chords of Nature's music.
I looked to discover if Elfie were able to enjoy all this; but no, she had not stirred, and the fixed eyes were blank, as of one whose thoughts are turned entirely inward.
Then I glanced back, to catch a glimpse of Thyrza's straight characteristic profile—she has the best profile of any one in the family—and she turned, as if from a simultaneous impulse, to glance at me, her lips parted, her eyes shining, her whole face softened into a rare new beauty. I was so glad that enough light remained for me to gain a clear view of her at that moment. It was a fresh glimpse of Thyrza's real self.
"You like this?" I breathed, leaning back to speak, and she said—
"Oh, it is splendid!"
I do not think any more passed between us. One cannot always talk when one feels the most.
Now and then the farmer, Mr. Stockmoor, and I exchanged a few words across the silent Elfie. I found his Yorkshire dialect less difficult to understand than I should have expected; but doubtless many speak far more broadly. He told me that there has been heavy rain lately, so the river is unusually full. Also I learnt that the Dale is somewhere about ten miles long; and that Beckdale House occupies a position over six miles from the Head, and between three and four from the farther and lower end, where is situated the small town of Beckbergh. We might have gone to Beckbergh Station, had it been so willed, but an extra change of trains would have been involved thereby, and Mr. Romilly has a mortal aversion to changes. I suspect, however, that he will prefer to endure any number in future, rather than commit himself to the horrors of "that frightful descent."
The six miles seemed short to me, and I think to Thyrza also, with such surroundings to study. July twilight, especially in the north, is not very profound, or very quick to deepen into darkness.
I could hardly believe that the drive was ended, when we found ourselves entering a garden-gate and immediately stopping before a house,—"t' hoose" our new friend called it,—grown thickly over with creepers. It stood very close to the road, and was a less imposing edifice than I had perhaps expected.
Rouse opened the door; and I explained to her at once, briefly, how things were. Though I did not exactly state my new position in the household, she seemed in a measure to understand, appealing to me as well as to Maggie in respect of sleeping arrangements. After Glynde House, the rooms appeared limited both in number and size. Rouse had settled matters to the best of her ability, and I thought wisely: but Maggie at once proposed a bouleversement of the whole. She objected to the room set apart for her use and Thyrza's, declined to fall in with my suggestion that she should for the present occupy the best bedroom, complained that Miss Millington's was "horridly uncomfortable," roamed discontentedly up and down stairs, contradicted everybody, kept the hungry and tired children waiting for their supper, and showed herself for once unequivocally out of temper. Of course I knew too well the cause; and I augured badly for the future from her mood.
It was my earnest wish to avoid needless struggles, so I only counselled patience to the younger girls, and then did the best I could to smooth matters by offering to share my own bedroom with Thyrza for a few days. Maggie at first flatly refused the offer, but gradually came round to it; and as a next move, she requested Miss Millington to share her bedroom—the same which she had just before denounced as "not big enough" for two sisters.
"Instead of that poky little hole you have now, Millie dear," she said, with a defiant glance at me from her pretty grey eyes.
"Millie" demurred, but agreed. I made no objections, though I could not approve of the plan. I did not believe that Mr. or Mrs. Romilly would like her to sleep so far-away from the children in her charge. This difficulty, however, was removed to some extent by Thyrza's immediate—"Then I shall sleep in that room, and leave Miss Con in peace."
She said to me later, "I know it is better for you: and of course the little ones can't be left with no one near. Such a shame of those two!"
I said little in answer, except to thank her for helping me. The comfort of a room to myself still is not small,—though indeed I would rather have Thyrza for a companion than any one else.
To-day the girls and Miss Millington have been chiefly occupied in unpacking and arranging. I have seen little of any of them, for Elfie has been so ill with neuralgia, that I could neither let her come downstairs, nor leave her alone for any length of time.
We have had drenching rain, without a break, from early morning. I wonder if this is usual in July. Denham has been out, of course, regardless of soaking. Thyrza and Nona ventured a short distance, but they were soon driven back, and had to change everything.
Just opposite our house, on the other side of the Dale, is a fine waterfall,—unusually full and fine just now, from the heavy rain. It begins, not far from the top of the hill, as a straight thread of silver. Then comes a break, where I suppose the stream flows over a slope. Then a great tumbling leap down a rocky descent, followed by a second break, and by a final spreading burst of water to lower levels, where it is hidden by trees. I could stand and watch for hours.
The river, flowing among meadows in the bottom of the valley, is not visible from our windows. We have glimpses of the other road, beyond the river, running parallel with this road; and beyond the road rises a great beautiful mountainous mass, extending far to left and right. I do not know its name yet, but everybody seems to call it "The Fell." The waterfall leaps down its sides near; and far-away to the left we can see upon it "The Scaur," a mass of precipitous bare rock, in a green frame.
The hills on this side of the Dale, behind our house, are more smooth and round, and less lofty. Higher up the Dale, some miles off, we have glimpses of mountains, which I am told are over two thousand feet in height. Their summits are swathed in cloud at present.
July 31. Friday Afternoon.—No news yet from Germany. I cannot make up my mind how soon we ought to hear. Surely a second telegram might have been sent; or a letter written by Nellie just after the accident might arrive.
Elfie was awake all night, and to-day she is shaken and hysterical, tears springing at the least word. I would not let her come downstairs till after lunch. Now she is on the drawing-room sofa, sound asleep, and I am journalising at a side-table. I feel safe in so doing, for once. We have had another wet morning; and the sun having come out since lunch, our whole party started ten minutes ago for a ramble. They will not be back for at least two hours, if rain keeps off. So I may as well utilise the time.
Thyrza alone helps me in taking care of Elfie. Maggie, Nona, the little ones, and "Millie" keep studiously aloof. I cannot but see that this is intentional, and that the ill-feeling towards me is fostered by Miss Millington. Nona has her rude manner. The little ones pout when I come near, and are gushing towards their "sweetest darling duckie Millie!" If I glance at Miss Millington, she bridles and tosses her head. Maggie has scarcely spoken to me to-day, except to oppose whatever I wish or suggest. There has been as yet no actual resistance of my authority, and I hope that there may not be,—also that this state of things may not last. It is very foolish: and Maggie's ill-humour has an odd childishness about it.
A letter unexpectedly reached me this morning from Lady Denham,—short, but very kind. She has had a note from Eustace, written in London; and she writes, plainly with a clear understanding of things generally, to assure me that I must not hesitate to appeal to her, if need should arise.
Of course I have shown and read the letter to no one,—though the postmark was commented on by Maggie and Nona in what I cannot but count an unladylike because interfering style.
If nothing else prevented me, one sentence would. Lady Denham says, near the end—
"Is it not singular? We have just come across that young officer again,—Captain A. Lenox, whom we saw at Rouen. You will remember my son mentioning him in connection with a photograph. I think you said you had known some member of the same family. He was at the same hotel with us in Bath, three days ago. I was glad to see him quite well."
That is all. I do not understand her object in making the remark. She may have written the words quite innocently,—or she may have some dim suspicion of the truth.
Either way, what difference can it make? For I can do nothing. Womanly reserve and self-respect forbid the slightest step on my part. If he knew—But if he did, he might not care! How can I tell? He is "quite well," that may mean "quite recovered" in more ways than one. I think a woman clings longer to a hopeless memory than a man does. And he told me plainly that he would never place himself in my path again.
What can have taken him to Bath I cannot—
* * * * * * *
Something so terribly unpleasant has happened. I cannot write more now. My hand is shaking, and I feel altogether upset. I will never journalise in the drawing-room again.