THROUGH A STORM.
THE SAME.
August 1. Saturday Evening.
YESTERDAY afternoon, when I had written those two words, "I cannot—" Nona darted into the room, and seized my dress, with a scared whisper—
"Come! quick! quick! A telegram for you! We are so frightened."
I could see that she was. She looked quite pale and out of breath. I found later that they had met on the road the messenger from the telegraph-office, had guessed his errand, questioned him, and raced back in a body, at full speed, to find out what I should have to tell them.
Elfie showed no signs of waking. In my anxiety to relieve the poor girls' suspense, I rose at once, just closing my journal volume upon a sheet of blotting-paper, but not fastening the spring-lock according to my invariable habit hitherto. Indeed it was not only for the girls' sake that I made all possible haste. A terrible fear crept over me that my dear and loving friend might be no more.
Miss Millington stood in the passage outside. I think I said something to her in passing, but I do not know what; and I remarked with a vague surprise that she did not follow us. Then I forgot her existence.
Maggie, Thyrza, and Denham, with the little ones, were on the gravel-path outside the front porch, waiting for us. Nona hurried me thither,—not faster than I would have gone without her hurrying. I noticed that Popsie and Pet were half crying; that Thyrza was rigid and sad; that Maggie seemed bewildered, yet kept her usual colour. Denham held out the envelope, saying, "We thought you wouldn't like Elfie startled." Afterwards I learnt that they would all have dashed in together, but for Thyrza's remonstrances.
I tore open the thin paper, and read aloud—
"Mother no worse, doctors give hope!"
Dead silence followed, lasting several seconds. Then, to my astonishment, Maggie remarked in a cheerful tone—
"Oh, well, it isn't so bad! She is getting better!"
"Maggie!!" half-smothered, came from behind, and I turned to see Thyrza on the verge of tears, fighting to control herself.
"'No worse,' Maggie—Hardly 'better' yet," I said gravely.
"I can't think why Nellie didn't send the telegram to me," said Maggie.
"She wished, of course, to avoid startling you," I said.
The children were asking—"Is mother nearly well?" And as Maggie chose to give a particularly hopeful response, I did not interfere.
"I would rather have nothing said to Elfie," I observed, when a few remarks had passed.
"Don't you mean to tell her what we have heard?" demanded Nona.
"I am not sure," I said. "Perhaps, by-and-by; but it must depend on how Elfie is."
"Mother never likes Elfie to be coddled," asserted Maggie with promptitude. She has that notion at her fingers' ends.
"I have not the least intention of coddling Elfie," I answered. "There is such a thing as necessary caution; and neither you nor I wish to have Elfie ill. I must request you all to say nothing about the telegram to her without my leave."
Maggie turned and walked a few paces, remarking, "Well, I suppose we may as well go on now. Where's Millie?"
Did she really not care—or not understand? Or was this only assumed indifference?
"She went indoors," Nona said.
"I will find Miss Millington, and ask her to join you out here," I said. "Elfie is asleep, and I would rather not have her roused."
"Millie can catch us up. Come along, girls," Denham said, with an air of forced cheerfulness. I could not but be glad to see how forced his cheerfulness was,—also how pale and serious Nona and the little ones looked. Thyrza held back and when asked to accompany them, she said, "No!" then vanished round the side of the house. Maggie alone showed no signs of being deeply stirred. And when I remember how that poor mother clings to Maggie—But if she were here, she would believe in Maggie still!
I returned then to the drawing-room. As I opened the door and entered, Miss Millington came hurrying across the room. I was struck with her flushed face and flurried manner. She did not look at me, and would have gone straight past, but I whispered—
"They are expecting you in the garden." She made no answer, and disappeared.
A glance revealed to me Elfie sleeping soundly still. I was thankful for that,—poor child. She had stirred and changed her position, but the coming and going had not roused her.
I sat down again at the side-table; and in one moment I knew that my papers had been meddled with. The consciousness came over me like a clap of thunder.
It is my habit to be very orderly in arrangements when writing. Hurriedly as I had been called away, I could have told exactly how each sheet and envelope lay,—placed in readiness for letter-writing, after journalising. The order of them was changed now. Note-sheets, envelopes and post-cards, had been thrust into a heap. That might mean nothing,—merely a hasty movement of somebody's hand, in going to the drawer. But that was not all. I opened my journal, and I knew at once that it had been opened in my absence. The piece of blotting-paper, which I had left between the leaves, had fallen half out; and the leaves themselves were rumpled, as if by too hurried turning over and too hasty closure.
If further proof were needed, I had it. For straight before my eyes, close to the name of "Arthur Lenox," lay one small yellowish rose-petal, pink-edged. I was well aware from what rose that petal came. Only half-an-hour earlier I had seen Maggie fasten it in Miss Millington's dress, with an apology for its too full-grown condition. The petal must have fluttered down, unseen, at the last moment, as she shut the book, startled by my quick return.
My first feeling was as if I had been stunned by a blow. I could not understand what had happened,—could not let myself face it. How long I sat, gazing in stupefaction at the last unfinished sentence of my journal, I do not know. It must have been quite mechanically that I at last added a few words, found further writing impossible, shut and locked the book, and glanced at Elfie.
Asleep still! I could not see her face in the new position she had assumed,—a crumpled-up attitude peculiar to herself; but her extreme stillness convinced me that there was no fear of an awakening at present. She might be left for a short time.
I took the journal, and went upstairs to my own room.
There the storm broke,—not outwardly, much of it. But all at once I realised what this deed was which Miss Millington had done to me. She had covertly possessed herself of my heart's secret,—had stolen from me my most guarded possession. The agony of having the thing known at all—worst of all known by her!—came upon me fiercely; and then the contemptibleness of her conduct! The miserable paltry curiosity! The shameless lack of honour!—Then again my own helplessness! I could do nothing. How much or how little she had read or understood, I might never know.
I could not even prove that she had really looked: and if I could, what use? Nothing could undo that which she had done. I would never stoop to accuse her of it,—would never put myself further in her power, by letting her know that I had discovered her act. I would only despise and hate her thenceforward, as a creature utterly base and low, beneath contempt, outside the pale of common respect. Forgive her! Love her! Never!
I have always known that I "had a temper," as the saying is,—a temper capable of being roused on occasions, though not susceptible to very small daily worries. But never till yesterday have I felt myself powerless in its grasp, carried away like a leaf in the gale.
The half-hour that I spent alone in my room might have been hours, judged by what I went through in the course of it.
I was unable to sit still, unable to kneel, unable to pray. The overmastering anguish of hate and scorn gradually subdued all other sensations. Pain itself went down for the time before that storm of withering contempt. For I have always had such a horror of anything not strictly and perfectly honourable! I have always been so scrupulous in dealing with others! To look at a thing secretly, not meant for one's eyes, has seemed to me, not merely so wrong, but so absolutely impossible! And now—to be subjected to this!
Half an hour and no more I gave myself. At its close, the battle was not fought out,—was scarcely indeed begun. I had not fought at all. I had only been swept along by a tornado of passion. And I think that the one thing which kept me from losing my balance, which restrained me from resolving on some wild or rash step of reprisal or escape, in that half-hour of fearful resentment, was the consciousness of my Father's pity,—the knowledge that He was looking down all the while tenderly on His poor racked child, and that He would help me, so soon as I could and would glance up to Him for help.
I thought He would not help me—yet! I thought I could not glance towards Him—yet! But I do think now that my very sense of His loving pity was even then a wordless prayer,—and that even then His Hand was holding me back.
For somehow at the half-hour's end, I could be outwardly calm. I washed my face, smoothed my hair, and noted curiously in the glass my unusual degree of pallor, and the strange expression in my eyes. I wondered if others would remark the latter; for I felt that I could not control it. Then I went downstairs to the drawing-room.
Elfie was awake. She showed no surprise at my absence, but seemed poorly and fretful, and would not talk. I saw signs of tears, and when I tried to comfort her, she turned fractiously away, hiding her face in the cushion. So I left her quiet, and sat down with work, resolving to make no mention at present of the telegram.
The walking-party returned earlier than I expected. I was determined that Miss Millington should see no change in my manner. Pride demanded this of me. But whether I was successful, I do not know. When she first came into the room, I had a sensation of being turned to ice. She may not have noted any difference, since, to my knowledge, she never looked at me once during the hour that we were all together. The resolute manner in which her eyes shunned mine was remarkable; for generally they seem to be everywhere. The walking-party had much to say about their ramble,—not to me, but one to another. I would not be left out of the conversation, and talked as much as anybody; but by the time tea was over, the strain had become almost more than I knew how to endure.
Thyrza, who had been very silent, found an opportunity to say to me, unheard by the rest—
"Are you tired, Miss Con?"
"Rather," I answered. "Would you mind sitting with Elfie for an hour, while I have a walk?"
"No, of course I will. I meant to ask if you wouldn't like some fresh air. But you will not go alone?"
"Quite alone," I said. The words sounded hard, and I tried to smile.
"Couldn't Millie or somebody else take care of Elfie? I should so like to be with you."
"Not this evening," I answered. She looked at me with such puzzled eyes, that I became conscious of something peculiar in my manner, and to soften the words, I added, "Better not ask it. They talked of another ramble before supper."
We have given up late dinner for the present, while Mr. Romilly is away.
"Isn't Elfie so well? Are you worried about her?"
"I don't think she is actually ill," I said. "She needs care."
"And you have told her about the telegram?"
"No. Why?"
"Oh, I thought—I didn't know, of course,—only, she was crying so, just before tea."
"I have said nothing. I hope the children have not let it out," I said.
"They wouldn't dare! If Maggie—" Thyrza paused. "But Elfie always frets, when she is poorly, and her faceache is so bad to-day. I dare say it is only that. I'll go to her now. Do get a walk. I am sure you have been too long indoors."
Thyrza's solicitude was my one touch of outside comfort. I could see that she thought me distressed about her mother, as indeed I was and am. But that pain grows small beside the other.
A few minutes later I was off. The sun had gone in, and it was a grey yet clear evening, some blue sky visible towards Beckbergh, and heavy masses of dark cloud brooding over the upper extremity of the Dale, while mountain-outlines near at hand stood out distinctly against a pale background, dun-tinted. On quitting the garden, I turned to the right, aware that other walkers from our house would turn to the left. I did not yet allow myself to think. I wanted first to work off by rapid exercise some small part of the stony misery.
The road slanted downward, gradually nearing the river. By-and-by I gained glimpses of a broad bridge crossing it, far ahead. One pathway leading up the hillside, on my right hand, attracted me; but I resolved first to have a look at the bridge, then to return and try this path.
As the main road descended, it grew more and more muddy,—not surprising after such heavy rain. I had to choose my steps with some care. There were cows loitering along, a few at a time in charge of a man and a dog, on their way back from afternoon milking. I exchanged a kind "Good-evening" with the man. Old-fashioned greetings from strangers seem the fashion here, why not elsewhere? I pondered this question mechanically, patting the rough side of a cow as I went by. And then I noted one or two distant whitewashed farms: and the pretty silken-coated sheep on the hillsides, so different from our southern sheep, took my fancy. But still I kept at bay the lowering black cloud within.
The bridge was reached at last, by a road which turned down to it from the main road. I leant upon the stone-parapet, and gazed, as in a dream, upon the curdling stream, chocolate-brown in hue, swift and steadfast in its rush. It was hard to believe that the brawling mountain-torrent of a few miles higher up could have already grown to this powerful river.
Somehow I was unable to remain on the bridge. The spot did not satisfy my need. There was a cottage near, and I wanted to be away from anything human. Soon I retraced my steps for some distance along the main road, and struck up by the side-path which I had before noticed.
This path, like the road beneath, led towards the lower Dale-extremity: but it wandered up the steep hillside, instead of keeping near the bottom of the valley, serving evidently as a shorter cut to Beckbergh, over a rocky ridge. It is probably a good deal frequented; yet no one overtook or passed me yesterday. The complete solitude was what I had craved for. I went on, till a distant glimpse of the town, Beckbergh, beyond and beneath, became visible.
I did not wish to get there,—though I might have had time, the evenings now are so long. I only wanted to find a spot, secure from interruption, where I might dare to indulge thought.
I had reached the highest point of the pathway, after which it begins to descend towards Beckbergh. It crosses there a wild green common-like slope, broken by out-standing rocks and big boulders.
So I left the path, and went upwards, regardless of the wet grass, and presently I found a seat upon one flat rock, another rising a little below in just such a position as to hide me effectually from anybody who should pass along the path.
Then at last I knew that I might allow myself to think,—and I meant to begin, and have the matter out. But before I could set to work, my eyes fell on a beautiful plant of real Parsley fern, growing a few paces off, under the shelter of an overhanging boulder.
How delighted Thyrza would be! I would get it for her, of course. She is an ardent fern-collector, and I knew she was hoping to find many specimens while here. Maggie follows suit, as a matter of course, and collects fitfully, under "Millie's" superintendence, neither knowing much about the matter. There had been talk at tea-time about the abundant supplies of Polypody and Adiantum Nigrum, already noted. Maggie had expressed hopes of "Oak" and "Beech," and Thyrza had added—"Perhaps even Parsley!"—almost her sole remark. And here the Parsley was!
My trouble had to wait a while longer. Digging a Parsley fern out of a rocky bed, not having even the help of a knife, is no easy matter. I pulled off my gloves, and knelt down, setting to work with care and determination. The business took some time, but I did it thoroughly, keeping the roots almost intact. My "find" at length was freed, and I went back to the seat I had chosen.
And then I sat silently, looking around, willing to face my grief, yet somehow composed. The storm of rage and contempt did not return. I had felt so sure that it must; and I was mistaken.
I had a good view of the Dale, with its high hill-ranges on either side. "The Fell" lay opposite, extending far up the valley: a great mountainous mass, with curved clear outlines, hummocked and dimpled sides; the frowning Scaur in the distance contrasting with soft green surroundings; masses of bracken varying the grass-tints; slender winding rivulets streaking its sides like silver snakes; and the lights and shades of evening lending a wonderful beauty to the whole. I could see the river below, and near the Dale-Head loftier mountains reared their summits into the grey clouds which clustered there; but my eyes returned persistently to the changeful loveliness of The Fell. For that enchained me.
I almost think that at first there was a sense of disappointment at my own quietness. I hardly wished to be quiet yet. For I had been so grievously wronged. My wrath had been a righteous wrath,—so I told myself, not seeing how far it had passed the righteous boundary. I suppose no anger that has the mastery over one can ever be a purely just anger. The contempt too, I told myself, had been no more than Miss Millington deserved. I despised still, and I must despise. There could be no excuse for her. And a voice seemed to whisper—"No! None! And yet—!"
I hardly know how to tell what followed. I do not wish to lose the recollection, so I must try. But it was not words. It was only—the help I needed.
I must have looked up to Him unknowingly. I did believe that He would help me, sooner or later. And it was sooner, instead of later. Perhaps He sometimes—often—comes, unasked, to the rescue of His own, in peril.
Though passionate anger was lulled, pain was not. It grew keener, deeper, as I sat there. The consciousness of what she had done came over me afresh, and with it a fresh agony at having my secret known. Would she make use of her discovery?—Tell it to others? Surely not! And yet I could believe her capable of even this. I had no fear that she or any one would dare to speak a word to me on the subject. But to know that others know!—This I felt to be enough, more than enough, more than I might endure!
The pain was none the less for being a calm pain. Passion had helped me earlier. Now the very calmness rendered me better able to feel, better fitted to measure the cause which existed for pain. And in a little while, I could not face the sweet scene around—I could only drop my head on my knees, shivering in the cold grasp of a bitter distress, a dull longing to be out of it all and away from everybody—for ever.
My own helplessness was terrible, helplessness to undo the evil, helplessness to meet it, helplessness to guard myself, helplessness to forgive. I seemed to be hedged round on every side.
"Forgive her! Oh never!" I found myself murmuring.
And suddenly I seemed to see that sad Denial-Scene, when one whom the Master loved turned against Him, in cowardly wise abjuring His Name. And I saw in response, no anger, no bitterness, no contempt; only one gentle Look from those wonderful loving Eyes, so grave and sweet, pleading and true, reproachful yet pitying, humanly sorrowful, Royally calm.
What has she done to me, compared with that which the craven disciple did to Him that day? More!—In what has she wronged me, compared with all the wronging of my coldness, heartlessness, ingratitude, towards Him—my Master and King? For I have not loved her,—I have not trusted her,—I have not given up aught for her sake! And what has not He done and endured for me?
The debt of one hundred pence indeed, beside the debt of ten thousand pounds! If He resented my ill-doings as I have resented hers, where should I be?
I think the look which softened St. Peter came to me too, in that hour on the lonely hillside. Perhaps there was the touch as well,—His Hand removing the bitterness, the wrath, the angry contempt; not taking away the pain, but rather laying it upon me anew, as something to be patiently endured for Him; and with it giving His peace.
Had I not only that morning pleaded to have His will worked in me, avowing myself submissive? And if this were His will?
It was not—is not—for me to choose. Just because this trouble so fiercely racks my pride, it may be the very burden I most need.
And, after all, I might have misjudged her. This thought came next. She might not have meant to look,—might have gone to the drawer for something, have moved my papers accidentally, have even thrown the book open by some awkward movement and have shut the page, unread.
If she did read,—then, dishonourable, base, contemptible, are not terms too strong for the deed. But yet I have not to judge her. To her own Master she standeth or falleth. Have I always acted towards my loving Lord with perfect honour, perfect courtesy, perfect thoughtfulness, perfect delicacy? And has He not forgiven me? Oh, times without number!
Besides, she may have been ill-trained. She may have by nature a blunt sense of honour, a defective understanding. There can be no excuse; but there may be considerations inducing pity.
"Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good."
That command followed. I knew from Whom it came: and I could only feel that I was willing,—if my God would make me able.
* * * * * * *
It was later than I had intended, when I reached home. Thyrza came to meet me at the garden-gate. She gave one long look, kissed me gravely, and said, "The walk has done you good. I am so glad."
I showed her the Parsley fern, and said, "I meant this for you. But what do you think? Shall I give it to Maggie?"
She flushed up and exclaimed at the sight of what I had brought, with genuine enthusiasm. Then I saw a moment's struggle.
"Yes,—please do," she said. "Maggie says you always put me first."
"Maggie would have no reason for saying so in this instance," I answered. "You are our chief fern-collector: so I count that you have the prime right."
"But Maggie has the fancy just now. Poor little fern! She will only let you die," sighed Thyrza. Yet there came again a decisive—"Yes, give it to her."
I did so: and Maggie received my gift awkwardly, glancing between her thanks at "Millie," to discover whether she were being betrayed into over-warmth.
MYSTERIOUS HOLES.
August 5. Wednesday.
I CANNOT quite understand the condition of things. From Thyrza alone I have steady affection and support. All the rest are in unequivocal opposition.
Even Elfie—my little clinging Elfie—has changed. I do not know why. Though not so poorly as last week, and able to be about again, she seems fractious and peevish, and nervous fancies are regaining their old sway over her. The fusses about what she can and cannot do, will and will not eat, are endless.
Now, too, she distinctly turns from me and turns to Miss Millington. If I say a word about not giving way to fancies, she bursts out crying, and "Millie" ostentatiously comforts her, assisted by Maggie, who has all at once left off remarks anent "coddling."
Miss Millington's influence over the girls is to me more and more extraordinary. There seems absolutely nothing in her, which might account for it. I can only suppose that having, through the force of circumstances, gained a certain power over Maggie's weakness, she controls the younger girls through Maggie, one following in another's wake. With the exception of Thyrza—and, it may be, of Nellie,—the sisters have a droll fashion of running in the same groove.
Last Saturday looks often to me like a dream,—only not a dream, for the pain remains. But I would rather not write about it. We go on much as usual. Sometimes I almost think I must have been mistaken. The one thing about which I can feel no possible doubt is Miss Millington's intense and growing dislike to me.
Maggie has had a long letter from Nellie. But for Thyrza, I should have been kept in complete ignorance of its contents. This is, I suppose, poor Maggie's small revenge on me, for not having shown her Mrs. Romilly's letters,—only it seems almost too small to be credible! "Millie" of course hears everything, and takes care to make me aware of the fact.
From Thyrza I learn that the collision was not a severe one, the only passenger injured being my poor friend. The broken collar-bone seems to be a minor injury. I imagine that the present illness is chiefly one of brain and nerves, consequent upon the shock. When Nellie wrote she could scarcely be called quite out of danger; but undoubtedly there was some improvement.
This is enough for Maggie, who has been in wild spirits ever since the letter arrived. We had rain a great part of yesterday and the day before, and she has taken vehemently to her writing again. The notion of consulting some well-known authoress, as to "the best way of getting into print," has also been revived,—probably by Miss Millington, who boasts some manner of acquaintance with two literary ladies. If Maggie should receive wholesome advice from either, so much the better. Whether they can help her "to get into print,"—that acmé of Maggie's desires,—is another question.
We discuss the matter at meal-times, Maggie being entirely unreserved respecting her own would-be authorship.
August 6. Thursday.—This afternoon several of us went to see the Stockmoors, in the quaint old whitewashed farm-house, where they live, and where Mr. Stockmoor's parents and grandparents lived before him. It stands in a small garden, close to the road, about fifteen minutes' walk up the Dale. The farm seems to include little besides pasture for cows and sheep. Mrs. Stockmoor makes butter, but not on any large scale. Mr. Stockmoor is Churchwarden, and evidently is a man much respected.
A kind welcome was accorded, and they took us over the house, pointing out some old and interesting articles of furniture. The Stockmoors have three or four comfortable rooms, which they let to lodgers in the summer. Nobody is here now: but, to my surprise, I suddenly heard a mention of the name "Denham;" and an inquiry brought out the fact, unknown to me before, that Lady Denham and Sir Keith have twice spent a month in these very lodgings.
We were all together in the quaint good-sized sitting-room. It has big ceiling-beams, two small lattice-windows, huge fireplace, old-fashioned chairs, and whitewashed porch opening on the garden, with a lovely view all up the Dale to the massive terminating mountain heights. Yes,—very beautiful and most attractive, I thought, but somehow I could not quite picture Sir Keith and his mother there, fresh from the stately plenishings of Glynde Park. I tried to imagine Lady Denham rocking herself to and fro in the rocking-chair of indefinite age, just then giving amusement to Popsie and Pet; and I found myself in danger of laughter. Then I heard an exclamation from Maggie:
"Only think! Millie, do you hear? Mrs. Stockmoor says Lady Denham means to come very soon; and she has written to take the rooms."
"Sir Keith too?" somebody asked, and Maggie's cheeks gained a vivid hue. She and "Millie" exchanged glances, whereupon Maggie's eyes drooped.
"Not very likely that Lady Denham would come all this way north without him," Thyrza remarked, with a curt and vexed air, as if she disliked the notion.
Mrs. Stockmoor could not say. She hoped so,—such a very nice gentleman as he was. And if the gentleman that was coming first, perhaps, was to—but there she stopped abruptly, twisting her apron round her fingers. I had caught a warning look telegraphed from one of the daughters to the mother. No one else seemed to have perceived this, and Nona asked—
"Is Sir Keith coming first? What!—And leave Lady Denham to manage the journey all alone?"
Mrs. Stockmoor maintained a discreet silence, till further pressed, when she twisted her apron anew and said, "I cannot not tell!" with an emphatic double-negative, which I had already once or twice heard from her.
Then Mr. Stockmoor advanced to his wife's rescue, volunteering information about the surrounding neighbourhood. Had we been yet to see a certain spot, not three miles off; called Gurglepool? It seems from his description to be an odd and mysterious hole in the earth, and I cannot recall hearing the name before, though the girls have evidently been aware of Its existence.
"There are two holes," Nona said, "one big and one little. Eustace told us about them."
I suggested an excursion to the place to-morrow, and Thyrza seconded me.
Maggie immediately protested. She said that "she and the rest" had settled to drive up the Dale in the waggonette. They wanted to see the road to the station by daylight.
"Very well," I replied. "One day is as good as another for Gurglepool."
I noted a gleam of quiet intelligence in Mr. Stockmoor's eyes, and five minutes later, as we were departing, he offered to bring "t' trap" on the morrow to "t' hoose," that I and one or two others might still carry out my project.
As the waggonette could not contain all our party, and I should, of course, be the one left out, I felt no scruple about accepting the offer, with thanks.
But are the Denhams really proposing to stay near us? And if so, is it on our account or on their own? Thyrza thinks their coming very probable.
"And I don't care, for my part, whether they do or don't," she added. "I get so tired of the talk about Sir Keith's virtues. Only I do wish somebody could keep Maggie from behaving like an utter goose! It is all Millie's fault. If you knew the nonsense she talks to Maggie!"
"Better, perhaps, that I should not know, since I cannot check it," I said gravely. "And, my dear, I don't think you have to judge Maggie."
She looked up at me, with tears in her eyes.
"If only they would not treat you so!" she said. "I shouldn't mind anything else so much."
Her sympathy does comfort me. I cannot help feeling that.
August 8. Saturday.—We had our drive in the dog-cart yesterday, Thyrza and I,—not only to Gurglepool and back, but quite a long round, through the wildest country, all dales and mountains, tea-coloured golden-bedded torrents, trees, grass and rocks, blue sky and sunshine, with nothing to mar the complete enjoyment, except recollections which could not be utterly put aside.
No one but Thyrza would come with me. I think Denham wished it, and had not resolution to stand out against the conclave of sisters.
Elfie looked unhappy all the morning, and shunned me persistently. I hardly like to allow to myself how keenly I am pained by this change of manner. I begged Maggie and Nona to take care that she was not overdone, and this was all that I could do, for they were bent on taking her, and I knew that the waggonette would be full without Thyrza and myself.
The next Dale, running parallel with Beckdale, quite different in character, hardly so lovely, I thought, yet with its own distinctive beauty. The hills are lower, more bare and bleak, and the inevitable river which drains it flows often underground, entirely disappearing for a while beneath the dry and stony bed which marks its course, and later on reappearing. In times of flood, the dry bed is filled with a rushing stream.
Far up the Dale we entered a pretty and picturesque little side-valley, branching off at right angles, and well filled with trees. By-the-bye, when I spoke of Gurglepool as about three miles off, I did not understand that that was only the short-cut walking distance. It is a long drive.
At the entrance of this small valley, Mr. Stockmoor bade us dismount, and gave us full leave to remain as long as we liked. He had to stay in charge of the horse, while we explored; but we were not to be in any haste. If the directions given by himself failed to be sufficient, a woman from a cottage at the upper end would act as our guide.
"Don't let us have a guide. Much better fun to hunt out things for ourselves," Thyrza said, and we plunged into the wooded ravine.
There was a lesser hole, as well as the greater Gurglepool, Mr. Stockmoor said, his description therein agreeing with Nona's. We came upon this lesser hole first,—a mysterious cleft in the earth, slanting downward to unknown black regions, paved with loose stones which doubtless act often as the bed of a watercourse. They looked only damp yesterday. Rocks rose high around the sloping mouth, and shrubs grew thickly thereupon. Thyrza and I climbed to a good position for kneeling on the edge and peering over. The sight was altogether weird. I flung a stone down, and it rattled onward in a slow descent, quite two or three seconds after disappearing from sight. Whether it then reached the bottom, or whether sound merely ceased because deadened by distance, we could not tell.
"Looks like a pathway that might lead to the centre of the earth," Thyrza said. "Or like the entrance to some underground giant castle. Miss Con, haven't you had enough? Come and see if Gurglepool itself is different."
I had not had enough, but Mr. Stockmoor was waiting. So we went on through the wild little valley, presently mounting one of its grassy sides, till we reached Gurglepool.
Neither of us said anything at first. We only stood still near the edge, gazing. Thyrza slipped one arm through mine, and I felt her give a shudder.
Gurglepool is really a circular hole,—of what diameter I do not know, but I should guess it to be about thirty feet across: and I am told that it is sixty or seventy feet in depth, not counting the dark still pool of water at the bottom, usually some twenty-five feet deep. An underground stream flows in and out of that pool, not visibly stirring its surface. So, of all awful places to fall into—! I could not help this thought arising, as I looked.
The sides of the hole are rocky, and precipitously steep, except on one side, where a path descends sharply to the margin of earth beside the pool: not a very inviting path, albeit rendered fairly safe by a rough wooden hand-rail, reaching from above to below.
The woman from the cottage, spoken of by Mr. Stockmoor, came up, and told us more about the strange place. Sheep wandering round have often fallen in and been drowned. She spoke of it with dread for her own children, living so near. There has been talk of putting a wall or fence round the opening. This would, I suppose, somewhat spoil the general appearance, but it would be safer. I thought of Denham and the girls, and wished the precaution had been taken.
In very wet weather the water in the pool rises higher and higher, rushing often round and round, like liquid in a pot stirred by a spoon, and sometimes boiling over, so to speak, upon the surrounding grass. It must be a strange sight then. But when the girls come, I shall come too. That I am determined on.
It is no place for a number of giddy young people, under no authority.
The woman made nothing of going down the path to the water's edge; and after some hesitation, I followed her. Thyrza did not seem inclined to do the same. She said she would wait till another time.
We did not like to keep kind Mr. Stockmoor too long, and soon we were driving homeward, full of new interest in this extraordinary corner of quiet old England.
The waggonette party had not returned when we reached Beckdale House. Too long a trip for Elfie, of course, but how could I help it? Needless struggles must be as far as possible avoided. I have to reserve all my authority for real emergencies.
Thyrza and I sat down in the garden, she with a book, I with my work. Presently I saw her to be deep in thought,—not reading or pretending to read. At first I fancied her to be thinking of Gurglepool,—then of the waterfall across the valley, already much attenuated by two fine days. But no,—something more serious gave the very intent look to her dark eyes. She sat perfectly still, as is her wont at such times, in an upright posture, half-rigid, half-careless, and quite unconscious. I love to study Thyrza's face, when she is trying to unravel some perplexity, or has gained a glimpse of some new idea.
"What is it all about?" I asked, after a while.
She turned to me, with an unwonted quickness of response.
"I am thinking—" she said. "Miss Con, don't you very often wish you could be sure of things?"
Though she gave no clue to the previous train of ideas, I understood enough to answer—"I am quite sure of some things."
"But you know what I mean? People think and explain so differently,—and I suppose it isn't always one's own people that must be in the right."
"Not necessarily, Thyrza. That would bring one into an awkward predicament as to 'the right' in different houses."
"Yes, I mean that, exactly." A pause followed, and she knitted her brows. "Father doesn't always put things exactly as you do, Miss Con. And I know Sir Keith doesn't agree with Mr. Hepburn in a great many of his opinions,—or with father."
"Possibly. But you need not feel sure that the different ways of 'putting' a doctrine or belief must always mean error on the one side or the other."
"Mustn't it?"
"Not always. Very often of course both are wrong and very often perhaps both are right. Mr. Hepburn may be looking only on the silver side of the shield, and Sir Keith only on the golden."
"I should think Sir Keith would look on both sides," she said hastily, as if defending him.
I was amused, remembering her many professions of dislike.
"Yes, to the best of his power: but human powers are limited. If you and I were describing The Fell, we could only describe this side that we have seen. Somebody else, living beyond, might give so different a version of its look, that a listener would not recognise the mountain to be the same. That would be no reason why you and I should declare the other's account to be untrue,—merely because we had not had the same view."
"No. I see," Thyrza answered. "I suppose the right thing would be to get round to the other side, if one could." Then she reverted to her first thought. "Still, it does seem as if one could be sure of so little," she went on. "There are so many questions that no two people think exactly the same about."
"Rather an extreme manner of expressing it, my dear," I said. "You may be sure of much, though not of everything."
She looked at me questioningly.
"For instance,—I am quite sure, at this moment, of the blue sky overhead, of the sunshine, of the mountains, of the singing birds. I am quite sure of the river flowing down below, though I can't see it. But I don't feel sure about the exact height of each separate mountain; and I should not like to declare which particular geological theory, as to the manner of their formation, is most correct. Nor do I know all about the precise nature of sunshine, though science has a good deal to say on that matter. And for some minutes past, I have been puzzling myself about those white spots on the hillside, far up the Dale."
"Those stones?"
"Are they stones? I had just come to the conclusion that they were sheep. Somebody else might take them for clothes hung out to dry. One would be the right explanation, and the others would be wrong. But the question would hardly be worth a quarrel. Better for all three observers to allow the fact of limited eyesight, and to leave it in abeyance. We can all agree about the blue sky and the sunshine."
Thyrza's face was brightening. "Agree about the nature of sunshine!" she asked.
"Yes,—in so far that it is warmth-giving, light-giving, health-giving, and that we could not live without it. Not about all theories as to the nature of light-waves."
She pondered seriously.
"Think of our first drive here from the station," I said. "It was getting dark, and we were in a strange part of the country. I don't know whether you were struck, as I was, by the bewildering uncertainties of the landscape."
She said, "Yes,"—quickly.
"I found myself mistaking mountains for clouds, and clouds for mountains. Trees seemed to rear themselves up like giants, coming to meet us; and a big dog gave me quite a start, he loomed out so suddenly, like a wild beast. Then the white foam of the waterfalls was very weird,—one might have conjured up any amount of imaginations as to threatening dangers. You and I could have argued all the way, if we had chosen, about our differing 'views' of this or that object. Of course we knew that full daylight a few hours later would clear away all perplexities: and we could afford to wait. But we know the same now in things spiritual; yet few of us realise that we can afford to wait."
"To wait in uncertainty!" she said. "Not making up one's mind."
"In uncertainty on many lesser points. There was plenty that we could be quite sure about. For instance,—we were sure of being on the right road, because we were sure of our guide; and we were sure of the home to which we were going."
Thyrza's eyes shone.
"And we are sure now of—?" she said in a questioning tone.
"Of our Father's love. Of Christ, our Crucified and Risen Lord. Of the Holy Spirit, promised to us. Of the Home which Christ is preparing. Of the Guide who leads us. Of the Pathway He points out. Of the Means of Grace provided . . . My dear, think for yourself of all that we do or may know with a certain knowledge. Don't be distressed to find a hundred lesser questions about which we cannot be sure, and about which the best men must differ, because we have not, any of us, full daylight in which to make out all details."
"But if Christ is our Light—" she said.
"He is our Light; but the dawn comes to each one gradually,—sometimes very slowly indeed. I suppose the Light vouchsafed is often so dim because we don't really care to have it more fully. And there is the question too of our own defective eyesight. That has to be cured—gradually."
Thyrza pondered again.
"About the Means of Grace,—" she said. "Can one be sure there? People do think so differently."
"People think very differently about the scientific nature of sunshine," I said, "yet we all agree on the need that man should use it. The make of sunshine is practically a lesser question to us."
She only looked at me, as if waiting for more.
"It is one thing to use any medium of help provided,—and quite another thing to be able to define very exactly its nature," I said. "I do think that if the Means of Grace were more ardently used, and less feverishly discussed, we might make better advance in the spiritual life."
"I was thinking about the highest,—about Holy Communion," she said in a low voice. "People differ so—"
"Yes,—I saw you were. But, my dear, you have not to settle other people's differences. The less of definition the better sometimes. I always think that the Evil One has no more subtle method of fighting, than by setting Christians to wrangle over their definitions of spiritual things."
"Then one need not understand exactly?" she said.
"You must understand that God is offering you, through a certain channel, help, food, sustenance,—that you have to use the channel, and to accept what He gives. But more is not needed. Many a poor man drinks from the river below, without the least idea of what the water is composed of, or how it came there. And a little child doesn't refuse the food his mother gives him, until he shall have analysed its nature, and tested the make of the vessels which hold it. He doesn't think about that at all, but trusts his mother's love and wisdom,—eats and drinks,—is satisfied and thankful."
Thyrza drew a long breath. "Yes,—I see," she said.
"It seems to me so melancholy," I added, "that when God says, 'Open thy mouth wide, and I will fill it,' we turn away from Him, to wrangle with one another about the kind of food He means to give, and the way in which He will give it. Better do simply as our Church bids us,—'Take and eat this . . . with thanksgiving!' 'Drink this . . . and be thankful.' And then we may be sure that Christ will do the rest."
Little more passed between us, for the waggonette party returned. But I do hope I may have helped that dear girl just a little. I have a very strong feeling of sympathy for thoughtful girls like her, in this difficult age, when every statement of every truth is subjected alike to careless handling and to microscopic inspection. The microscopic inspection, if honest and impartial, works no harm. The careless handling does do harm,—not to Truth, but to those who indulge in it.
"INDEED!"
GLADYS HEPBURN'S JOURNAL.
August 12. Wednesday.
SCARCELY more than a fortnight since the Romillys went away: and I am sure it seems an age.
Poor Mrs. Romilly has been so dreadfully ill. Nobody seems exactly to understand how she was hurt, except about the collar-bone, which doesn't explain her being so very ill. Mother believes that it was "a bad jar to her nervous system;" and I shouldn't wonder, for she and her little husband in their different ways seem to be made up of nothing but nerves,—as if all the bones and muscles had been left out. The wonder is that all the girls are not mere packets of nerves too! But I don't think they are,—except Elfie!
Mr. Romilly is out there still with Eustace, and there isn't the least talk of their coming back to England. Mrs. Romilly is better and out of danger. But now that Mr. Romilly has actually reached Cologne, he is settling down quite comfortably. Uncle Tom declares he "won't budge" for six months at least. And Ramsay says—"Sixteen."
Miss Con is at Beckdale, in charge of all those girls. Mother and I do pity her. She has written once to me,—a kind cheerful letter, all about the scenery of Yorkshire.
Proofs of my book are coming in fast. Correcting them is most delightful. A story looks so much nicer in proof than in MS. I wonder why.
August 14. Friday.—Mother and I went to afternoon tea at The Park to-day, to meet a few people. There was somebody whom I have never seen before, though I have heard of him,—a Captain Lenox. The Denhams met him lately at Bath, and asked him here for two or three nights.
He looks younger than Sir Keith, and he is very upright and slight and soldierly. I do like soldierly men. He reminds me just a little of the picture of my Father when he was young, the one hanging over Mother's bedroom mantelpiece. I don't generally admire fair men, and Captain Lenox is rather fair, but it isn't a hay-coloured wishy-washy fairness. He has deep-blue eyes, and light-brown hair, and a tanned complexion. And he looks as if he had an immense amount of character and firmness.
Besides, he is so polite. He was talking to Annie Wilmington and quite enjoying himself, one could see, and all at once that queer little old Miss Pursey came poking about, looking for a seat. And he was up like a shot, offering her his, though he lost the rest of his talk with Annie, and though Miss Pursey isn't the sort of person that some young men take pains to be polite to. Of course they ought, but they don't.
I should not trouble myself to write all this about a stranger, if he were a mere stranger. But he isn't. I do feel a very particular interest in this Captain Arthur Lenox,—for Miss Con's sake.
He must, I suppose, be the same that Sir Keith met at Rouen: and Maggie is sure that he and Miss Con have been friends some time or other, and that she—I don't quite know how to say it—that perhaps she has—well, has liked him a good deal. If Maggie had only said so much, I shouldn't have minded, I dare say. One person must like another, sometimes. I mean—things do begin in that way.
But when Maggie told Mother and me about Captain Lenox' name coming up, and about Miss Con turning pale, she actually laughed, and said, "Millie declares that Miss Con is desperately in love with him. And I was so angry, I could have given Maggie a good shaking. I am sure I should have said something I ought not: but Mother took it up, only saying a few words, and those exactly the right ones, about its being no business of Miss Millington's, and about Miss Millington being very wrong to speak so about Miss Con to Maggie or any of them."
"It is exceedingly bad taste," Mother said. "I hope you will take care that it does not go farther, Maggie dear."
Maggie did turn so red, and she said nothing.
But I cannot, of course, forget all this, and I am very glad to find the sort of man that Captain Lenox is,—not empty-headed, and able only to talk nonsense, but sensible and pleasant. He was rather silent part of the afternoon, but watchful and polite all the while, and when anything interested him, he brightened up and looked quite handsome. Lady Denham told Mother that he seemed to be a man of such very high principle, and that he is immensely respected in his regiment. And Mother thinks him really and truly a good man. She had such a pleasant little talk with him.
So I do believe he might be good enough for even dear Miss Conway,—if that should ever come to anything. But very likely it was only a fancy of Maggie's, and of that tiresome absurd Miss Millington.
I am afraid I was wrong in one thing that I did. Lady Denham put him by me for a talk, and I got on with him much better than I do with Sir Keith. He didn't make me half so shy.
Something made me speak of the Romillys. I said where they were gone, and we talked about Yorkshire, and all at once it came into my head to mention Miss Conway, and to notice how he looked. And I did it, without stopping to think. That is the worst of me! I am always saying things without thinking, and having to be sorry afterwards. I do wish I could get over it.
He made no answer, but listened. I quoted something she had said about Yorkshire dales, and then I said how delightful she was, and that I didn't think I had ever seen anybody like her anywhere else. There would have been no harm, if I had said it all quite naturally, and with no thought behind of how he was feeling,—but I had the thought behind, so I could not depend on myself to be perfectly natural.
He heard me, exactly as if I had been speaking of a stranger, and as if he didn't care the very least. When I stopped, he said, "Indeed!" as coldly as possible: and I was so disappointed, I felt myself turn crimson. He gave me a glance, and I grew hotter still, and he turned his eyes away, and made some careless remark about the weather. Then somebody on his other side began to talk to him: and I was very uncomfortable. I couldn't think what he must have thought.
I have told Mother all this, and she says it is far wiser to leave things alone, and not to interfere. One is so apt to blunder. So I shall take very great care in the future, and never speak of anything of that sort, unless somebody else begins it.
Mother is not so sure as I was at first that his looking cold and grave, when he heard her name, proves him not to care at all. She says we can't possibly judge, as we don't in the least know the real facts of the case.
August 15. Saturday.—Only think!—We had quite a long call from Captain Lenox this afternoon. I felt shy at seeing him again, but he seemed to have for all about my awkwardness. So I hope it didn't look so bad as it felt.
He said he had found that Mother once knew an uncle of his, so he thought he might call. But I don't believe that was his real reason. For the uncle was not talked about at all, after the first moment. He is staying at The Park till Monday, and then he goes north for the rest of his furlough,—into Yorkshire. I don't know what part. It seems that Lady Denham and Sir Keith may go there soon, and they have actually secured some lodgings, and are paying for them. And Captain Lenox is to use these lodgings for as long as he likes.
Mother and I wonder where the lodgings are, for he did not tell us. But we asked no questions, and, as Mother says, we must not ask the Denhams. For it is not our business; and as they said nothing yesterday, they most likely don't wish us to know.
I had made up my mind not to say one word about Miss Conway; and then, just out of sheer nervousness and shyness, I found myself letting slip something about her, at least three times. I was so provoked; and Mother says I really must learn to have myself better in hand. Not that any harm was done; but one never ought to be drawn into saying a thing which one has resolved not to say.
I noticed that each time I said "Miss Conway," Captain Lenox turned half towards me, and then looked at Mother in a quiet polite way, as if he were asking about her. But nobody could have guessed from his manner whether he felt anything more than just a passing interest in a stranger. And he scarcely said a word himself, when her name came up. He only seemed to expect Mother to say something.
Mother managed beautifully,—so much better than I could. She didn't blush or look conscious, but she spoke of Miss Conway as a friend of Mrs. Romilly's and of ours too. We found that he had once seen Mrs. Romilly for five minutes,—he didn't say where or when,—and that he thought her "a beautiful woman." I am sure I don't think her so. But then Miss Conway does; and to my surprise Mother said so. And I had to slide my chair back, for fear Captain Lenox should see what I was thinking.
He didn't look the least conscious, but asked if we had a photograph of Mrs. Romilly. Mother opened my book, which was on the little table close at hand, and showed him all the likenesses of the Romillys that I have. And presently I heard Mother say—
"That is Miss Conway, whom we mentioned just now."
He certainly did look at that photo longer than at any of the rest; and he made one remark—
"Rather a fine face."
"Very good-looking," Mother said; and I could not help exclaiming—
"Oh, Miss Conway is much more really beautiful than Mrs. Romilly!"
Captain Lenox said, "Ah!" and gave a little pull to each side of his moustache, as if it wanted arranging.
"That may be a matter of opinion," Mother said, and I saw him making believe to examine the photo of Nellie on the opposite page, and giving little glances at Miss Con every other moment.
"Taken recently, I suppose," he said, as if it didn't signify at all, only he had to say something.
"Not Nellie Romilly," Mother answered. "I believe Miss Conway was taken some months ago,—before she came to Glynde."
Captain Lenox shut the album, and put it aside. Then he and Mother talked about all sorts of things for half-an-hour. I do think he must be a really and truly good man,—if only one could be quite sure that he has treated Miss Conway rightly. But that is the puzzle!
August 18. Tuesday.—A letter from Maggie to-day. She says they find that Lady Denham and Sir Keith have taken rooms in a farm-house, quite near Beckdale House.
Then that must be where Captain Lenox is going!
Does Captain Lenox know? And does Miss Con know? And would either of them care?
Maggie doesn't write a word about Captain Lenox. She only speaks of the Denhams: and she seems to be in such a state of excitement about Sir Keith and his mother going. How odd Maggie is!
Miss Pursey said last week to me that everybody in Glynde expected Sir Keith to marry Nellie some day. And she seemed to think that he only had to ask Nellie, and Nellie would be sure to say "Yes." That vexed me; and besides I don't believe there is the least chance of such a thing.
Of course if it were for Nellie's happiness, I should be very glad,—only not for my own sake. For if she had a husband, I could not write to her comfortably about everything, as I do now. I should always fancy him peeping over her shoulder at my letters while she read them. Still I would not be so selfish as to think of that: only I don't believe Nellie admires Sir Keith particularly.
Mother says we must be very careful not to make mischief about Captain Lenox going to Yorkshire. So we do not mean to whisper one word about it to anybody, least of all to any of the Romillys.
Part of Maggie's letter is filled up with particulars of a new story she has in hand. She says she has "written to two well-known authoresses," asking them how she is to get it into print.
I don't quite see what the authoresses are to do. If the story is worth printing, some publisher would be almost sure to take it: and if not, the authoresses can't make it so. But perhaps they might give her some useful hints.
UNPALATABLE ADVICE.
CONSTANCE CONWAY'S JOURNAL.
August 15. Saturday.
WE glide on from day to day, hardly aware, perhaps, how time is flitting. Better accounts of Mrs. Romilly reach us, but no word is spoken of Mr. Romilly's return to England.
The holidays once over, I think life may become easier. At present it is not easy. Often when I get up in the morning the weight of the hours ahead seems almost more than I can bear. Perhaps the strain of responsibility has somewhat told upon me lately.
I do not think I am fanciful, or disposed to the foolish magnifying of small affronts. But one cannot entirely shut one's eyes to what lies just ahead.
The constant and fretting opposition has increased steadily. Whatever I suggest, the conclave, headed by Miss Millington, at once resist. Whatever I arrange, the conclave, headed by Miss Millington, at once turn into a grievance.
So far as possible, I appeal to Maggie for her wishes before deciding on any plan: and Maggie of course appeals to "Millie." By this means, I have managed so far to avoid any serious struggles. Yet I sometimes wonder if I am acting quite wisely,—if I am not tacitly yielding to Miss Millington a power which she ought not to possess, and which she may sooner or later misuse.
If Lady Denham were not probably coming soon to Beckdale, I think I should appeal to her for advice. Yet it would be very difficult to put my perplexities into writing; and I am anxious not to take any hasty step.
The girls are talking of a walk to Gurglepool early next week. It has been chilly, with frequent rain for some days, and Maggie has had a cold: otherwise they would have gone sooner. I have fully determined that when they go, I go too. I have a certain dread of the place for them: probably a nervous and unnecessary dread; and of course they wish to see it.
Elfie has been poorly again: and I am still mystified at the change in her. She looks wretched,—pale, peaked, plain; all prettiness and animation gone: her moods being variable, but almost always fretful, and her fancies quite unmanageable. She persistently turns from me to "Millie." Thyrza is my one comfort.
By-the-bye, I have not mentioned our Church, which is between two and three miles off. The services are forlorn and sleepy: just in the style of sixty years ago: and the sermons wind lengthily round and round in hazy circles. When I go, I cannot help thinking of Sir Keith's words, the first time I saw him, about the needed help being "always there," if one is willing. Yes: I am sure he is right. But I do feel very thankful for the different spiritual food provided for us in Glynde,—even though the heavier responsibility is involved.
August 17. Monday.—This morning, when the post came in, Maggie cried, "Oh! Two letters from strangers. I do believe it is both of them at once!"
There was a small burst of excitement and wonder the girls crowding round Maggie. She read aloud the first brief epistle, with an animation which paled visibly towards the close. Thyrza and I kept our seats, but nobody else did.
The letter was so tersely expressed, that it has remained word for word on my mind.
"MY DEAR YOUNG LADY,—You are most welcome to such advice as I can give you. My advice is,—Don't write till you can't help it! Never write merely for the sake of writing! When you have something to say which will be said, then say it in your best possible mode, and see if anybody counts it to be worth publishing. Till then, be a good girl, and mend your stockings. Yours truly—"ANNA SMITH"
"How stupid! She can't be at all a nice old lady," said Nona. "And a friend of yours, Millie!!" The reproachful intonation is not to be described.
Millie hastened to disavow the friendship. She had met Mrs. Smith once, she said, and had thought her a kind old lady, only peculiar of course,—all authoresses being peculiar. This, with a side-glance at me; for "Millie" does not like Gladys Hepburn, and she knows that I do. I must honestly confess that Gladys does not like Miss Millington, and shows the same unequivocally in her manner.
"Yes, she must be peculiar," asserted Maggie, catching at the offered straw. "It is such a very odd letter,—really almost rude. I shall never write to ask her advice again."
Then, the second envelope being opened, Maggie read aloud again. The letter was longer, and I cannot recall it precisely: but it was very nearly as follows:
"DEAR MADAM,—I can scarcely offer to give an opinion about your writing, unless I see a specimen. If you like to send me a few pages, I will tell you honestly what I think. That is all I can do: and my opinion need not settle the matter for you finally. You may have enough of the gift to be worth cultivating: and if so, I may be able to give you two or three suggestions as to the cultivation needed. From the style of your letter, I should judge that you are very young: and that a considerable amount of preparation would be needed, before you could enter the lists of authorship, with the least hope of success."Choose one dozen or twenty MS. pages of your best, as a fair specimen.—I am, yours truly—"LETITIA GRAHAM."
Maggie did not quite know what to make of this. She read it aloud a second time, commenting on each sentence, and evidently agreeing with Denham in his estimate of successful authoresses as "very odd customers!" But on the whole gratification won the day. For Miss Graham had not seen Maggie's last half-finished story. That was a consoling thought. When she had, it would of course make all the difference. She only wrote now to Maggie as she might write to—anybody!
"Do you mean to stop writing, if Miss Graham tells you?" demanded Thyrza.
Maggie looked astonished. "No. Why should I?" she asked.
"I don't know. It doesn't seem much use to ask for advice, unless you mean to follow it."
"I didn't ask her if I ought to write. I asked her what was the best way of getting into print."
If more were needed, Nona's remark supplied it:
"And of course, if she is a nice person, she'll tell you how, Maggie dear."
August 18. Tuesday.—This evening, after supper, I found that an excursion to Gurglepool was planned for to-morrow. Thyrza alluded to it, in evident unconsciousness that the matter had been concealed from me; and Maggie then explained. The party would walk, not drive, starting directly after lunch. Elfie, not being well enough for the fatigue, would of course stay behind under my guardianship: and Thyrza, having been before, could act as guide to the rest. Mr. Stockmoor had explained to Denham all about the short-cut over the hills.
I wished that I had told Thyrza my intentions about Gurglepool. Had she known them, she would have refused to join in any such scheme, without reference to me first.
For a moment the temptation to yield was strong. I knew that any interference with the plans of Maggie and Millie would be a dire grievance. Yet I could not shirk my own responsibilities.
"I am very sorry, Maggie," I said, when she had done; "but things cannot, I am afraid, be exactly as you wish. If you go to Gurglepool to-morrow, I must go too."
"Why?" was asked all round, in astonished accents.
"Because I do not think it is a very safe place; and I wish to be with you—at all events, the first time."
Maggie and Miss Millington exchanged glances. "Elfie can't walk so far," Nona burst out.
"No," I said. "I must ask Thyrza to stay behind in my stead: or else the excursion must be deferred."
"What nonsense!" I heard this distinctly in Miss Millington's murmur.
"Yes,—of course I will," assented Thyrza at once, though she could not quite suppress a look of disappointment.
"But we want Thyrza with us," said Maggie. "And Millie will be there. You don't suppose Millie can't take proper care of the children, Miss Con!" Her pretty grey eyes sparkled and met mine defiantly, and the peach-bloom deepened.
"No, Maggie," I said. "I am not questioning Miss Millington's powers. It is for my own satisfaction that I must go. I am answerable to your father."
"Not more than Millie is."
Maggie tossed her head as she spoke. The childishness of the utterance struck me oddly.
"Yea, certainly more," I replied. "Miss Millington has no responsibility about you older girls. You cannot have forgotten your father's words at the station, Maggie. I don't question the fact that you might all walk to Gurglepool a dozen times, and come home safely. But I have made up my mind that, as a matter of duty, I must the first time be one of the party. It is not for my own pleasure, and I am most sorry to disappoint Thyrza: still I have to do what I believe to be right."
Thyrza warmly assured me that she did not mind at all: she and Elfie would be perfectly happy together. The other girls drew in a knot round Miss Millington whispering. I have noted lately the growth of this schoolgirlish habit, and also I have seen Miss Millington encouraging it.
I could not hear what was said, and I did not try. Occasional bursts of laughter sounded, with more whispers between. Thyrza looked annoyed and quitted the room. I saw glances now and then levelled in my direction, and presently there was a distinct utterance—
"Captain Lenox!"
I paid no regard to the sound, working steadily. Indignation had to wait. Every faculty was bent to the task of keeping myself cool and unembarrassed.
The words came again more clearly:
"Captain Lenox!"
Still my needle went in and out; and Nona said aloud, pertly—
"Millie says you know him, Miss Con."
"Whom?" I asked.
"Captain Lenox."